Chapter Nineteen
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‘Then the soldier went out and told the people to take up the square stone in the market-place and dig for water underneath.’
Ibid. (The Crows and the Soldier)
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In spite of Gascoigne’s uneasiness on his cousin’s behalf, the long period of waiting made him drowsy, for it was well after midnight when the sound of boots on the shingle attracted O’Hara’s attention.
He touched his cousin, and Gascoigne, who had been more than half asleep, roused himself and they listened. The footsteps approached them and then stopped, and a torch began to flicker like a will o’ the wisp over the shingle.
Then round the point beyond the eastern end of the bay came the masthead light of a vessel. A lamp from the ship winked twice, went out, winked twice and again went out, this time for good, and the masthead light disappeared.
Gascoigne and O’Hara watched and still waited. The torch repeated what was undoubtedly a signal, and then was switched off. No word was spoken, the boots returned by the way they had come, and all was quiet again.
Nothing more happened for about three-quarters of an hour. Then there came the sound of voices muted by distance, and, shortly after that, the sound of oars. A boat was pulled up on to the shingle where the road came almost to the sea, and men began to tramp up the beach.
It was impossible to see them in the darkness. Apparently they knew their way well, for, black though the night was, none of them carried a torch.
The watchers—or, rather, the audience, for there was nothing to see—heard them leave the shingle and step up on to the road, and then there was nothing else to hear but the drag of the tide on the beach.
‘Wonder if anyone is left in charge of the boat?’ O’Hara muttered.
‘It wouldn’t be more than one man,’ replied his cousin, alive to the implications of this question.
‘Scrag him?’
‘I think so. No light indicates no good. And why that signalling?’
‘You’d think the coastguards would spot it.’
‘I should hardly think they would see. It was very discreet. We’d hardly have seen it ourselves if we hadn’t happened to be just where we are. Come on.’
‘He’ll hear us as soon as we move, but never mind.’
‘That’s if anyone’s there. There may not be. Keep by the cliff, and mind how you go. It’s a booby-trap walk in the dark.’
By keeping close to the cliff they found that the shingle was not quite so liable to slide away under their feet. They advanced by inches, testing each step before they took it. No sound came from the boat, and they began to think that it was indeed unoccupied; but as they drew nearer to where the cliff dropped to the road, a voice from the water said softly :
‘Thought you was never flippin’ well comin’. Get a move on! I can’t ruddy well stop here all night.’
‘Sh!’ said Gascoigne, with the loud hiss of a jet of escaping steam. He and O’Hara stepped on to the road and strode towards the edge of the water. ‘Where are you?’ O’Hara demanded, as the gunwale of the boat made a dark mass suddenly before him.
‘ ’Ere!’ said the man in the boat; but he was throttled into silence by O’Hara before he could say any more.
‘Quiet, you!’ murmured Gascoigne into his ear. He pricked the man’s chin with the point of his pocket-knife. ‘One bleat, and you’ll get this in your neck. Now, then, who are you, and what’s the game?’
‘Oo’re you?’ grumbled the man. ‘What’s your game?’
‘Oh, don’t be a fool! The boss sent us,’ said Gascoigne, upon inspiration. ‘Somebody’s mucking it up, and he wants to know why.’
‘Then he’d better ask Mr. Cassius,’ said the man. ‘Mr. Cassius’ orders is as good as his, any day, I reckon. We got to get some young feller as is dossin’ down at the ’otel. He give us the number of his room.’
‘Well, you get out of it,’ said Gascoigne, ‘and go and fetch the B’s back. Those orders are countermanded.’
He and O’Hara seized the man and bundled him over the side; then they shoved off, scrambled aboard, put the oars in the rowlocks, and, pleased with the form which the adventure appeared to have taken, rowed out to sea.
The tide was still onshore, but would turn in less than an hour. They had nothing to guide them, but they had a clear idea of the shape of the bay, and, after a brief discussion, they decided to go to the cave. Somewhere off the headland lay the ship which had signalled the boat, but how big she was, and how many men she had on board, and what they were to do if and when they gained the cave, they had not the faintest idea. Gascoigne was happy. Mrs. Bradley had foreseen that his cousin might be attacked at the hotel, and, by sending him down to the beach, she had put that particular experiment out of court.
‘Up the old lady!’ thought Gascoigne.
‘Let’s lie off a bit, and see what happens when those fellows get back and find the boat gone,’ said O’Hara. ‘It can’t be long before that fellow contacts them and lets them know what has happened.’
They lay offshore for forty minutes or so, but no sound came from the beach, and at last they were forced to conclude that the men had not intended to return to the boat, or else that the loss of the boat had brought about an alteration in plan.
‘But they’ll have to signal the ship again, I should think,’ remarked O’Hara; and almost upon these words they saw a signal go up from the beach at the point, as nearly as they could guess it, from which their boat had put off.
‘Three flashes,’ said Gascoigne, dipping his oars (for the tide by this time had turned, and was drifting them farther out to sea and towards the ship) and giving the short shallow strokes which the circumstances seemed to demand. ‘Now, where will they get the answer?’
But no answer came, and the young men deduced from this that the ship was now hidden behind the headland, and must be off a lonely stretch of the coast on the east of the bay.
‘It won’t be healthy, once the day breaks,’ said Gascoigne, his anxieties suddenly returning. ‘What do you think we ought to do?’
‘Capture the ship, like that idiot Jim Hawkins,’ said O’Hara. ‘This is a smuggling gang. There doesn’t seem much doubt about that. The thing is to find out what they are smuggling, if we can. And, further to that, a great light dawns on me.’
‘It will dawn on both of us in about another couple of hours,’ observed Gascoigne. ‘Nevertheless, say on. And pull on your left oar a little. We’re drifting too far and too fast.’
‘I rather think,’ said O’Hara, ‘that Mrs. Bradley is trying to clear this smuggling gang out of the way. They have nothing to do with the murder of my stout party down on the farm, and they’re cluttering up the enquiry. What do you say to that?’
Gascoigne thought it over, and then proceeded to discredit it, and the two young men might have gone on until the morning alternately dipping their oars and discussing this no longer intelligent and barely tenable theory, but that there came a sudden break in their tranquillity. This took the form of their seeing distress signals fired from some point beyond the headland.
‘A Verey light pistol?’ suggested O’Hara. ‘Anyway, someone in trouble.’
‘Rockets, I think,’ said his cousin, as the night was again pierced. ‘It might be from that same ship. If so, I wonder what’s happened? There’s not much of a sea running, and she was a long way out. She must have tried a quick run in, and fouled the rocks.’
‘Out of control, perhaps. Come on, we’d better get to the cave and see whether they’ve started running the stuff, or whether this alters their plans.’