A Smuggler Tale of the Romney Marsh

“An ill-famed baggage, I’ll be sworn,” said Beelzebub. “’Twould have been a good thing had you ridden her down, and as for the brat, such devil spawn should be put out of their misery.”

“Now I should have thought devil spawn would have had rather a way with us.” At which sally Beelzebub clapped Jerk on the back, and declared that he was a good Ketch, a remarkable good Ketch, and as the young recruit had all he could do saving his own neck every minute as they leaped backward and forward over the dyke, this unpleasant episode was forgotten, or, rather, slid back into his brain like the memory of a nightmare slides when we dream again. On they dashed, but stopping at numerous farms on the way, where they always found more packponies waiting to join the cavalcade. And the

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Scarecrow was always somewhere. As soon as any little hitch occurred—as one frequently did when the men placed the temporary bridge over the dykes for the transit of the packponies—the Scarecrow would suddenly appear in their midst, giving sharp orders, whose prompt obedience meant an instant end to the difficulty, whatever it chanced to be. But it was the laying of this same temporary bridge that caused most of the delays, for it was a cumbersome thing to move about, and it had to be built strong enough to support the weight of the packponies. These ponies, too, caused considerable bother at some periods of the march, as their packs of wool would sometimes shake loose from the harness, and the cavalcade would have to stop while this was being remedied. But although the packponies stopped often, the demon riders were never allowed that luxury. Beelzebub untiringly flagged the horse round and round, now in large circuits, now in small circles, always ringing in the packponies from any prying eyes. It would have meant death to any one who got a view

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within that sweeping scythe of cavalry. And as murders on the Marsh were all put down to the Marsh devils, except in the case of Se

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Chapter 28

The Fight at Mill House Farm

Mill House Farm was the last on Beelzebub’s list, and in the dyke facing the house, but on the other side of the highroad crouched the King’s men, commanded by the captain’s bo’sun. They were as still as mice, but the captain had given strict orders to the bo’sun on that score, but they need not have put themselves to such pains, for owing to the extreme vigilance of Sexton Mipps the smugglers knew exactly where they were and what they were going to do.

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Now it is depressing to the most seasoned fighters to have to crouch for hours in a soaking muddy dyke waiting for an outnumbering enemy; for it was common knowledge that if smuggling was carried on upon the Marsh, it was well manipulated and relied for its secrecy upon the strength and numbers of its assistants. So the bo’sun had no easy task in keeping his men from grumbling; for whatever Captain Collyer’s opinion may have been with regard to maintaining the law according to his duty, it was pretty evident that his men had no great relish for the task, and the bo’sun heartily wished that the captain had not left him responsible, for his absence was having a poor effect upon the men, and the unfortunate bo’sun was greatly afraid that they would fail to put up a good fight when the time came. It is one thing to fight an enemy, but quite another to shoot down your own countrymen, and although every man jack of them was itching for the French war, they felt no enthusiasm for this suppression of smuggling, for the whole of the countryside would have taken

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the side of the lawbreakers, and who knows how many of these same King’s men had not themselves done a very profitable trade with the illegal cargoes from France.

These were the feelings that existed as the King’s men lay in the dyke opposite Mill House Farm, listening to the noise of ponies’ hoofs in the yard, and waiting to fire upon any one who presented himself.

But the order “Not to kill, but to fire low,” also damped their spirits, for what chance would they have against desperate fellows keeping their necks out of the rope, who would not hesitate but would rather aim to kill?

The bo’sun had great difficulty in preventing one old seadog who lay next him in the ditch from voicing his opinion of the proceedings in a loud bass voice, but what he did say he after all had the good grace to whisper, though a whisper that was none too soft at that.

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“What the hell’s the sense, Mr. Bo’sun, of sending good seamen like we be to die like dogs in this blamed ditch? Ain’t England got no use for seamen nowadays? ’Tain’t the members of Parleyment wot’ll serve her when it comes to fighting, though they does talk so very pleasant.”

“They don’t talk as much as you do,” was the hushed retort of the bo’sun.

“Look ye ’ere, Job Mallet,” went on the seadog, “you’ve been shipmate o’ mine for longer than I well remembers, and you be in command here. Well, I ain’t a-kickin’ against your authority, mind you, but I’m older than you be, and I want to voice my opinion to you, which is also the opinion of every mother’s son in this damned ditch. Why don’t we clear out of this and be done with the folly? We looks to you, Job Mallet, I say we looks to you as our bo’sun, and a very good bo’sun you be, we looks to you, we does, to save us bein’ made fools of. We wants to fight the Frenchies and not our own fellows. The Parleyment’s a-makin’ a great mistake puttin’ down the smugglers. If they only talked nice to

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’em they’d find a regiment or two o’ smugglers very handy to fight them ugly Frenchies. For my own part I don’t see why the Parleyment don’t put down other professions for a bit and leave the smugglers alone. Why not give lawyers a turn, eh? They could do with a bit o’ hexposin’! Dirty swabs! And so could the doctors wot sell coloured water for doses. Bah! dirty, dishonest fellows! But, oh, no! It’s always the poor smugglers who be really hard-working fellows; and very good fighters they be, too, as we’ll soon be called upon to see.”

At this time Job Mallet tried to silence him, but threats, persuasions, and arguments were all alike useless.

“Old Collywobbles thinks the same as wot we does.”

“I’ll have you to remember,” whispered the bo’sun stiffly, “that I bein’ in command in this ’ere ditch don’t know as to who you be alludin’ when you say Collywobbles. I don’t know no one of that name.”

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“Oh, ain’t you a stickler to duty?” chuckled the seadog. “Still I respec’s you fer it, though p’raps you’ll permit me to remind you as how it was you in the fo’csle of the Resistance as gave the respected Captain Howard Collyer, R.N., the pleasant pet name of Collywobbles. Though p’raps that’s slipped your memory for he moment.”