A Smuggler Tale of the Romney Marsh

“It has,” answered the bo’sun.

“Very well, then, but you can take it from me as how it was, so there, and a very clever name it be, too; but there, you always was one of the clever ones, Job Mallet.”

“I wish I were clever enough to make your fat mouth shut, I do,” muttered the bo’sun.

“Now, then, Job Mallet, don’t you begin getting to personalities. But there, now, I don’t want to quarrel with you. You’ve always had my greatest respec’s, you has, and as we’ll probably be stiff ’uns in a few minutes, we won’t quarrel,

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old pal. But I give you my word that I don’t like being shot down like a rabbit, and I’m sorry as how it’s you as is in command, ’cos if it was any one else I declares I’d get up now and walk home to bed.”

“If Captain Collyer was here, you know you’d do nothing of the sort.”

“Why, ain’t he here? That’s wot I wants to know. Strike me dead! it’s easy enough to send out poor old seadogs to be shot like bu

“You ain’t a-settin’ a very good example to the young men, I’m thinkin’,” said Job Mallet. “You, the oldest seaman here, and a-grumblin’ and a-gossipin’ like an old housewife. You ought to think shame on yourself, old friend.”

“Oh, well,” growled the other, “I won’t utter another blarsted word, I won’t. But if you does want to know my opinion in these ’ere proceedin’s, it’s—hell!”

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“I don’t say as how I don’t agree with you,” returned Job Mallet, “but there it is and we’ve got to make the best of it. It won’t do no good a-grumblin’. We’ll make the best of a bad job, and I hopes as I for one will be able to do my duty, ’cos I don’t relish it no more than you do.”

“Well, strike me blind, dumb, and deaf!” thundered the seadog in a voice of emotion as he clapped Job Mallet on the back, “if I’ve been a snivellin’ powder monkey I ought to be downright ashamed of myself, and seein’ as how I be the oldest seaman here, instead—well, I’m more than damned downright ashamed, Job Mallet, thank you! You set a good example to us all, Mister Bo’sun, and I’ll stand by you for one. Damn the smugglers, and wait till I get at ’em, that’s all!”

“Thank yer,” said the bo’sun, “but you’ll greatly oblige me by keeping quiet, ’cos here be the smugglers, if I ain’t mistook.”

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Indeed at that instant along the road came the sound of the sharp, quick steps of the packponies. At present they were hidden in the mist which floated thickly about that part of the Marsh, but they could not only hear the ponies but a sound of a voice singing as well. This voice was raised in a wailing monotone and the words were repeated over and over again. They were intended for the ears of the wretched sailors who were waiting in the ditch for the attack:

“Listen, oh, you good King’s men who are waiting to shoot us from the damp ditch. We have got your kind captain here, a blunderbuss alooking at the back of his head. If you fire on us, good King’s men, then the blunderbuss will fire at the good captain, and then:

“‘All the King’s horses and all the King’s men Could not put captain together again.’”

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Even if the words were not sufficient to explain the situation to the sailors, the first figures of the cavalcade were all sufficient. A donkey led by two jacko’- lanterns on foot jolted out of the fog. Upon its back was a man bound and gagged, supported on either side by two devil-men. That the gagged wretch was the captain needed no words to tell, for his uniform showed by the lantern’s light, and there right behind him, sure enough, was the blunderbuss in question, pointed by a snuffy little devil called by his colleagues Hellspite, who sat hunched up on a shoddy little pony. This little group halted at a convenient distance from the sailors in the ditch, and Hellspite again rehearsed his little speech, ending up with:

“‘All the King’s horses and all the King’s men Could not put captain together again.’

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Now the poor bo’sun in command had all his life grown so used to taking other people’s orders that he didn’t know what to do for the best. He liked the captain and didn’t want to see him killed, though he knew what he must be suffering in his ridiculous position. He knew that had the captain but got the use of his speech he would have shouted, “Fire! and be damned to’ em!” But then the captain had not got the use of speech. The Scarecrow and Hellspite knew enough of the man to see to that, and as they had no great desire to be fired at, they had seen that the gags were efficient. So it was, after all, small wonder that the old grumbling seadog next to him, who possessed a rollicking vein of humour, laughed until he rolled back into the mud, for the sight was enough to make the proverbial cat laugh, much less a humorous old tar, and the rest of the men were divided into two classes, some following the example of the bo’sun and being struck stiff with amazement and powerless wrath, others joining the laughing tar in the muddy ditch and guffawing over the ridiculous

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situation of their captain, for he was not the build of man to sit an ass with any dignity, not being at all akin to a Levantine Jew, but very absurd in his naval uniform, with the cocked hat literally cocked right down over his nose. It was this sudden surprise that made the sailors utterly unprepared for what followed. A large party of horse swept out of the mist behind them, and when they turned to see what fresh thing was amiss there was a gallant line of terrible cavalry pulling up on their haunches a few yards in their rear. Thus they were cut off on both sides: at their back the devils with flaming faces, on horses of alarming proportions, and in front, their captain, waiting for them to shoot, to meet his own death by the little demon’s blunderbuss:

“‘If you fire, you good King’s men, Then the devil shall blarst your captain.’”

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“And you as well, you good King’s men!” shrieked and howled the terrible demons at the back, who covered with pistols or blunderbuss every Jack Tar in the ditch.

Then another rider appeared on the scene. He was tall, thin, and of ungainly appearance, and he rode a light gray thoroughbred. He was the Scarecrow, and all the devils hailed him by that name as he appeared. Behind him came the packponies, some sixty or seventy in all, and on each pony was a wool pack that would have meant a human neck to the King’s hangman if only Collyer were free to work his will. The Scarecrow drew up in the road and watched the great procession of ponies pass along toward the coast. When they had all but passed he gave a signal, and the doors of Mill House barn were opened and ten more heavily laden ponies trotted out and joined the snake of illegal commerce that was wriggling away to the sea. Then like some field-marshal upon the field of battle did the Scarecrow slowly ride over a small bridge and then along the

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front of his demon cavalry. Jerry Jerk heard him give a short order to Beelzebub as he passed, and then saw him gallop away after the packponies. And then came the ordeal for the King’s men, for they were kept in that uncomfortable position for a full two hours, or maybe even longer. Folly to move, folly to fight, there they had to stop—a foolish-looking group of fighting men, if you like, but more foolish had they attempted resistance, for they were outnumbered in men, in arms, and in wits. Once, indeed, did the bo’sun nearly lose his head, and that was when Hellspite lowered his blunderbuss and produced a clay pipe which he lit. The bo’sun saw a chance, spat in his hand, grasped his cutlass, and clambered from the dyke. But instantaneously came the ominous noise of cocking pistols, and the old seadog grabbed the bo’sun’s leg and pulled him back swearing into the mud. Hellspite chuckled and smoked his pipe, the horsemen covered every man in the ditch with cocked weapons, and so another hour passed over the curious group. Suddenly from over the Marsh came the cry position for a full two hours, or maybe even longer. Folly to move, folly to fight, there they had to stop—a foolish-looking group of fighting men, if you like, but more foolish had they attempted resistance, for they were outnumbered in men, in arms, and in wits. Once, indeed, did the bo’sun nearly lose his head, and that was when Hellspite lowered his blunderbuss and produced a clay pipe which he lit. The bo’sun saw a chance, spat in his hand, grasped his cutlass, and clambered from the dyke. But instantaneously came the ominous noise of cocking pistols, and the old seadog grabbed the bo’sun’s leg and pulled him back swearing into the mud. Hellspite chuckled and smoked his pipe, the horsemen covered every man in the ditch with cocked weapons, and so another hour passed over the curious group. Suddenly from over the Marsh came the cry