The History of Margaret Catchpole, a Suffolk Girl

Margaret slowly recovered from the fever which had settled in her frame, and greatly reduced it. She kept her bed for several weeks; she kept her tongue, too, as still and as free from communication with any one as she possibly could under the circumstances. She did not say anything of her own accord, even to her anxious and beloved mistress.

It was soon circulated about that an atrocious attempt at murder had been made in the parish of St. Margaret’s, and the authorities of the town took it up, and made inquiries into the matter. Understanding that the young female was in too weak a state to have her deposition taken, they did not visit her, but a reward was offered for the apprehension of the man, and his person was described by the cowkeeper.

There was but one person to whom Margaret opened her lips willingly upon the subject, and that was her old friend and medical attendant, Mr. Stebbing. He learned from her, that it was not Laud that had thrown her down the well, but a fellow named Luff, one of his former evil companions. She told the doctor her belief that Laud was the person who had unintentionally been driven away by her on that unfortunate night; "And I fear,” she added, “that he will be induced by my seeming harshness to return to his old courses. He will never forgive me – I know he never will! Oh, that I could have had one word with him! If I could but get well, I would try and find him. Oh, doctor, I am so anxious to get well! Pray, help me!”

“This is the plain reason, my girl, why you are so slow in recovering. I knew you had something upon your mind that you kept back; and now that you have told me thus much, let me speak to you in my own way. I tell you honestly, Margaret, I never should think a man worth having who took himself off in that kind of way. If, as you say, you refused to see a sailor who did not give his name, the man ought to have been pleased, rather than displeased, if he really loved you. If he was not a fool, he would naturally think it would be the very first thing a girl with any proper feeling would say. Take my word, Margaret, and I am somewhat more experienced than you are, that if Laud is worth your having, he will soon be here again. But don’t you think of running after him. If he comes back in a few days, well; but if not, I wish I might be able to persuade you not to think of him at all. What could induce Luff to attempt to murder you?”

“He threatened, that unless I told him where Laud was, he would throw me down the well. I imagine that Laud having escaped from the gang of smugglers, this villain was sworn either to be revenged upon him for some quarrel, or else he had promised Captain Bargood, his employer, to bring him back again. I was determined not to tell him that Laud had been to the house, and the fellow took this desperate revenge on me. But, thank God, his purpose is frustrated! You know Laud, doctor, as well as I do. I can conceive that my speech took him so completely by surprise, that, after he had been saving up all his money for me, and had been congratulating his mind upon my joy at his change, my words must have cut him to the quick, and have driven him away in desperation.”

“I wish I could think so, Margaret; but my idea is, that if he had been the altered man you picture him, he would never have conducted himself in that way. I tell you plainly, that I should be much more apt to think he liked somebody else better than you; and that he threw down the money merely because his conscience told him he had wronged you; and made him feel that he ought to make you some recompense. If he does not come back in a few days, I shall be confirmed in this opinion.”

The poor girl had never looked at the matter in this light. She felt a strange sensation creeping over her mind, and, in the weak state she then was in, she had a superstitious dread of her sister’s last words – "Margaret, you will never marry William Laud.” The words seemed to tingle in her ears, and to come, at this moment, with redoubled force; she shook her head, sighed, and thanked the doctor for his good advice.

“I shall explain these matters to your mistress, Margaret,” said Mr. Stebbing. “It will remove all erroneous ideas, and may spare you some pain and trouble. You must rouse yourself; the magistrates are daily asking me about you; I have told them that you have too virulent a fever upon you at present to make it safe for them to see you; and, depend upon it, they will not be over-anxious to run any risk.”

“Pray, sir, could not you take down what I have said, as well as having any other person to do it?”

“If I do, Margaret, it must be read to you before two justices of the peace, and you will have to swear to it.”

“Well, sir, so it must be then.”

And the good doctor left his patient, and gladly explained the exact state of the case to her mistress.

It was not very difficult for that lady to form her own conclusions now. She was of Margaret’s opinion, that Laud’s first step would be to rejoin the smugglers. She thought that he would become a more desperate character than ever. Instability of purpose was always Laud’s failing. When Margaret got about again, her mistress, having considered all the circumstances, thought it best that she should go home to her parent’s roof for a time. “As you are so much better,” said she to her one day, "and have been so much shaken lately, and your deposition has been taken before the magistrates, I would strongly recommend a little change for the benefit of your health. The doctor thinks it advisable. You can go and stay a while with your uncle and aunt Leader, or you can go and see your father and younger brother. You may go when you please. Remember that there are one hundred and thirty guineas in your master’s hands, to be appropriated to your use. Your father or your uncle may wish to consult us for your benefit. We shall be happy to see them for such purpose at any time. If you wish to enter into any business, you shall have our best advice and assistance. I think change will do you good. If you do not settle in any way for yourself, and still prefer service, we shall be glad to receive you amongst us again when you have recruited your health and spirits.”

“I do not,” Margaret replied, “want anything beyond my wages. I do not consider that money my own, and shall never appropriate any of it to my own use. It belongs to Will Laud. I feel very much obliged to both my master and yourself for the interest you have always taken in me, and for your offer of future assistance. I will consult with my friends. I certainly do not feel so happy as I used to do.”

Her kind mistress did not choose to remind her of the great alteration of her temper and conduct of late, because she did not wish to revive old grievances. And, as she was about to leave for a time, with a possibility of some chance of settlement without service, she let the matter rest.

Margaret, shortly after this conversation, took leave of as good a mistress as a servant ever had. If she did not feel quite the warmth of attachment to her that she had formerly done, the fault lay in herself, not in that benevolent lady, who at that time and ever after, manifested for her the sincerest kindness.

CHAPTER XX CHANGE OF SCENE AND CHANGE OF PLACE

Soon after Margaret’s recovery, and the taking of her deposition before Colonel Neale, Mr. Gibson, and Mr. Seekamp, justices of the peace, she took leave of the affectionate friends she had gained in the family at St. Margaret’s Green. She had permission to go and stay as long as she felt necessary for the recruiting of her spirits, and accordingly she went to Nacton. She found her aged father and her younger brother living in the same cottage, and in better work and condition than when she had left them. They gladly welcomed her, and she spent a peaceful quiet time with them, though painful thoughts intruded themselves upon her mind. Old and joyful, as well as joyless, associations crowded upon her; she thought of her career of fortune and misfortune, with many a deep and painful sigh. Oh! had religious instruction then fortified that mind as it did years afterwards, what comfort might it not have gained even in this moment of adversity – what pain might it not have turned aside! Her father soon perceived that disappointment was gnawing at Margaret’s heart, the more keenly, as it found stronger food to feed upon, from the past revival of warm hopes, now severely blighted. The old man sought her confidence, and found that, by conversation with her, he lightened the heaviness of her load.

Margaret told her father the exact state of her mind, and did not conceal anything from him.

“I much fear,” said the old man, “that he has returned to the coast again, and perhaps to his former vicious companions. Not that I have heard anything of him; but I know that the coastguard are as active as they ever were in the discharge of their desperate duty. I cannot think of any other method of ascertaining the fact, than by sending your brother Edward down to the coast for a time, and let him learn what he can. He is a very sharp young fellow, and I can tell you, Margaret, that for activity of head, heart, and limb, not one of my boys ever exceeded him.”

“I think the scheme might answer,” replied Margaret: “at all events, it is worth trying. I shall feel more satisfied, let the result be what it may. I will give him part of my wages, so that he shall lose nothing by the trip.”

In the evening the plan was proposed to the young man, who readily entered into his sister’s views upon the subject. He would ask his master for a week or ten days, or a fortnight, if required.

Margaret gave him strict charge to explain to Will Laud the circumstance of her having so hastily uttered those words which had given him such offence; that it was her mistress’s command that she should see no more sailors. “Be cautious,” she added; “avoid that villain Luff; for in his clutches you would be no more than a lamb beneath a tiger’s paw. You must visit all the different places along the coast from Felixstowe to Aldeburgh. If any of the coastguard speak to you, tell them honestly who you are; and if you see young Edward Barry, you may tell him all the truth. He will help you, as he promised to befriend me, should I ever require his aid. If any private opportunity of speaking to Laud should occur, tell him his money is all safe, and shall be employed according to his directions. I consider it his property, though directed to me. Go, Edward. I shall spend many a restless hour until you return.”

Edward Catchpole was soon on his road to Felixstowe. His first attempt was to find out the old ferryman, Laud’s father, and ascertain if he knew anything of him. But he learned that the old man had quietly departed this life, soon after receiving the news of his son’s engagement with the French, in Lord Howe’s victory of the 1st of June. The only thing like a footmark of Laud was in the report given by some of the neighbours, that a sailor had been there some weeks ago, making inquiries about the old ferryman; who, ascertaining, however, that he was dead, went away, and no one heard anything more of him.

Edward next went on from Felixstowe to Bawdsey Ferry, and took up his quarters at the Sun Inn. Here he seemed as one come to the seaside for health; for he was to be seen wandering along the shore, and talking whenever he could with the sailors. But he could gain no tidings, directly or indirectly, of the person he sought. He shifted his position from the Sun to the Old Beach House, at the mouth of the river Alde, now known by the name of the Life-Boat public-house, then kept by Jacob Merrells, a pilot.

Great preparations were then making for building forts and Martello towers along the coast, to oppose any invasion. Numbers of surveyors, and workmen in the employ of Government, frequented the Beach House. The conversation sometimes turned upon smuggling, and young Catchpole’s heart beat high at such moments, with the hope of some clue to Laud. Nothing, however, could he elicit, except that, as so many Government men were about at that time, the smugglers were not likely to be carrying on a very brisk trade. Still it was carried on, and Captain Bargood was, it was said, as busy as ever.

He next visited Boyton and Sudbourn, and Orford. He lodged at the Mariner’s Compass, then kept by an old weather-beaten sailor, who often put him across from the quay on the banks of the Alde, to the North Vere; and here he used to spend so many hours, that the coastguard, who kept a watch upon his movements, suspected that his countryman’s dress was only a ruse to hide some sinister intention. They observed, however, that he did not avoid them, but rather sought opportunity for their acquaintance. A more dreary place than this North Vere is scarcely to be found on all the coast of Great Britain. It is a mass of shingle nearly twenty miles long, in some places nearly a mile broad, in others, only a few hundred yards. This wall of pebbles separates the river Alde from the ocean. The bank reaches from Hollesley Bay to Aldeburgh. The sea and the river are very deep along the shelving banks on either side.

Thousands upon thousands of sea-birds build, or rather lay their eggs, upon this desolate bed of shingle. A few wild, straggling plants of seakale, and very long, thin, sickly spires of grass, occasionally shoot up through the stones; but there is no other vegetation, except here and there in some few hollows in this desert of stones, where a little clay, mixed with the sea-fowl dung, formed a green patch. These spots used to be much frequented by smugglers, which, from their sunken situations, used to hide both them and their goods from view. Nothing prominent can be seen for miles round this coast, except the Orford lights, which stand conspicuous enough about midway between Hollesley and Aldeburgh.

The poor fellows who acted as preventive-service men in the coastguard had no sinecure in this dreadful situation. The sun burnt them by day, and the wind, from whatever quarter it blew, and especially in the winter nights, was cutting and cold; and from the exposure between two waters, the sea and the river, it roared like the discharge of batteries. In some of the hollows these poor men used to construct huts of such rude materials as came to hand; old pieces of wrecks, or broken-up boats, which they covered with seaweed, collected after a storm. These served to break the east winds which blew over the German Ocean, in their terrible night-watches, which they were forced to keep pretty constantly, as they were watched, though they were watchers. Many were the desperate struggles upon this wild beach between these brave men and the smugglers, in which hard fighting, and too often death-blows, told the desperate nature of the service.

“Well, my man, what brings you upon this coast?” said one of the officers to Edward Catchpole, as he was sauntering lazily along the seaside.

“Oh,” replied Edward, “I have got a holiday, and I wish to spend a day or two by the seaside.”

“A day or two! Why you have been here six days, and you have been staying at Hollesley, and Boyton, and Felixstowe. Come, come, young man, you are up to some work which may get you into trouble. You had better take my advice, and sheer off.”

“I have no unlawful calling; if I had, I might deserve your scrutiny. You think, perhaps, that I am connected with smugglers, and am here for the purpose of giving them information. I am, however, much more desirous of receiving than of giving information. I never saw a smuggler’s boat in my life. You suspect me, I see; but what of? – tell me.”

“I ought to be suspicious of the truth of what you tell me. But I never saw you before, and your looks do not betray deceit.”

“Are you sure you never saw me before? Perhaps you may be mistaken. I have seen you before to-day, and have spoken to you before this day. I know you, if you do not know me.”

“I certainly do not know you, and assuredly have never spoken to you till now. My memory is pretty accurate as to persons and faces, yet neither the one nor the other are familiar to me in you.”

“Your face is familiar to me. I never saw you more than twice, and then you spoke to me, and very kindly too.”

“You certainly puzzle me. What is your name, and whence do you come?”

“You are Edward Barry, and I am Edward Catchpole. Do you remember the lad that drove his sister down to the boat-house at Bawdsey?”

“Yes, I remember you now, though you are greatly changed. But what brings you here?”

“That which keeps you here night and day! I am upon the look-out for the smugglers.”

“You may look a long time if you are looking for Will Laud. Do you not know that he is in the British navy?”

“I knew that he was so, but I do not know that he is. My sister told me if I met you to make you acquainted with her trials, and to ask your assistance.”

Here the young man told him the events which had taken place, and her fears that Laud had returned to his old career.

“I do not think he has. His old companions are as active as ever; but I heard that he had split with them, and that, when he was taken by the pressgang, he was quarrelling with Luff, who, as I understood, escaped, and swore to finish his work upon Laud whenever he could catch him. There is not a man among us but would run any risk to deliver that fellow up to justice. We have had orders from Government to secure him if we can, and the reward is extended to us. He is a daring wretch, and knowing, as he must do, our determination to take him, it is my conviction that he will never be taken alive. But, if you wish to see a bit of sharp work, we have got information that he is now off this coast, preparing to land a cargo on the Vere. If you have a mind to lend a hand to take him, you can be of great service to us, without running much danger in work that you are not accustomed to.”

“That I will do gladly.”

“Well, now listen. You cannot walk five hundred yards along the brow of the beach without meeting one of my men. They are all upon the shore in readiness, and have had their eyes upon you, though you have not seen them. Look along the line of the coast against the upper ridge of shingle at the spring-tide mark, – you see nothing. If you walk along that line five hundred yards from where you stand, you will see a head pop up from the shingle and salute you. They are placed there, and have buried themselves in the shingle on purpose to watch your motions. You are suspected to be the person appointed to hoist a white flag, opposite Havergate Island, as a signal that the boat may come ashore. I implicitly believe what you have told me of yourself, and, if you will assist me, I will in return render you all the assistance I can in search of your object.”

“I will do anything you appoint me to do within my power.”

“I ask nothing of you, but what you can easily perform. Remember the watchword which I now give you. It is ‘King George for ever,’ an expression you must use if any of my men salute you. What I want you to do is, to pass along the whole line in the direction of the spring-tide mark, which is the highest point that the tide reaches. Every five hundred yards you will find yourself spoken to by one of my men, who will say, ‘Who goes there?’ Do you reply, ‘King George for ever!’ They will say ‘Hurrah! pass on.’ You will find fourteen men, which will tell you that four miles of this coast is strictly guarded to-night. Pass along the whole line; but note when you come to the seventh man, and lay this pole, and white flag which is bound to it, about twenty yards on this side of him. You will observe that, at that point, a tall poplar tree in Sudbourn Grove, on the horizon, will be in a direct line with you and the Shepherd’s Cottage on Havergate Island. Leave the flag-pole there until you return from going the whole line. Take this keg over your shoulder, and replenish every man’s can as you pass along, for they will have sharp work to-night, and it is cold work lying in suspense. As you come back from the line, unfurl the flag, and fix the staff strongly in the ground. The wind blows off-shore, and will soon carry it streaming outward. It will then be your duty to take up your position at a respectful distance from the spot, and see that no one from the land removes the flag. I strongly suspect that the old shepherd, who lives in the Red Cottage on Havergate Island, is the man who will come to remove it if he can. If you can secure him without our aid, so much the better; but if not, just put your lips to this whistle which I give you, and assistance will be close at hand. At all events, the old fellow must be secured, and carried back to his cottage, and be bound to his bed. And you must remain with him until night draws on. Then put the old man’s light, an oil lamp, which you will find standing under the bed, into the little window looking towards the sea, which is at the gable-end to the east.

“Then you must come over again with his boat, and mind and shove her the full length of her moorings into the water before you fix her anchor on the shore, or the falling tide will leave her high and dry. Then return to the place, where you can bury yourself in the shingle. If I mistake not, as soon as the moon is high, you will see a boat come ashore with a cargo. There is a dell not far off the flag, to which they will probably carry all their tubs. You must not be seen by them. You will easily see how my men manage to hide themselves. Now be very particular in noting what I tell you, or the lives of many may be forfeited. After the men have landed their goods, two of them will go across to the river, to see if the shepherd’s boat is moored ready for them. When they come back, you will hear them say ‘Up! all’s right!’ They will then each take up his burden, and proceed with it to the river’s side. I expect there will be ten or twelve of them. As soon as they are all fairly out of the dell, do you give a good loud long whistle. By this time, my men, who will have seen the boat coming ashore, will be getting on their hands and knees close up to you. The smugglers will throw down their loads, and hasten to their boat; we shall be ready to receive them. But, whatever you do, lie still, and you will be out of danger; and if you have a mind to see what a battle is, you will have a good view of it. I do not ask you to risk your life, you will probably see some of us killed, and should I be among the number, just remember, that in the bottom of my cartridge-box there is a letter to my sister, which I will get you to deliver. Do you think you fully understand me? and are you now willing to help us? It is singular that I should find in you the very instrument we wanted. I was about to have you secured, and to perform the part myself; but ten to one if the old shepherd saw me, but he would smell powder, and keep at home; but, seeing you a country youth, he will not mind you, but will come to the scratch. You see how much depends upon your courage.”

Young Edward Catchpole had long made up his mind, notwithstanding all the danger, to run any risk sooner than give up the enterprise; like his sister he possessed great personal courage, and was quick, intelligent, and active. He also looked upon the cause as a good one; it was for his king and country, and for a sister whom he loved. He had given up the idea of meeting with Laud, and thought only of securing the vile assassin whose crimes had reached such an enormous pitch. He entered upon his commission immediately, pursued his career along the high-water mark of the beach, and, true enough, about every five hundred yards, a head popped up from the shingle, with, “Who goes there?” “King George for ever!" was the answer; and “That’s right, my hearty, we’ll drink his health if you please,” was the hint for the young man to replenish the brave sailor’s can. He noted the seventh man; there he left the flag and staff, and proceeded on the whole length of the line. As he returned he placed the pole firmly into the deep shingle, and unfurled the white sheet, which soon formed a most conspicuous streamer in the air. He then quietly secreted himself in the manner he had been shown by one of the men, by working his body into the shingle, and letting the larger stones fall over him until he was completely covered, save his head. It was not long before a sail, which had been seen in the distance, now kept standing off and on in the offing. But now came his own work.

About an hour after the flag had been unfurled, Edward plainly heard the bleating of sheep, and saw a shepherd driving a score of sheep leisurely along towards the flag, apparently watching his sheep cropping the scant herbage of the North Vere. As he came whistling on, and approached the staff, looking cautiously around him, Edward thought it was time to commence proceedings, especially as the old man laid hold of the flagstaff to unship it. He jumped up, and called to the shepherd, —