The Cruise of the Frolic

“Presently down came the gale heavier than ever on us. Crack, crack, went the masts, and in another second we hadn’t a stick standing.

“‘Where’s the ship going to drive to, now?’ asks the skipper, turning to his wife. ‘I’ve been a fool a long time, but I don’t mean to be a fool any longer; just you get the ship put to rights, or overboard you go.’

“‘How am I to do that same?’ asks Mrs Molly, very considerably mollified; ‘I don’t know how.’

“‘Then overboard you goes,’ says the skipper, quite coolly, but firmly. ‘If the wind shifts three or four points only we shall have an ugly shore under our lee, which will knock every timber of the ship into ten thousand atoms in no time, and you may thank yourself for being the cause of the wreck.’

“‘Oh, spare my life, spare my life, and I’ll never more interfere with the duty of the ship,’ cries the lady, in an agony of fear.

“The captain pretended to be softened. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘take the oaths and go below, and I’ll think about it.’

“Mrs Molly, as we always called her, sneaked to her cabin without saying another word. All hands set to work with a will, and obeyed the skipper much more willingly than we had ever done before. We got jury-masts up, and carried the ship safely into port, but from that time to this I’ve always fought shy of a ship with petticoats in the cabin, and so I always shall, except I happen to know the sort of woman who wears them.”

I was much amused with old Sleet’s remarks, and in most respects I agreed, with him.

A day or two afterwards the crew had their suspicions confirmed by the appearance of Mrs and Miss Mizen on the deck of the cutter. In the mean time Hearty had been constantly on board the brig-of-war. He dined on board every day, as indeed we all did, only we dined in the gun-room, and he with the captain and ladies. The accommodation, however, on board the brig was rather confined, and as the weather promised to continue fine, he became naturally anxious to get them on board the yacht. At last he broached the subject. Old Rullock did not object; the ladies finding that there was nothing incorrect in the proceeding were very willing; and to give them more accommodation, an exchange was effected between them and Bubble, who took up his quarters on board the brig. I should have gone also, but Porpoise begged I would remain and keep him company, so I doubled up in his cabin to give the ladies more accommodation. Hearty took Snow’s berth, and the old man was very glad on such an occasion to swing in a hammock forward. The thought of those days are truly sunny memories of foreign seas.

Miss Mizen, by her kind and lively manners, her readiness to converse with the crew, her wish to pick up information about the sea and the places they had visited, and their own histories, and her unwillingness to give trouble, soon won the love of all on board; while her mother, whose character was very similar to her daughter’s, was a general favourite, and I heard old Sleet declare to Frost that the old lady wasn’t a bit like Mrs Molly Magrath, and as for the young girl she was an angel, and old as he was he’d be ready to go round the world to serve her, that he would.

“Now don’t you think Mr Hearty, that you could find some one who can spin a regular sea matter-of-fact yarn about things which really have been?” said Miss Mizen, one fine afternoon, with one of those sweet smiles which would have been irresistible, even if a far more important request had been made.

The owner of the “Frolic” thought a little. “Yes, by the by, I have it,” he exclaimed; “one of the men I have on board is a first-rate yarn-spinner. Once set his tongue a going, it is difficult to stop it, and yet there is very little romance about the old man. He has, I conclude, a first-rate memory, and just tells what he has seen and heard. I’ll call him aft, and will try what we can get out of him.”

Hearty on this went forward, and after a little confab with the crew, returned with old Sleet, who, instead of being bashful, was looking as pleased as Punch in his most frolicsome humour, at the honour about to be done him. Without hesitation he doffed his hat, threw his quid overboard, smoothed down his hair, and began his tale. I must confess that I have not given it in his language, which was somewhat a departure from the orthodox vernacular, and might weary my readers.

“Now, gentlemen and ladies all, I’m going to tell you – ”

How Joe Buntin Did the Revenue

The “Pretty Polly” was the fastest, the smartest, and the sweetest craft that sailed out of Fairport; so said Joe Buntin, and nobody had better right to say it, or better reason to know it, he being part owner of her, and having been master of her from the day her keel first touched the water. She was a cutter of no great size, for she measured only something between thirty and forty tons; she had great beam for her length, was sharp in the bows, rising slightly forward, and with a clean run; she was, in fact, a capital sea-boat, fit to go round the world if needs be – weatherly in a heavy sea, and very fast in smooth water, though the nautical critics pronounced her counter too short for beauty; but Joe did not consider that point a defect, as it made her all the better for running in foul weather, which was what he very frequently wanted her to do. She carried a whacking big mainsail, with immense hoist in it, and the boom well over the taffrail. Her big jib was a whopper with a vengeance, and her foresail hoisted chock up to the block. She had a swinging gaff-topsail very broad in the head, and a square-sail to set for running, with prodigious spread in it; so that, give the “Pretty Polly” a good breeze, few were the craft of anything like her own size she couldn’t walk away from. In fact, anybody might have taken her for some dandified yacht, rather than for a humble pilot-boat, which the number on her mainsail proclaimed her to be. Now the “Pretty Polly,” like other beauties, had her fair weather and her foul weather looks, her winter as well as her summer suit. She had her second, and third, and storm-jibs, a trysail of heavy canvas, and even a second mainsail, with a shorter boom to ship at times, while her standing and running rigging was as good as the best hemp and the greatest care could keep it, for every inch of it was turned in under Joe’s inspection, if not with his own hand. Joe Buntin loved his craft, as does every good sailor; she was his care, his pride, his delight, mistress, wife, and friend. He would talk to her and talk of her by the hour together; he was never tired of praising her, of expatiating on her qualities, of boasting of her achievements, how she walked away from such a cutter – how she weathered such a gale – how she clawed off a lee-shore on such an occasion; there was no end to what she had done and was to do. She was, in truth, all in all to Joe; he was worthy of her, and she was worthy of him, which reminds us that he himself claims a word or two of description. He had little beauty, nor did he boast of it, for in figure he was nearly as broad as high, with a short, thick neck, and a turn-up nose in the centre of his round, fresh-coloured visage; but he had black, sparkling eyes, full of fun and humour, and a well-formed mouth, with strong white teeth, which rescued his countenance from being ugly, while an expression of firmness and boldness, with great good nature, made him respected by all, and gained him plenty of friends. Joe sported a love-lock on each side of his face, with a little tarpaulin hat stuck on the top of his head, a neat blue jacket, or a simple blue guernsey frock, and an enormously large pair of flushing trousers, with low shoes; indeed, he was very natty in his dress, and although many people called him a smuggler – nor is there any use in denying that he was one – he did not look a bit like those cut-throat characters represented on the stage or in print-shops, with high boots, and red caps, and cloaks, and pistols, and hangers. Indeed, so far from there being any thing of the ruffian about him, he looked and considered himself a very honest fellow. He cheated nobody, for though he broke the revenue laws systematically and regularly, he had, perhaps, persuaded himself, by a course of reasoning not at all peculiar to himself, that there was no harm in so doing; possibly he had no idea that those laws were bad laws, and injurious to the country; so out of the evil, as he could not remedy it, he determined to pluck that rosebud – profit – to his own pocket. Remember that we are not at all certain that he actually did reason as we have suggested; we are, we confess, rather inclined to suspect that he found the occupation profitable; that he had been engaged in it from his earliest days, and therefore followed it without further troubling his head about its lawfulness or unlawfulness. So much for Joe Buntin and his cutter the “Pretty Polly.”

His crew were a bold set of fellows, stanch to him, and true to each other; indeed, most of them, as is usual, had a share in the vessel, and all were interested in the success of her undertakings; they were quiet, peaceable, and orderly men; their rule was never to fight, the times were too tranquil for such work, and a running noose before their eyes was not a pleasant prospect. They trusted entirely to their wit and their heels for success, and provided one cargo in three could be safely landed, they calculated on making a remunerating profit.

The days when armed smuggling craft, with a hundred hands on board bid defiance to royal cruisers, had long passed by, for we are referring to a period within the last six or eight years only, during the last days of smuggling. Now the contraband trade is chiefly carried on in small open boats, or fishing craft, affording a very precarious subsistence to those who still engage in it. After what has been said it may be confessed that the “Pretty Polly” was chiefly employed in smuggling, though her ostensible, and, indeed, very frequent occupation, was that of a pilot-vessel.

Now we must own that in those days we did not feel a proper and correct hatred of smugglers and their doings; the dangers they experienced, the daring and talent they displayed in their calling, used, in spite of our better reason, to attract our admiration, and to raise them to the dignity of petty heroes in our imagination. The dishonest merchant, the dealer in contraband goods, the encourager of crime, was the man who received the full measure of our contempt and dislike – he who, skulking quietly on shore, without fear or danger, reaped the profits of the bold seaman’s toil.

Fairport, to which the “Pretty Polly” belonged, is a neat little town at the mouth of a small river on the southern coast of England. The entrance to the harbour is guarded by an old castle, with a few cannon on the top of it, and was garrisoned by a superannuated gunner, his old wife and his pretty grand-daughter, who performed most efficiently all the duties in the fortress, such as sweeping it clean, mopping out the guns, and shutting the gates at night. Sergeant Ramrod was a good specimen of a fine old soldier, and certainly when seeing his portly figure and upright carriage, and listening to his conversation, one might suppose that he held a higher rank than it had ever been his fate to reach. He had seen much service, been engaged in numerous expeditions in various parts of the world, and went through the whole Peninsular war; indeed, had merit its due reward, he should, he assured his friends, be a general instead of a sergeant, and so being rather an admirer of his, we are also apt to think – but then when has merit its due reward? What an extraordinary hoisting up and hauling down there would be to give every man his due! Sergeant Ramrod always went by the name of the Governor of Fairport Castle, and we suspect rather liked the title. He was, in truth, much better off than the governors of half the castles in the world, though he did not think so himself; he had no troops, certainly, to marshal or drill, but then he had no rounds to make or complaints to hear, and his little garrison, composed of his wife and grandchild, never gave him a moment’s uneasiness, while he might consider himself almost an independent ruler, so few and far between were the visits of his superior officers.

The town of Fairport consists of a long street, with a few offshoots, containing some sixty houses or so, inhabited by pilots, fishermen, and other seafaring characters, two or three half-pay naval officers, a few casual visitors in the summer months, a medical man or two, and a proportionate number of shopkeepers. The castle stands at one end of the town, close to the mouth of the river, the tide of which sweeps round under its walls, where there is always water sufficient to float a boat even at low tide. In the walls of the castle are a few loopholes and a small postern-gate or port to hoist in stores, and close to it is a quay, the chief landing-place of the town. Here a revenue officer is stationed night and day to prevent smuggling, though there are certain angles of the castle-wall which he cannot overlook from his post. This description we must beg our readers to remember.

One fine morning, soon after daybreak in the early part of the year, Joe Buntin and his crew appeared on Fairport quay with their pea-jackets and bundles under their arms, and jumping into their boat pulled on board the “Pretty Polly.” Her sails were loosened and hoisted in a trice, the breeze took her foresail, the mainsail next filled, the jib-sheet was flattened aft, and slipping from her moorings she slowly glided towards the mouth of the river. The jib-sheet was, however, immediately after let go, the helm was put down, and about she came – in half a minute more, so narrow is the channel, that she was again about, and at least six tacks had she to make before she could weather the westernmost spit at the entrance of the harbour, and stand clear out to sea.

“I wonder which of the French ports she’s bound to now,” observed a coast-guard man to a companion who had just joined him on the little quay close to the castle. “After some of her old tricks, I warrant.”

“We shall have to keep a sharp look-out after him, or he’ll double on us, you may depend on it,” replied the other; “Joe Buntin’s a difficult chap to circumvent, and one needs to be up early in the morning to find him snoozing.”

“More reason we shouldn’t go to sleep ourselves, Ben,” said the first speaker; “I must report the sailing of the ‘Pretty Polly’ to the inspecting commander, that he may send along the coast to give notice that she’s out. Captain Sturney would give not a little to catch the ‘Pretty Polly,’ and he’s told Joe that he’ll nab her some day.”

“What did Joe say to that?”

“Oh, he laughed and tried to look innocent, and answered that he was welcome to her if he ever found her with a tub of spirits, or a bale of tobacco in her.”

“I’ll tell you, though, who’d give his right hand and something more, to boot, to catch Master Joe himself, or I’m very much mistaken.”

“Who’s that?”

“Why, Lieutenant Hogson, to be sure. You see he has set his eyes on little Margaret Ramrod, the old gunner’s grandchild, but she don’t like him, though he is a naval officer, and won’t have any thing to say to him, and he has found out that Joe is sweet in that quarter, and suspects that if it weren’t for him, he himself would have more favour. Now, if he could get Joe out of the way, the game would be in his own hands.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it? Well, I think the little girl is right, for Joe is a good fellow, though he does smuggle a bit; and as for Lieutenant Hogson, though he is our officer, the less we say about him the better.”

While this conversation was going on, the “Pretty Polly” had reached down abreast of the quay, when Buntin, who was at the helm, waved his hand to the coast-guard men, they in return wishing him a pleasant voyage and a safe return.

“Thank ye,” answered Joe, laughing, for he and his opponents were on excellent terms. “Thank ye, and remember, keep a bright look-out for me.”

The cutter then passed so close to the castle that her boom almost grazed its time-worn walls. Joe looked up at the battlements, and there he saw a bright young face, with a pair of sparkling eyes, gazing down upon him. Joe took off his tarpaulin hat and waved it.

“I’ll not forget your commission, Miss Margaret. My respects to your grandfather,” he sang out.

There was not time to say more before the cutter shot out of hearing. The flutter of a handkerchief was the answer, and as long as a human figure was visible on the ramparts, Joe saw that Mistress Margaret was watching him. Now, it must be owned, that it was only of late Joe had yielded to the tender passion, and it would have puzzled him to say how it was. He had been accustomed to bring over trifling presents to the little girl, and had ingratiated himself with the old soldier, by the gift now and then of a few bottles of real cognac; but he scarcely suspected that his “Pretty Polly,” his fast-sailing craft, had any rival in his affections.

The day after the “Pretty Polly,” sailed, Margaret was seated at her work, and the old dame sat spinning in their little parlour in the castle, while Mr Ramrod was taking his usual walk on the quay, when a loud tap was heard at the door.

“Come in,” said the dame, and Lieutenant Hogson made his appearance.

Now, although by no means a favourite guest, he was, from his rank and office, always welcomed politely, and Margaret jumped up and wiped a chair, while the dame begged him to be seated. His appearance was not prepossessing, for his face was pock-marked, his hair was coarse and scanty, and sundry potations, deep and strong, had added a ruddy hue to the tip of his nose, while his figure was broad and ungainly. He threw himself into a chair, as if he felt himself perfectly at home. “Ah, pretty Margaret! bright and smiling as ever, I see. How I envy your happy disposition!” he began.

“Yes, sir, I am fond of laughing,” said Margaret, demurely.

“So I see. And how’s grandfather?”

“Here he comes to answer for himself, sir,” said Margaret, as old Ramrod appeared, and, welcoming his guest, placed a bottle and some glasses before him, while Margaret brought a jug of hot water and some sugar. The eyes of the lieutenant twinkled as he saw the preparations.

“Not much duty paid on this, I suspect, Mr Ramrod,” he observed, as he smacked his lips after the first mouthful.

“Can’t say, sir. They say that the revenue does not benefit from any that’s drunk in Fairport.”

“A gift of our friend Buntin’s, probably,” hazarded the officer.

“Can’t say, sir; several of my friends make me a little present now and then. I put no mark on them.”

“Oh, all right, I don’t ask questions,” said the lieutenant.

“By the by, I find that the ‘Pretty Polly’ has started on another trip.”

“So I hear, sir,” said Ramrod.

“Can you guess where she’s gone, Miss Margaret?” asked the officer.

“Piloting, I suppose, sir,” answered the maiden, blushing.

“Oh, ay, yes, of course; but didn’t he talk of going anywhere on the French coast?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Margaret, “he said he thought he might just look in at Cherbourg.”

“And how soon did he say he would be back?” asked the officer.

“In four or five days, sir,” said Margaret.

The lieutenant was delighted with the success of his interrogations, and at finding the maiden in so communicative a mood; so mixing a stiffer tumbler of grog than before to heighten his own wits, he continued, “Now, my good girl, I don’t ask you to tell me any thing to injure our friend Buntin, but did he chance to let drop before you where he proposed to make his land-fall on his return – you understand, where he intended to touch first before he brings the ‘Pretty Polly’ into Fairport?”

“Dear me, I did hear him talk of looking into – Bay; and he told Denman, and Jones, and Tigtop, and several others to be down there,” answered Margaret, with the greatest simplicity.

“I don’t think the girl knows what she’s talking of, Mr Hogson,” interposed old Ramrod, endeavouring to silence his grand-daughter. “But of course any thing she has let drop, you won’t make use of, sir.”

“Oh, dear, no! of course not, my good friend,” answered Mr Hogson. “I merely asked for curiosity’s sake. But I must wish you good afternoon. I have my duties to attend to – duty before pleasure, you know, Mr Ramrod. Good-by, Miss Margaret, my ocean lily – a good afternoon to you, old hero of a hundred fights;” and, gulping down the contents of his tumbler, with no very steady steps the officer took his leave.

As soon as he was gone, Ramrod scolded his grandchild for her imprudence in speaking of Buntin’s affairs.

“You don’t know the injury you may have done him,” he added; “but it never does to trust a female with what you don’t want known.”

“Perhaps not, grandfather,” said Margaret, smiling archly. “But Joe told me that I might just let it fall, if I had an opportunity, that he was going to run a crop at – Bay, and I could not resist the temptation when Mr Hogson asked me, thinking I was so simple all the time. I’m sure, however, I wish that Joe would give over smuggling altogether. It’s very wrong, I tell him, and very dangerous; but he promises me that if he can but secure two more cargoes, he’ll give it up altogether. I’m sure I wish he would.”

“So do I, girl, with all my heart; for it does not become me, an officer of the government, to associate with one who constantly breaks the laws; but yet, I own it, I like the lad, and wish him well.”

Margaret did not express her sentiments; but the bright smile on her lips betrayed feelings which she happily had never been taught the necessity of controlling.

Mr Hogson esteemed himself a very sharp officer; and, as he quitted the castle, he congratulated himself on his acuteness in discovering Buntin’s plans. He had spies in various directions, or rather, people whom he fancied were such, though every one of them was well-known to the smugglers, and kept in pay by them. By them the information he had gained from Margaret was fully corroborated, and accordingly he gave the necessary orders to watch for the cutter at the spot indicated, while he collected a strong body of men to seize her cargo as soon as the smugglers attempted to run it. His arrangements were made with considerable judgment, and could not, he felt certain, fail of success, having stationed signalmen on every height in the neighbourhood of – Bay, to give the earliest notice of the smugglers’ approach. As soon as it was dark, he himself, with the main body of coast-guard men, all well-armed, set off by different routes, to remain in ambush near the spot. While they lay there, they heard several people pass them on their way to the shore, whom they rightly conjectured were those whose business it was to carry the tubs and bales up the cliffs to their hides, as soon as landed. The night was very dark, for there was no moon, and the sky was cloudy; and though there was a strong breeze, there was not sufficient sea on to prevent a landing; in fact, it was just the night the smugglers would take advantage of. Mr Hogson, having stationed his men, buttoned up his pea-jacket, and drawing his south-wester over his ears, set off along the shore to reconnoitre. He rubbed his hands with satisfaction when he perceived a number of people collected on the beach, and others approaching from various directions.

“I’m pretty sure of forty or fifty pounds at least,” he muttered, “and if I can but nab Master Joe himself, I’ll soon bring his coy sweetheart to terms, I warrant. Ah! the cutter must be getting in with the land, or these people would not be assembling yet.”

Just then a gleam of bright light shot forth from the cliffs, at no great distance from where he was standing; it was answered by the gleam of a lantern from the sea, which was instantly again obscured. He watched with intense anxiety, without moving for some minutes, when he thought that he observed two dark objects glancing over the waters towards the shore. His difficulty was to select the proper moment for his attack. If he appeared too soon, the people on shore would give notice, and the boats would return to the cutter; if he did not reach them directly after they touched the shore, he knew from experience that he should certainly find them empty, a minute or two sufficing to carry off the whole cargo. At last he had no doubt that the smugglers were at hand; and, as fast as his legs could carry him, he hurried back to bring up his men.