"Glorious news, Tom. How pleased father will be!"

"Byng told me further that we must get men to fill up our complement, and fifty over, by hook or by crook."

"Fifty over! that means fighting, Tom. Go on."

"The hook and crook means pressment, Jack."

"Well, well, I don't like it; but it is all for the good of the service.

Heave round, Tom."

"Then I went to the post-office. Sly dog, am I? Well, perhaps. A letter from Flora, and one for you."

Jack tore his open.

"Why, she has gone to live with dear old Father Spence at Torquay, Tom."

"Yes, Jack, till the war is over. Then, if G.o.d but spares us all, I shall be your brother."

"Dear girl," said Jack. "Ah, Tom, what a n.o.ble courage she possesses!

You and I can meet the foe face to face and fight well; but that is under excitement. But dear Flora needed more courage than ours to leave Grantley Hall so bravely as she did. Never a tear, Tom, never a tear; and I even saw my father's eyes wet. Ah well. It is the fortune of war.

Heigh-ho!"

"Cheer up, Jack. Somehow, my friend, I think that Grantley Hall will come back to the Mackenzies yet."

"Ah, never, Tom, never! The dear old place where Flora and I spent our childhood, only to think it should come at last into the clutches of the plausible skinflint Keane; the father, though, of--but go on, Tom, go on."

"I next saw two gentlemen of the 'sailors' friend' persuasion."

"Crimps? Scoundrels!"

"Well, anyhow, they are good for forty between them."

"Bravo! Things are looking up. What a capital fellow you are, Tom! But, stay; let me reckon. We still want twenty more."

"And these, Jack, shall be no mere top hampers, I can a.s.sure you.

I have arranged to lay hands on fifteen at least of thorough dare-any-things--fellows who look upon fighting as mere fun, and can face the billows as well as tackle a foe."

"You interest me. Proceed."

"What say you to pirates, then?"

"Come, come, Tom."

"Well, they are the next thing to it. They are sea-smugglers. I met One-legged Butler to-day, the king of coastguardsmen; and if we lend him nets, he will land the fish."

"You mean seamen and cutla.s.ses. Well, he'll have them; and I'll trust the matter all to you."

"Nay, Jack, nay; the second lieutenant must be left in charge, and _you_ must come. Flora must see you."

"Flora?" cried Jack.

"Yes; we are to cut out the smuggler in Tor Bay."

"I'm with you, Tom. Well, we shall meet at dinner. _Au revoir._"

One-legged Butler was quite a character in his way. He had been in the service in his very young days, and had lost a limb while fighting bravely for king and country. But for this stroke of bad luck he might have been an admiral, and there is little doubt he would have been a brave one too. Appointed to the revenue service, he soon proved that, in addition to cunning, tact, and bravery, he possessed detective qualities of no mean order. His timber toe, as the sailors called his wooden leg, was no drawback to him. Timber toes in those stirring times were as common as sea-gulls in every British sea-port; and Butler's powers of disguising himself, or making up to act a part in order to gain information, were simply marvellous.

On the day Tom Fairlie made his acquaintance, he had been singing "Tom Bowling" on the street in front of a public-house, and our Tom had gone up to give him a penny. Like the Ancient Mariner, he had held Tom with his glittering eye; and a very few moments' conversation was sufficient to arrange for one of the cleverest and most daring little adventures that ever supplied a man-o'-war with gallant "volunteers," as pressed men were often ironically termed in those days.

They were a very merry party at dinner that day around the captain's table. Not a large one, however; only Jack Mackenzie himself, his friend Tom Fairlie, M'Hearty, one "middie," and bold Captain Butler, all good men and true; and the servant who waited at table was one to be trusted.

Despite the fact that he was a Spaniard, he was most faithful, so that the conversation could take any turn without danger of a word being repeated either forward or to the servants below in the ward-room.

In talking and yarning right quickly pa.s.sed the evening in the captain's cabin; but everywhere fore and aft to-night both officers and crew were hearty. They had already bidden farewell to friends and home, soon their country too would fade far away from sight, and then--the glories of war. Ah! never mind about its horrors; what brave young British sailor ever thought of these?

CHAPTER IX.

"A SPLENDID NIGHT'S WORK, TOM!"

"Ah! cruel, hard-hearted, to press him, And force the dear youth from my arms; Restore him, that I may caress him, And shield him from future alarms."

DIBDIN'S _Pressgang_.

It was near to the hour of sunset, on an autumn evening about a week after the cozy dinner-party in the cabin of Captain Jack Mackenzie of the _Tonneraire_. The tree-clad hills and terra-cotta cliffs around Tor Bay were all ablur with driving mist and rain, borne viciously along on the wings of a north-east gale. Far out beyond the harbour mouth, betwixt Berry Head and Hope's Nose, the steel-blue waters were flecked and streaked with foam; while high against the rocks of Corbyn's Head the waves broke in clouds of spray.

As night fell, the wind seemed to increase; the sky was filled with storm-riven clouds; and the "white horses" that rode on the bay grew taller and taller.

Surely on such a night as this every fishing-boat would seek shelter, and vessels near to the land would make good their offing for safety's sake.

There were those who, gazing out upon the storm from the green plateau above Daddy's Hole, where the coastguard station now is, thought otherwise.

Daddy's Hole is a sort of inlet or indentation in the rock-wall, which rises so steeply up to the plain above that, though covered with gra.s.s, it seems hardly to afford foothold for goats. No man in his senses would venture to descend from above in a straight line, nor even by zigzag, were it not for the fact that here and there through the smooth green surface rocks protrude which would break his fall.

Shading their eyes with their hands in the gathering gloom, with faces seaward, stood two rough-looking men, of the cla.s.s we might call amphibious--men at home either on the water or on sh.o.r.e.

"It can't be done," said one. "No, capting, it can't."

"Can't?" thundered the other; "and I tells yew, Dan, the skipper o' the _Brixham_ knows no such a word as 'can't.' He's comin'. Yew'll see.

Hawkins never hauled 'is wind yet where a bit o' the yellow was tow be made. Us'll drink wine in France to-morrow, sure's my name is Scrivings."

Dan shook his head.

"W'y, yew soft-hearted chap, for tew pins I'd pitch yew ower the cliff."

But as "Capting" Scrivings laughed while he spoke, and shook his friend roughly by the shoulder, there was little chance of the terrible threat being fulfilled.