The E. Nesbit Megapack: 26 Classic Novels and Stories (189 page)

Alice said, “I do think it’s perfectly beastly. You might just as well have asked for me to go with you; or you might let us come and see you start.”

“Men must work, and women must weep,” replied Oswald with grim sadness, “and the Viking said he wouldn’t have us at all unless we could get on board in a concealed manner, like stowaways. He said a lot of others would want to go too if they saw us.”

We made our way to the beach, and we tried to conceal ourselves as much as possible, but several people did see us.

When we got to the boat we found she was manned by our Viking and Benenden, and a boy with red hair, and they were running her down to the beach on rollers. Of course Dicky and I lent a hand, shoving at the stern of the boat when the men said, “Yo, ho! Heave ho, my merry boys all!” It wasn’t exactly that that they said, but it meant the same thing, and we heaved like anything.

It was a proud moment when her nose touched the water, and prouder still when only a small part of her stern remained on the beach and Mr. Benenden remarked—

“All aboard!”

The red boy gave a “leg up” to Dicky and me and clambered up himself. Then the two men gave the last shoves to the boat, already cradled almost entirely on the bosom of the deep, and as the very end of the keel grated off the pebbles into the water, they leaped for the gunwale and hung on it with their high sea-boots waving in the evening air.

By the time they had brought their legs on board and coiled a rope or two, we chanced to look back, and already the beach seemed quite a long way off.

We were really afloat. Our smuggling expedition was no longer a dream, but a real realness. Oswald felt almost too excited at first to be able to enjoy himself. I hope you will understand this and not think the author is trying to express, by roundabout means, that the sea did not agree with Oswald. This is not the case. He was perfectly well the whole time. It was Dicky who was not. But he said it was the smell of the cabin, and not the sea, and I am sure he thought what he said was true.

In fact, that cabin was a bit stiff altogether, and was almost the means of upsetting even Oswald.

It was about six feet square, with bunks and an oil stove, and heaps of old coats and tarpaulins and sou’-westers and things, and it smelt of tar, and fish, and paraffin-smoke, and machinery oil, and of rooms where no one ever opens the window.

Oswald just put his nose in, and that was all. He had to go down later, when some fish was cooked and eaten, but by that time he had got what they call your sea-legs; but Oswald felt more as if he had got a sea-waistcoat, rather as if he had got rid of a land-waistcoat that was too heavy and too tight.

I will not weary the reader by telling about how the nets are paid out and dragged in, or about the tumbling, shining heaps of fish that come up all alive over the side of the boat, and it tips up with their weight till you think it is going over. It was a very good catch that night, and Oswald is glad he saw it, for it was very glorious. Dicky was asleep in the cabin at the time and missed it. It was deemed best not to rouse him to fresh sufferings.

It was getting latish, and Oswald, though thrilled in every marrow, was getting rather sleepy, when old Benenden said, “There she is!”

Oswald could see nothing at first, but presently he saw a dark form on the smooth sea. It turned out to be another boat.

She crept quietly up till she was alongside ours, and then a keg was hastily hoisted from her to us.

A few words in low voices were exchanged. Oswald only heard—

“Sure you ain’t give us the wrong un?”

And several people laughed hoarsely.

On first going on board Oswald and Dicky had mentioned kegs, and had been ordered to “Stow that!” so that Oswald had begun to fear that after all it was only a night’s fishing, and that his glorious idea had been abandoned.

But now he saw the keg his trembling heart was reassured.

It got colder and colder. Dicky, in the cabin, was covered with several coats richly scented with fish, and Oswald was glad to accept an oilskin and sou’-wester, and to sit down on some spare nets.

Until you are out on the sea at night you can never have any idea how big the world really is. The sky looks higher up, and the stars look further off, and even if you know it is only the English Channel, yet it is just as good for feeling small on as the most trackless Atlantic or Pacific. Even the fish help to show the largeness of the world, because you think of the deep deepness of the dark sea they come up out of in such rich profusion. The hold was full of fish after the second haul.

Oswald sat leaning against the precious keg, and perhaps the bigness and quietness of everything had really rendered him unconscious. But he did not know he was asleep until the Viking man woke him up by kindly shaking him and saying—

“Here, look alive! Was ye thinking to beach her with that there precious keg of yours all above board, and crying out to be broached?”

So then Oswald roused himself, and the keg was rolled on to the fish where they lay filling the hold, and armfuls of fish thrown over it.

“Is it really only water?” asked Oswald. “There’s an awfully odd smell.” And indeed, in spite of the many different smells that are natural to a fishing-boat, Oswald began to notice a strong scent of railway refreshment-rooms.

“In course it’s only water,” said the Viking. “What else would it be likely to be?” and Oswald thinks he winked in the dark.

Perhaps Oswald fell asleep again after this. It was either that or deep thought. Any way, he was aroused from it by a bump, and a soft grating sound, and he thought at first the boat was being wrecked on a coral reef or something.

But almost directly he knew that the boat had merely come ashore in the proper manner, so he jumped up.

You cannot push a boat out of the water like you push it in. It has to be hauled up by a capstan. If you don’t know what that is the author is unable to explain, but there is a picture of one.

When the boat was hauled up we got out, and it was very odd to stretch your legs on land again. It felt shakier than being on sea. The red-haired boy went off to get a cart to take the shining fish to market, and Oswald decided to face the mixed-up smells of that cabin and wake Dicky.

Dicky was not grateful to Oswald for his thoughtful kindness in letting him sleep through the perils of the deep and his own uncomfortableness.

He said, “I do think you might have waked a chap. I’ve simply been out of everything.”

Oswald did not answer back. His is a proud and self-restraining nature. He just said—

“Well, hurry up, now, and see them cart the fish away.”

So we hurried up, and as Oswald came out of the cabin he heard strange voices, and his heart leaped up like the persons who “behold a rainbow in the sky,” for one of the voices was the voice of that inferior and unsailorlike coastguard from Longbeach, who had gone out of his way to be disagreeable to Oswald and his brothers and sisters on at least two occasions. And now Oswald felt almost sure that his disagreeablenesses, though not exactly curses, were coming home to roost just as though they had been.

“You’re missing your beauty sleep, Stokes,” we heard our Viking remark.

“I’m not missing anything else, though,” replied the coastguard.

“Like half a dozen mackerel for your breakfast?” inquired Mr. Benenden in kindly accents.

“I’ve no stomach for fish, thank you all the same,” replied Mr. Stokes coldly.

He walked up and down on the beach, clapping his arms to keep himself warm.

“Going to see us unload her?” asked Mr. Benenden.

“If it’s all the same to you,” answered the disagreeable coastguard.

He had to wait a long time, for the cart did not come, and did not come, and kept on not coming for ages and ages. When it did the men unloaded the boat, carrying the fish by basketfuls to the cart.

Every one played up jolly well. They took the fish from the side of the hold where the keg wasn’t till there was quite a deep hole there, and the other side, where the keg really was, looked like a mountain in comparison.

This could be plainly seen by the detested coastguard, and by three of his companions who had now joined him.

It was beginning to be light, not daylight, but a sort of ghost-light that you could hardly believe was the beginning of sunshine, and the sky being blue again instead of black.

The hated coastguard got impatient. He said—

“You’d best own up. It’ll be the better for you. It’s bound to come out, along of the fish. I know it’s there. We’ve had private information up at the station. The game’s up this time, so don’t you make no mistake.”

Mr. Benenden and the Viking and the boy looked at each other.

“An’ what might your precious private information have been about?” asked Mr. Benenden.

“Brandy,” replied the coastguard Stokes, and he went and got on to the gunwale. “And what’s more, I can smell it from here.”

Oswald and Dicky drew near, and the refreshment-room smell was stronger than ever. And a brown corner of the keg was peeping out.

“There you are!” cried the Loathed One. “Let’s have that gentleman out, if you please, and then you’ll all just come alonger me.”

Remarking, with a shrug of the shoulders, that he supposed it was all up, our Viking scattered the fish that hid the barrel, and hoisted it out from its scaly bed.

“That’s about the size of it,” said the coastguard we did not like. “Where’s the rest?”

“That’s all,” said Mr. Benenden. “We’re poor men, and we has to act according to our means.”

“We’ll see the boat clear to her last timber, if you’ve no objections,” said the Detestable One.

I could see that our gallant crew were prepared to go through with the business. More and more of the coastguards were collecting, and I understood that what the crew wanted was to go up to the coastguard station with that keg of pretending brandy, and involve the whole of the coastguards of Longbeach in one complete and perfect sell.

But Dicky was sick of the entire business. He really has not the proper soul for adventures, and what soul he has had been damped by what he had gone through.

So he said, “Look here, there’s nothing in that keg but water.”

Oswald could have kicked him, though he is his brother.

“Huh!” replied the Unloved One, “d’you think I haven’t got a nose? Why, it’s oozing out of the bunghole now as strong as Samson.”

“Open it and see,” said Dicky, disregarding Oswald’s whispered instructions to him to shut up. “It is water.”

“What do you suppose I suppose you want to get water from the other side for, you young duffer!” replied the brutal official. “There’s plenty water and to spare this side.”

“It’s—it’s French water,” replied Dicky madly; “it’s ours, my brother’s and mine. We asked these sailors to get it for us.”

“Sailors, indeed!” said the hateful coastguard. “You come along with me.”

And our Viking said he was something or othered. But Benenden whispered to him in a low voice that it was all right—time was up. No one heard this but me and the Viking.

“I want to go home,” said Dicky. “I don’t want to come along with you.”

“What did you want water for?” was asked. “To try it?”

“To stand you a drink next time you ordered us off your beastly boat,” said Dicky. And Oswald rejoiced to hear the roar of laughter that responded to this fortunate piece of cheek.

I suppose Dicky’s face was so angel-like, innocent-looking, like stowaways in books, that they had to believe him. Oswald told him so afterwards, and Dicky hit out.

Any way, the keg was broached, and sure enough it was water, and sea-water at that, as the Unamiable One said when he had tasted it out of a tin cup, for nothing else would convince him. “But I smell brandy still,” he said, wiping his mouth after the sea-water.

Our Viking slowly drew a good-sized flat labelled bottle out of the front of his jersey.

“From the ‘Old Ship,’” he said gently. “I may have spilt a drop or two here or there over the keg, my hand not being very steady, as is well known, owing to spells of marsh fever as comes over me every six weeks to the day.”

The coastguard that we never could bear said, “Marsh fever be something or othered,” and his comrades said the same. But they all blamed him, and we were glad.

We went home sleepy, but rejoicing. The whole thing was as complete a sell as ever I wish to see.

Of course we told our own dear and respected Lymchurch coastguards, and I think they may be trusted not to let it down on the Longbeach coastguards for many a good day. If their memories get bad I think there will always be plenty of people along that coast to remind them!

So that’s all right.

When we had told the girls all, and borne their reproaches for not telling them before, we decided to give the Viking five bob for the game way he had played up.

So we did. He would not take it at first, but when we said, “Do—you might buy a pig with it, and call it Stokes after that coastguard,” he could no longer resist, and accepted our friendly gift.

We talked with him for a bit, and when we were going we thanked him for being so jolly, and helping us to plant out the repulsive coastguard so thoroughly.

Then he said, “Don’t mention it. Did you tell your little gells what you was up to?”

“No,” said Oswald, “not till afterwards.”

“Then you can hold your tongues. Well, since you’ve acted so handsome about that there pig, what’s to be named for Stokes, I don’t mind if I tells you something. Only mum’s the word.”

We said we were quite sure it was.

“Well, then,” said he, leaning over the pig-stye wall, and rubbing the spotted pig’s back with his stick. “It’s an ill wind that blows no good to nobody. You see, that night there was a little bird went an’ whispered to ’em up at Longbeach about our little bit of a keg. So when we landed they was there.”

“Of course,” said Oswald.

“Well, if they was there they couldn’t be somewheres else, could they?”

We owned they could not.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” he went on, “but what a bit of a cargo was run that night further up the beach: something as wasn’t sea-water. I don’t say it was so, mind—and mind you don’t go for to say it.”

Then we understood that there is a little smuggling done still, and that we had helped in it, though quite without knowing.

We were jolly glad. Afterwards, when we had had that talk with Father, when he told us that the laws are made by the English people, and it is dishonourable for an Englishman not to stick to them, we saw that smuggling must be wrong.

But we have never been able to feel really sorry. I do not know why this is.