Eli took charge of the pack train. He was terribly anxious about Ortho, but hanging about and letting the train be taken would only make bad worse, and Ortho had an uncanny knack of slipping out of trouble. He felt sure that if anybody was arrested it would not be his brother.
King Nick had thought of everything. In case of a raid by mounted men who could pursue it would be folly to go on to St. Just. They were to hide their goods at some preordained spot, hasten home and lie doggo.
The preordained spot was the “Fou-gou,” an ancient British dwelling hidden in a tangle of bracken a mile to the northwest, a subterranean passage roofed with massive slabs of granite, lined with moss and dripping with damp, the haunt of badgers, foxes and bats. By midnight Eli had his cargo stowed away in that dark receptacle thoughtfully provided by the rude architects of the Stone Age, and by one o’clock he was at home in bed prepared to prove he had never left it. But he did not sleep, tired as he was. Two horses had not materialized, and where was Ortho? If he had escaped he should have been home by now . . . long ago. The gale made a terrific noise, moaning and buffeting round the house; it must be awful at sea.
Where was Ortho?
Eli might just as well have taken his goods through to St. Just for all the Dragoons cared. Had the French landed that night they would have made no protest. They would have drunk their very good healths.
When the sergeant and his detachment, the snow at their backs, finally stumbled into Monks Cove it was very far from a scene of battle and carnage that met their gaze. “Homely” would better describe it. The cottages were lit up and in them lounged the troopers, attended by the genial fisher-folk in artistic déshabillé, in the clothes in which they, at that moment, had arisen from bed (so they declared). The warriors toasted their spurs at the hearths and drank to everybody’s everlasting prosperity.
The sergeant made inquiries. What luck?
None to speak of. Four fifths of the train was up the valley when they broke in, and got away easily. That little whelp Carmichael had queered the show, charging and yapping. Where was he now? Oh, lying bleating under the cliff somewhere. Pshaw! Let him lie a bit and learn wisdom, plaguy little louse! Have a drink, God bless us.
They caught nothing then?
Why, yes, certainly they had. Four prisoners and two horses. Two of the prisoners had since escaped, but no matter, the horses hadn’t, and they carried the right old stuff—gin and brandy. That was what they were drinking now. Mixed, it was a lotion fit to purge the gullet of the Great Mogul. Have a drink, Lord love you!