Devon Boys: A Tale of the North Shore

by George Manville Fenn

“Is it coming to fetch us, father?” I whispered.

“No, boy; if it were, those on board would hail.”

“What shall we do—shout?” I asked him.

“Certainly not. Here, Bigley, sit up, my lad! All keep perfectly still and wait. We do not know whose boat it may be.”

He was our leader, and we neither of us thought of saying a word, but sat and listened to the low plash and roll of the oars of some big boat that seemed to be very close in; and so it proved, for at the end of a few minutes we could distinctly see something large and black looming up out of the darkness, and before long make out that it was quite a large vessel that was being worked with sweeps or large oars till it was close in; and then there was the noise of the oars being laid inboard, and the sound of orders being given in a low firm voice.

“Keep perfectly still,” my father whispered to us; but it was unnecessary, and we sat together there on the rock shelf, the projecting portion making our resting-place quite black, as we watched and listened to what was going on.

Then for about three hours there was a busy scene below us. Men seemed to have dropped down into the water from both sides of the vessel. Some went up to the cliff-face away to our left where the caverns lay, and at the end of a minute the light of a couple of lanthorns gleamed out and then disappeared in the cave.

Hardly a word was spoken save on board the vessel, where those upon deck seemed from time to time to be doing something with poles to keep her from getting aground as the tide fell.

It must, I say, have been for nearly three hours that the busy scene lasted, and a large body of men kept on plashing to and fro with loads from the vessel to the cavern and back empty-handed. Everything seemed to be done as quietly as if the men were well accustomed to the task. Not a word was spoken, except by one who seemed to be leader, and the only sounds we heard were the tramping upon the slate-sprinkled sand and the splashing as they waded in to reach the vessel’s side.

It was evident enough that they were landing quite a store of something of another from the vessel, and I knew enough of such matters to be sure that it was a smuggler running a cargo. For the first few minutes I felt that it must be the French coming to take us unawares; but the French would have landed men, not packages and little barrels.