John Trevanion in the Toils
With the aid of imagination's magic boots we skip now from the Towers to the village, and see what was happening there.
The Isaac and Jacob lay alongside the jetty, in charge of half-a-dozen Frenchmen who lolled lazily about the deck. Nathan Pendry, who had steered the vessel into harbour, reclined, the picture of scowling discontent, against the bulwarks. Below, in the dark, reeking hold, trussed like fowls, lay Isaac Tonkin, Simon Mail, and two more of the most respected smugglers of Polkerran.
It appeared from Tonkin's story, told many a time in after years to the breathless company in the parlour of the Three Jolly Mariners, that on arriving in Roscoff to purchase his Christmas cargo, he had been sought out by Jean Delarousse, whose customer he had formerly been. The Frenchman did not complain of Tonkin's desertion, nor did he seek a renewal of their trade relations; his sole object was to persuade the Cornishman, by means of a heavy bribe, to deliver John Trevanion into his hands. Tonkin had his grievance against Trevanion. He felt sore at having had to play second fiddle to the younger man in recent smuggling transactions. But being an honest fellow, and loyal in grain, he rejected Delarousse's offer with indignant scorn, and refused to believe what he understood of the tale poured into his ears in broken English, of a long course of deceit and fraud by which, as Delarousse alleged, Trevanion had enriched himself at his partner's expense. The Frenchman had appeared to take his refusal in good part, and Tonkin, having freighted his lugger, put to sea on his return voyage, intending to run his cargo at the creek in the small hours of Friday morning as arranged.
The Aimable Vertu, Delarousse's privateering craft, lay in Roscoff harbour. Tonkin was only a mile or two at sea, when he noticed that the privateer was coming up astern. This circumstance at first gave him no concern; Delarousse was doubtless setting forth on one of his forays. But soon he began to suspect, from the course held by the larger vessel, that he was being chased, or at least dogged. The Isaac and Jacob was a very swift vessel, and, laden though she was, her master hoped to be able to maintain his lead until nightfall, and then to escape under cover of the darkness. But he was not long in discovering that his lugger was no match in speed for the privateer. The short dusk of the December evening was closing down upon the sea when the Aimable Vertu came within range. The lugger's armament consisted of one small carronade; the Frenchman had a broadside, which at a single discharge would have shattered the lesser craft to splinters. When, therefore, Tonkin was hailed and bidden to heave-to, he chose the sensible, indeed the only practicable, course, and obeyed. Delarousse and a boarding party took possession of the lugger; in spite of vigorous protests, Tonkin and his crew were bound and laid by the board, and, room having been made for them in the hold by the removal of several tubs, they were carried below. The two vessels then in company continued on their course for the English coast.
Favoured by the light mist that hung over the Channel during the night, the privateer escaped discovery by any English cruisers or revenue-cutters that might have been in the neighbourhood. When, however, she approached the rugged Cornish coast, the mist became a danger, and Delarousse had Tonkin fetched from below, and ordered him to pilot the vessels into Polkerran harbour. This the humiliated mariner flatly refused to do, persisting in his refusal in spite of the entreaties, curses, and menaces of his captor. He was carried back by ungentle hands to his noisome lair, and Pendry, a man of less backbone, proved to be more amenable to the Frenchman's commands. Under his skilful pilotage, the lugger safely made the harbour, the privateer standing some distance out at sea, to watch events.
Now Tonkin, as has already been said, was a man of enormous strength, and as the pages of this history have shown, of great courage and resolution also. Nor was he lacking in prudence or common-sense; witness his ready surrender of the lugger when refusal would have meant his being blown out of the water. The same common-sense restrained him from struggling against impossible odds, both when he was trussed up, and afterwards when the vessel was manned by fifty or sixty well-armed Frenchmen. But so soon as he felt the lugger lightly graze the jetty, and knew by the rush of hurrying feet on deck that the great majority of his captors had gone ashore, he began to strain at his bonds. The Frenchmen had done their work of trussing capably enough, and, in the case of ninety-nine men out of a hundred, no doubt there would have been no danger of its being undone. But Tonkin's muscles were hard as iron; he had the strength of a horse. After a few minutes' straining, the rope about his wrists gave way; to release his legs was then easy. Delarousse having gone through his pockets before trussing him, he was without a knife, and had to loosen with his hands the ropes wherewith his comrades were tied. As soon as the first man was liberated, he set to work on the bonds of another, and within a few minutes after Tonkin had released himself, all the men were free.
Until the lugger reached the harbour, a number of the Frenchmen had clustered on the companion, and at its foot. When the time came for them to dash ashore, they scrambled in hot haste through the hatchway on to the deck, not thinking to batten down the hatch. As soon, therefore, as Tonkin was free, he rapidly planned how to escape from the hold with his men, when they had recovered the full use of their partially numbed limbs. He first felt about in the darkness for articles that would serve as effective weapons, and discovered a marlinspike, the hammer he used for driving spigots into the tubs, and several balks of timber that were employed for preventing the tubs from rolling. Each man armed himself. Long experience of smuggling had taught them to move quickly without noise, and, led by Tonkin, whose agility seemed in no wise lessened by his bulk, they swarmed swiftly through the hatchway.
The men left in charge of the vessel were leaning over the bulwarks, smoking, and envying their comrades at the inn, who, finding that the villagers showed no disposition to interfere with them, had seized the opportunity to refresh themselves at the expense of the innkeeper. Before the idle spectators on the deck could turn and form up to meet the rush, Tonkin and his men were upon them. A few swift, sharp strokes of the fishers' nondescript weapons, and the Frenchmen were lying senseless on the deck.
Without the loss of a moment the Cornishmen leapt the bulwarks and scampered along the jetty. They were half-way to the inn before the careless sentinels in the parlour heard their footsteps and ran out to see what was happening. Forming in front of the door, they brought their muskets to the shoulder and delivered a scattered volley; but surprise, haste, and strong liquor combined to spoil their aim, and none of the fishers was hit except Simon Mail, who dropped his spike with a yell and sat down on the cobbles, hors de combat. The Frenchmen had no time either to reload or to retreat. The fishers, burly men all, charged straight at them and struck four to the ground, the other two taking to their heels and starting to run up the hill towards their leader. But as if by magic the neighbourhood of the inn was suddenly alive with figures. The fishermen and miners, who had remained hitherto cowering in their cottages, rushed out the moment they could do so safely. The fugitives were caught and held; a fierce crowd surrounded the others; and in a few minutes all six, bruised and battered, lay in a row against the inn wall.