which waited for that purpose, and which instantly dispersed, each on its own proper adventure. More mystery was observed in loading the ship's boat with a quantity of small barrels, which seemed to contain ammunition. This was not done until the commercial customers had been dismissed; and it was not until this was performed that Ewart proposed to Alan, as he lay stunned with pain and noise, to accompany him ashore.
It was with difficulty that Fairford could get over the side of the vessel, and he could not seat himself on the stern of the boat without assistance from the captain and his people. Nanty Ewart, who saw nothing in this worse than an ordinary fit of sea-sickness, applied the usual topics of consolation. He assured his passenger that he would be quite well by and by, when he had been half an hour on terra firma, and that he hoped to drink a can and smoke a pipe with him at Father Crackenthorp's, for all that he felt a little out of the way for riding the wooden horse.
'Who is Father Crackenthorp?' said Fairford, though scarcely able to articulate the question.
'As honest a fellow as is of a thousand,' answered Nanty.
'Ah, how much good brandy he and I have made little of in our day! By my soul, Mr. Fairbird, he is the prince of skinkers, and the father of the free trade—not a stingy hypocritical devil like old Turnpenny Skinflint, that drinks drunk on other folk's cost, and thinks it sin when he has to pay for it—but a real hearty old cock;—the sharks have been at and about him this many a day, but Father Crackenthorp knows how to trim his sails—never a warrant but he hears of it before the ink's dry. He is BONUS SOCIUS with headborough and constable. The king's exchequer could not bribe a man to inform against him. If any such rascal were to cast up, why, he would miss his ears next morning, or be sent to seek them in the Solway. He is a statesman,[50] though he keeps a public; but, indeed, that is only for convenience and to excuse his having cellarage and folk about him; his wife's a canny woman—and his daughter Doll too. Gad, you'll be in port there till you get round again; and I'll keep my word with you, and bring you to speech of the laird.
Gad, the only trouble I shall have is to get you out of the house; for Doll is a rare wench, and my dame a funny old one, and Father Crackenthorp the rarest companion! He'll drink you a bottle of rum or brandy without starting, but never wet his lips with the nasty Scottish stuff that the canting old scoundrel Turnpenny has brought into fashion. He is a gentleman, every inch of him, old Crackenthorp; in his own way, that is; and besides, he has a share in the JUMPING JENNY, and many a moonlight outfit besides. He can give Doll a pretty penny, if he likes the tight fellow that would turn in with her for life.'
In the midst of this prolonged panegyric on Father Crackenthorp, the boat touched the beach, the rowers backed their oars to keep her afloat, whilst the other fellows lumped into the surf, and, with the most rapid dexterity, began to hand the barrels ashore.
'Up with them higher on the beach, my hearties,' exclaimed Nanty Ewart—'High and dry—high and dry—this gear will not stand wetting. Now, out with our spare hand here—high and dry with him too. What's that?—the galloping of horse! Oh, I hear the jingle of the packsaddles—they are our own folk.'
By this time all the boat's load was ashore, consisting of the little barrels; and the boat's crew, standing to their arms, ranged themselves in front, waiting the advance of the horses which came clattering along the beach. A man, overgrown with corpulence, who might be distinguished in the moonlight panting with his own exertions, appeared at the head of the cavalcade, which consisted of horses linked together, and accommodated with packsaddles, and chains for securing the kegs which made a dreadful clattering.
'How now, Father Crackenthorp?' said Ewart—'Why this hurry with your horses? We mean to stay a night with you, and taste your old brandy, and my dame's homebrewed. The signal is up, man, and all is right.'
'All is wrong, Captain Nanty,' cried the man to whom he spoke; 'and you are the lad that is like to find it so, unless you bundle off—there are new brooms bought at Carlisle yesterday to sweep the country of you and the like of you—so you were better be jogging inland.
'How many rogues are the officers? If not more than ten, I will make fight.'
'The devil you will!' answered Crackenthorp. 'You were better not, for they have the bloody-backed dragoons from Carlisle with them.'
'Nay, then,' said Nanty, 'we must make sail. Come, Master Fairlord, you must mount and ride. He does not hear me—he has fainted, I believe—What the devil shall I do? Father Crackenthorp, I must leave this young fellow with you till the gale blows out—hark ye—goes between the laird and the t'other old one; he can neither ride nor walk—I must send him up to you.'
'Send him up to the gallows!' said Crackenthorp; 'there is Quartermaster Thwacker, with twenty men, up yonder; an he had not some kindness for Doll, I had never got hither for a start—but you must get off, or they will be here to seek us, for his orders are woundy particular; and these kegs contain worse than whisky—a hanging matter, I take it.'
'I wish they were at the bottom of Wampool river, with them they belong to,' said Nanty Ewart. 'But they are part of cargo; and what to do with the poor young fellow—'
'Why, many a better fellow has roughed it on the grass with a cloak o'er him,' said Crackenthorp. 'If he hath a fever, nothing is so cooling as the night air.'
'Yes, he would be cold enough in the morning, no doubt; but it's a kind heart and shall not cool so soon if I can help it,' answered the captain of the JUMPING JENNY.
'Well, captain, an ye will risk your own neck for another man's, why not take him to the old girls at Fairladies?'
'What, the Miss Arthurets! The Papist jades! But never mind; it will do—I have known them take in a whole sloop's crew that were stranded on the sands.'
'You may run some risk, though, by turning up to Fairladies; for I tell you they are all up through the country.'
'Never mind—I may chance to put some of them down again,' said Nanty, cheerfully. 'Come, lads, bustle to your tackle. Are you all loaded?'
'Aye, aye, captain; we will be ready in a jiffy,' answered the gang.
'D—n your captains! Have you a mind to have me hanged if I am taken? All's hail-fellow, here.'
'A sup at parting,' said Father Crackenthorp, extending a flask to Nanty Ewart.
'Not the twentieth part of a drop,' said Nanty. 'No Dutch courage for me—my heart is always high enough when there's a chance of fighting; besides, if I live drunk, I should like to die sober. Here, old Jephson—you are the best-natured brute amongst them—get the lad between us on a quiet horse, and we will keep him upright, I warrant.'
As they raised Fairford from the ground, he groaned heavily, and asked faintly where they were taking him to.
'To a place where you will be as snug and quiet as a mouse in his hole,' said Nanty, 'if so be that we can get you there safely. Good-bye, Father Crackenthorp—poison the quartermaster, if you can.'
The loaded horses then sprang forward at a hard trot, following each other in a line, and every second horse being mounted by a stout fellow in a smock frock, which served to conceal the arms with which most of these desperate men were provided. Ewart followed in the rear of the line, and, with the occasional assistance of old Jephson, kept his young charge erect in the saddle. He groaned heavily from time to time; and Ewart, more moved with compassion for his situation than might have been expected from his own habits, endeavoured to amuse him and comfort him, by some account of the place to which they were conveying him—his words of consolation being, however, frequently interrupted by the necessity of calling to his people, and many of them being lost amongst the rattling of the barrels, and clinking of the tackle and small chains by which they are secured on such occasions.
'And you see, brother, you will be in safe quarters at Fairladies—good old scrambling house—good old maids enough, if they were not Papists,—Hollo, you Jack Lowther; keep the line, can't ye, and shut your rattle-trap, you broth of a—? And so, being of a good family, and having enough, the old lasses have turned a kind of saints, and nuns, and so forth. The place they live in was some sort of nun-shop long ago, as they have them still in Flanders; so folk call them the Vestals of Fairladies—that may be, or may not be; and I care not whether it be or no.—Blinkinsop, hold your tongue, and be d—d!—And so, betwixt great alms and good dinners, they are well thought of by rich and poor, and their trucking with Papists is looked over. There are plenty of priests, and stout young scholars, and such-like, about the house it's a hive of them. More shame that government send dragoons out after-a few honest fellows that bring the old women of England a drop of brandy, and let these ragamuffins smuggle in as much papistry and—Hark!—was that a whistle? No, it's only a plover. You, Jem Collier, keep a look-
