The Monks Cove raid was not an unmixed success. The bag was very slight and the ringleader got clear away. Mr. Carmichael’s impetuosity was responsible for this. The riding officer was annoyed with him; he wished he would go home to Ireland and get drowned in a bog. Had any other officer been in charge of the soldiers they would have made a fine coup; at the same time, he reflected that had any one else commanded, the soldiers would not have been there at all. There were two sides to it. He consoled himself with the thought that, although the material results were small, the morale of the Monks Cove Free Traders had suffered a severe jolt; at any rate, he hoped so. At the outset things had promised well. It was true that the cornet had only mustered thirty-one sabers instead of forty (and two of these managed to drop out between Penzance and Paul), but they had reached the cliff-top not more than fifty minutes behind schedule, to find the picket trussed up like a boiled chicken and all clear. Carmichael led the way down the sheep-path; he insisted on it. “An officer’s place is at the head of his men,” he chanted. The sentiment is laudable, but he led altogether too fast. Seventeen and carrying nothing but his sword, he gamboled down the craggy path with the agility of a chamois. His troopers, mainly elderly heroes, full of beer (they had been dragged blaspheming out of taverns just as they were settling down to a comfortable evening) and burdened with accoutrements, followed with all the caution due to their years and condition. The result was that Carmichael arrived at the base alone.
He crouched behind the corner of the pilchard shed and listened. The place was alive. It was inky dark; he could see nothing, but he could hear well enough.
“He-ave, a’. Up she goes! Stan’ still, my beauty! Fast on that side, Jan? Lead on, you!”
“Bessie Kate, Bessie Kate, bring a hank o’ rope; this pack’s slippin’.”
“Whoa, mare, blast ’e! Come along wid that there lot, Zacky; want to be here all night, do ’e?”
“Next horse. Pass the word for more horses . . . ahoy there . . . horses.”
Grunts of men struggling with heavy objects, subdued exhortations, complaints, oaths, laughter, women’s chatter, hoof beats, the shrill ki-yi of a trampled dog. The darkness ahead was boiling with invisible people, smugglers all and engaged on their unlawful occupations.
Carmichael’s hackles stood on end. He gripped his sword.
“Is that all?” a voice called, louder, more authoritative than the rest. “Get them horses away then.”
The voice was referring to the boat-load, but the cornet thought the whole run was through. In a minute the last horse would be off and he would lose the capture. Without looking to see how many of his men had collected behind him he shouted “Huzza!” and plunged into the thick of it. Death! Glory!
He plunged head-first into Uncle Billy Clemo’s daughter-in-law, butting her over backwards. She clutched out to save herself, clutched him round the neck and took him with her. She lay on the ground, still grasping the cornet to her, and screamed her loudest. Mr. Carmichael struggled frantically; here was a pretty situation for a great military genius at the onset of his first battle! The woman had the hug of a she-bear, but his fury gave him the strength of ten. He broke her grip and plunged on, yelling to his men to fire. The only two who were present obeyed, but as he had neglected to tell them what to fire at they very prudently fired into the air.
The cornet plunged on, plunged into somebody, shouted to the somebody to stop or be hewn limb from limb. The somebody fled pursued by Carmichael, turned at bay opposite a lighted window and he saw it was a woman. Another woman! Death and damnation! Were there nothing but damnation women in this damnation maze?
He spun about and galloped back, crashed into something solid—a man at last!—launched out at him. His sword met steel, a sturdy wrist-snapping counter, and flipped out of his hand.
“S’render!” boomed the voice of his own servant. “Stand or I’ll carve your heart out, you . . . Oh, begging your pardon, sir, I’m sure.”
Carmichael cursed him, picked up his sword again and rushed on. By the sound of their feet and breathing he knew there were people, scores of them, scurrying hither and thither about him in the blank darkness, but though he challenged and clutched and smote with the flat of his sword he met with nothing—nothing but thin air. It was like playing blindman’s buff with ghosts. He heard two or three ragged volleys in the direction of the sea and galloped towards it, galloped into a cul-de-sac between two cottages, nearly splitting his head against a wall. He was three minutes fumbling his way out of that, blubbering with rage, but this time he came out on the sea-front.
Gun-flashes on the slip-head showed him where his men were (firing at a boat or something), and he ran towards them cheering, tripped across a spar and fell headlong over the cliff. It was only a miniature cliff, a bank of earth merely, not fifteen feet high, with mixed sand and bowlders beneath.
The cornet landed wallop on the sand and lay there for some minutes thinking he was dead and wondering what style of monument (if any) his parents would erect to his memory:—
“Hic jacet William Shine Carmichael, cornet of His Majesty’s Dragoons, killed while gallantly leading an attack on smugglers. Militavi non sine gloria. Aged 17.”
Aged only seventeen; how sad! He shed a tear to think how young he was when he died and then slowly came to the conclusion that perhaps he wasn’t quite dead—only stunned—only half-stunned—hardly stunned at all.
A stray shot went wailing eerily out to sea. His men were in action; he must go to them. He tried to get up, but found his left leg was jammed between two bowlders, and, tug as he might, he could not dislodge it. He shouted for help. Nobody took any notice. Again and again he shouted. No response. He laid his curly head down on the wet sand and with his tears wetted it still further. When at length (a couple of hours later) he was liberated it was by two of the smuggler ladies. They were most sympathetic, bandaged his sprained ankle, gave him a hot drink to revive his circulation and vowed it was a shame to send pretty boys of his age out so late.
Poor Mr. Carmichael!
Eli and Bohenna were the first to load, and consequently led the pack-train which was strung out for a quarter of a mile up the valley waiting for Ortho. When they heard the shots go off in the Cove they remembered King Nick’s standing orders and scattered helter-skelter up the western slope. There were only three side-tracks and thirty-two horses to be got up. This caused jamming and delay.
The sergeant at the track-head heard the volleys as well, and, not having the least regard for Mr. Carmichael’s commandments, pushed on to see the fun. Fortunately for the leaders the chaotic state of the track prevented him from pushing fast. As it was he very nearly blundered into the tail end of the train. A mule had jibbed and stuck in the bushes, refusing to move either way. Eli and two young Hernes tugged, pushed and whacked at it. Suddenly, close beside, they heard the wild slither of iron on stone, a splash and the voice of a man calling on Heaven to condemn variou............