Read Ebook: The Smuggler of King's Cove; or The Old Chapel Mystery by Cobb Sylvanus

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Ebook has 1733 lines and 67335 words, and 35 pages

THE SMUGGLER OF KING'S COVE;

OR,

The Old Chapel Mystery.

OUR HERO MAKES TWO PROMISES.

We doubt if there is anywhere on the sea board of England another stretch of coast so wild and rugged, and so forbidding of aspect to navigators, as is that of Headlandshire--probably so called because of its numerous bold headlands overlooking the Irish Sea.

Not far from midway of this stretch of coast is an inlet of the sea, called Raven Bay; and from this bay there is still another inlet, narrow and dubious of entrance, but deep and broad within, called King's Cove.

The story goes that once upon a time an English king, fleeing from his rebellious subjects by sea, sought shelter here and safety; and found them both.

The bay itself is no mean shelter when safely gained. About its entrance are numerous rocks, large and small--some lifting their storm-beaten crests above the surface of the water, while many lie hidden beneath it; also, there are a number of small islands so arranged as to effectually veil the inlet from the eyes of strangers passing to and fro outside.

The man who would run even an ordinary yacht in safety into Raven Bay must be thoroughly acquainted with every fathom of the true channel.

But, though we have gained that first haven, we see nothing of King's Cove--not a sign of it. Yet it is not far off. Away in the southeast corner are two small well-wooded islands, which appear, when viewed from the bosom of the bay, to be simple lumps of the mainland; but once get in behind the outer one and we find a narrow, deep, winding channel running between the two, and finally opening into a basin of water wonderful to behold.

There it lies, an entirely land-locked off-put of the sea, oval in form, very nearly a mile long by three-quarters of a mile wide, deep enough and broad enough to float a naval squadron.

Not only was this cove land-locked, but it was so completely environed by woods--by forest monarchs--as to be as invisible from the land as from the water side.

From Raven Bay the view landward was partly wild and rugged, but altogether picturesque and romantic. On the left, to the northward, as we face inward from the seas, distant a mile and a half rose a grim towering mass of volcanic rock, known as the Witch's Crag.

Towards the bay the crag descended gradually--a continuous ragged, rocky declivity--to the water's edge.

Eastward from the bay, on a gradual verdant slope, many miles in extent, opened to view one of the most beautifully romantic scenes in England--the magnificent park, the outlying farms, the flanking forest, and the grand old castle of Allerdale; while nearer at hand, close upon the shore, nestled a pretty village, bearing the same name.

And this whole stretch of landscape was cut in twain, near its center, by a silvery, limpid stream, rising in the distant hills and flowing westward until it mingled its tide with the waters of the bay. It was called Dale River.

There is one other view that must not be overlooked. Away to the right, towards the south, half a mile from the village, but only a few rods distant from the eastern shore of Kings' Cove, in the edge of the forest, with no other human habitation near, stood a small stone cottage, the abode, when on shore, of the chief of a crew of smugglers, whose lair was in the adjacent hidden inlet.

We now approach two scenes of a different character. The first is in the cottage of the smuggler chief.

Hugh Maitland, now close upon his fortieth year, had for full half his life been a bold and successful smuggler. Never, as yet, had he been arrested.

Not only had the secret cove afforded him safe hiding from the king's cruisers, but the mass of the people, high and low, whom he had furnished abundantly and cheaply with many a luxury of life, had been his friends, tried and true, in the hour of need.

At length, however, an enemy with whom he was powerless to contend had laid its unsparing hand upon him.

He was dying. A round shot, from the bow gun of a revenue cutter, had struck the quarter-rail of his brig, knocking therefrom a splinter, which had entered his side.

Two surgeons had been with him until within a few minutes of the time when we look in upon him, and had promised to call again during the day, but not with the hope of saving him. Death was sure, and close at hand.

The dying chief lay upon a comfortable bed, in a rear apartment on the ground floor of the cottage, and near him were two persons--his wife, Margery, and his son, Percy.

Margery Maitland was of middle age; a tall, handsome woman of dark complexion, her hair black as a raven's wing, with a pair of full, bright, restless eyes to match.

She had loved her husband better than anything else on earth. Her marriage had cost her friends and position, and she had prized the thing gained accordingly.

She had been a faithful and devoted companion of his home life, making that home as pleasant and attractive to him as she could.

Perhaps if his life had been entirely passed at home she might not have made it quite an elysium for him; but let that pass. With regard to her love for her son--of that anon.

Percy Maitland had entered upon the sixteenth year of his life. He looked old for his age. Neither in form nor in feature did he resemble his father or his mother. He was tall, like his mother, and, like her, handsome, and there the likeness ended.

He was of a light, ruddy complexion; his hair, floating about his shapely head in wavy masses, was a rich, golden auburn in color; his eyes were blue as sapphires; his brow high, broad and full, with the lower features in symmetrical keeping.

The whole face, in short, was a picture of manly beauty. It was a face to admire, a face to love, and, above and beyond all, it was most emphatically a face to trust.

Falsehood and deceit, treachery and cunning, together with all the baser passions and instincts of human nature, were as foreign to that face as is darkness to the full blaze of noonday. His youth gave ample promise of a strong and vigorous manhood.

Whatever may have been the feelings of the mother toward her son, his father had loved him with a love bordering on passion.

He had been proud of his boy's beauty and proud of his surpassing intellectual qualities; and when Percy had decided that he would not sail in the brig as one of her crew--that he could not find it in his heart to become a smuggler--the chieftain had seen the curate of the village church, a finished scholar, and engaged him to be private tutor to his boy. And so it had been.

Strangely enough, the mother had fought against all this. She had insisted upon it--had put forth all her influence to that end--that the boy should follow the fortunes of his father, and be ready, when the time should come, to take command of the smuggler brig.

But she had pleaded and labored in vain. The love of the father had been proof against all opposing forces.

"Percy!" The boy started and looked up. Then he arose and would have advanced to the bedside, but his father waved him back.

"No, no. Sit down, my boy; I have something to say to you. Now," when the youth was again seated, "I wish you to answer me. Have I not, so far as I could, so far as it was in me to do, been a kind and loving father to you?"

"Oh, my father!" cried the son, extending his clasped hands towards the bed. "You have been all that an earthly parent could be. I know you have loved me well and truly. Since I can remember your whole heart has been mine; and you know, you know, father, that I have loved you in return."

"Aye, my boy, I do know it; and I tell you truly, your love has been a blessing to me." He paused here, and closed his eyes as though to rest.

He had spoken with difficulty, for he had become very weak, and the speaking fatigued him. Presently he looked up and spoke again. His tones were low and wavering, but with a depth that plainly told of former power and compass; and he spoke distinctly.

"Percy, I have two requests to make; two promises I ask from you in return. It is understood on all hands--your mother understands, and Donald Rodney understands and through him every man of the crew will gain knowledge--that you are, henceforth and forever, free from any connection whatever with the contraband traffic. You shall never be asked to go outside in our vessel; nor shall you be asked to help land any item of our contraband goods--Hush! Don't thank me yet. Wait until you have heard my requests.

"My dear boy, I shall not live to see another day. I am bleeding internally. Ah! I know the signs. The end is nearer than you think. I am going--going to leave your mother alone, if you forsake her. My first petition is this: Until you have reached the age of one-and-twenty you will make the old cot your home, and give to your mother your presence and your care. Surely, you will not refuse me this. Margery has been a faithful wife to me, and I shall feel death robbed of much of its terror in the knowledge that she is not to be left alone."

Percy saw very plainly the hand of his mother in this. He knew, as though he had heard her, that she had put that request into his father's mouth, and had urged him to press it strongly.

But, under any circumstances, he would not have refused. He had a deep--a heartfelt--desire to be near the castle; and in what other way could he so surely attain that end?

If he took a few seconds for thought before he answered, it was not with the appearance of hesitation. When he spoke, not only were his tones frank and hearty, but the warm, loving light in his handsome face told her that he was sincere.

"Father, I will do what you ask, provided, of course, that no unforeseen event beyond my power to overcome shall interpose to prevent it."

"That is understood, of course, and I thank you, my boy--I thank you from my heart. I shall die easier in the assurance that Margery is to have the tender, loving care of our son after I am gone. And now, Percy, to my second request."

He paused for a little time, while his wife arose and went into the room adjoining, returning presently with a phial and a glass.

She prepared for the sufferer a potion which one of the physicians had prescribed, and he drank it, experiencing therefrom temporary relief and strength.

"Percy, are you aware of the fact that when I am dead and gone that you will be the only living man who can safely run our brig into the Cove?"

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