Jack Hardy: A Story of English Smugglers in the Days of Napoleon — Background and Themes

ing of an argument that lasted all the way to Guildford.

Jack was on his way to Wynport to join H.M.S. _Fury_. Ten miles beyond Wynport lay the little village of Luscombe, and two miles beyond Luscombe was Bastable Grange, where his mother’s cousin, Humfrey Bastable, lived. Jack had never seen Mr. Bastable; a hundred years ago relatives separated by a hundred miles of turnpike road saw very little of one another. But Mrs. Hardy had been very fond of her Cousin Humfrey when they were boy and girl together, and now that her son was going within easy walking distance of Bastable Grange, she insisted that Jack should go over and pay his respects.

Jack had just been transferred to the _Fury_ from the frigate _Ariadne_, much to his disgust. In the _Ariadne_ he had hoped to have an opportunity of joining Admiral Nelson’s fleet and fighting the French; the _Fury_ was engaged in the humdrum and much less heroic work, as Jack regarded it, of hunting smugglers. But Jack was of a cheerful disposition, and by the time he arrived at Wynport he had forgotten his disappointment, for the coachman had let him take the ribbons for five good miles of the road, and he had nearly upset the coach in a ditch, nearly massacred a flock of geese, and nearly taken off the wheel of a carrier’s cart, which was excitement enough for one day.

When he arrived at Wynport he found that it would be three or four days before the _Fury_ was ready for sea. To Jack’s eyes she appeared anything but furious, shored up high and dry in the yard, with huge balks of timber supporting her hull. "Wretched cockle-shell!" he said to himself, as he looked at her. But, having several days to spare, he thought he might as well spend the time in looking up his Cousin Bastable. Lieutenant Blake, commanding the _Fury_, good-naturedly gave Mr. Midshipman Hardy leave to visit his mother’s relatives, so Jack slung his valise on to a carrier’s cart that would jog to Bastable in the course of the day, and started to trudge over the cliffs. He had been told that he might save a matter of an hour by taking the shorter road by Wickham Ferrers; but it was a bright September day, exceptionally hot for the time of year, and there was more chance of a breeze by the cliffs. Besides, Jack preferred when he could to keep within sight of the sea.

He had no company for the first part of the journey, and that was a trial to a lad of Jack’s sociable disposition. As became a midshipman of his Majesty’s navy, he was ready to talk freely with peer or peasant. The few people he saw were going in the opposite direction, and though in pleasant country fashion they "passed the time of day," there was no occasion for stopping to chat. But, about five miles out of Wynport, he saw just ahead of him, on the winding white road, a man with a wooden leg, stumping along beside a donkey-cart. The man had a broad back and looked a sturdy fellow. The day being hot he had stripped off his coat, which dangled from a nail in the tail-board of the cart; and he carried in his left hand a glazed hat.

Jack was almost abreast of the cart when the man heard his footsteps, turned, and seeming to recognize him, pulled his forelock and said:

"Morning, sir, morning."

"Good morning. Uncommon hot, isn’t it? You seem to know me?"

"Not to say know, sir. I’ve seed ye, that’s all. I’ve been to Wynport; I goes there twice a week with my old moke here, and a cargo of fruit or vegetables, times and seasons according. And when I goes to Wynport, in course I looks up old messmates."

"You’ve been a sailor, then?"

"Nigh thirty year, sir! Joe Gumley my name: ranked A.B. when I got my leg shot off in a’ action with a French privateer six year ago. In course I were discharged then. I were a fisherman till they pressed me for the navy, so when I were no more use to his Majesty, sir, I come back to my native place, which be Luscombe, sir, and what with fishing and gardening and such like I manage to make both ends meet, as they say. I’ve got a tidy bit of cottage at a low rent from Squire Bastable—"

"Oh! he’s my cousin."

"Now, if you’d said uncle, sir—"

"Well, he’s my mother’s cousin; my second cousin, I suppose."