About a mile inland from the point, and on the highest part in the neighbourhood, there stood, at the time to which our story refers, an old windmill and cottage, the former of that antiquated style now so seldom seen, somewhat like a monstrous wooden packing case, mounted on a tripod of rough logs, and with a very dilapidated flight of steps leading upwards to the solitary door. The cottage was a long, low building, of one storey, roofed with a thatching of reeds, moss and lichen covered, through which appeared three or four dormer windows, indicating that there were sleeping chambers immediately beneath the roof; the outer walls were covered with mortar, in which a considerable quantity of gravel was mixed; but this was almost entirely hidden by the clustering roes and ivy, which spread from window to window in the wildest state of nature. A kitchen garden surrounding the cottage was enclosed by a low hedge, whilst the immediate neighbourhood of the mill, on which rested carts, wheelbarrows, some broken mill sails and other lumber was encircled by a thick growth of shrubs and underwood, which shut it off from all observation with the exception of the side towards the cottage.
On the same evening that Reuben Dare and his comrade Will Hardisty held the conversation recorded, but a few hours previously, a young woman or girl (for she could not be more than 18 years of age) was busily employed in the kitchen, or ordinary living room, of the cottage described above, preparing the evening meal of her father and brothers. She was a bonnie winsome maiden, plump and pleasant, with a slightly sad or mournful expression, and yet with such a lovely glow of health on her cheeks, that it seemed impossible she could be acquainted with sorrow. She was a thoroughly true and good hearted girl, simple and uneducated as the maidens in her station of life were wont to be in those days, and yet with a sufficient fund of good sense and practical everyday information to adapt her to fulfil the duties which might be expected of her in any position which she might reasonably hope to attain. Such was Susan Nettleby, the “Susey” mentioned by and filling the thoughts of the coastguardsman Will Hardisty, and the daughter of that “Old Nettleby the Miller,” stigmatized by Reuben Dare as being one of a bad lot.
David Nettleby was a man of rugged and austere nature, unsociable and sour in disposition, and ruling his family, although his sons had arrived at manhood, with an iron hand; in spite of them being engaged in an enterprise which brought them into very close alliance, and rendered them mutually dependent on each other. For many years he had laboured honestly and industriously at his mill, but finding the money accumulating too slowly by those means to satisfy his ambition, he had at length ventured to approach and filally join, heart and soul, in the daring deeds of a gang of smugglers, into whose doings his sons were likewise initiated as each arrived at an age judged to be trustworthy. Of four sons thus corrupted, only two, the eldest and the youngest, now remained with their father, of the others, the elder, growing weary of only an occasional excitement in the way of a run, had entered himself as a sailor on board a Hull whaler, and was now away in the Arctic seas; whilst the younger, a loose and idle character, has wandered away from home in the train of a tribe of gipsies, and was – nobody knew where. The two sons remaining at home with their father nominally gained their bread by honest labour at the mill; but though the sails went merrily round with each breath of wind, it was very seldom in connection with the shaft; and if some of the sacks of corn, standing in the shed which served as a granary, had been removed the entrance to an underground store room might have been ground, which would have made the Revenue officers open their eyes to what was going around.
Space will not allow of our describing minutely the means by which the smuggled cargoes were concealed and disposed of by the miller. We must press along to the more immediate events of our story.
Susan Nettleby, who is both mistress and maid-of-all-work in the house, has drawn a small round table in front of the fire and covered it with a course though snow-white cloth, placed knives and forks, delf plates, three drinking horns, and other necessary articles thereon. Her next operation is to draw some beer; for which purpose she proceeds to the cellar. No person would expect to find a large underground cellar part of the accommodation provided for the tenants of such a dwelling, but such is the case. A trap door in the floor of a small closet, entered from the kitchen, leading to a large underground cellar, which was another of the old man’s secret hiding places. Whilst she was still absent on this errand the door of the cottage opened, and her three relatives entered. Old Nettleby was like his character in appearance – rough, stern, unfeeling, tall, spare and sinewy in form, and carrying his 65 years with unbent head. The sons had nothing remarkable in their appearance; both were fit representatives of such a father, although bearing a little more youthful rotundity of form; rough and uncultivated their manners were, perhaps rendered more coarse by the lawlessness of the life to which they were devoted.
“Now then, lass!” exclaimed the old man, observing the vacant kitchen, “Where are you?”
“Coming directly, father,” replied Susan, from her subterranean depths.
“Didn’t I tell you,” growled her father, “never to go into the cellar without fastening the kitchen door?”
“I thought you would be back in a moment, and so didn’t mind it,” was the excuse.
“Confound your thought! Do you want someone to find us out? Isn’t supper ready yet?”
“In a moment; I only want another loaf.”
And the girl hurried her motions to such good purpose that in a very short time the three males were busy eating with the appetites of famished wolves; too busily employed therein to find time for conversation. At length, when the meal was almost brought to an end, the old man spoke again, saying, “Deaf Jacob told us to-day he thought the gauger’s pack are a bit busy in this quarter just now.”
“So I heard in Hull,” replied Joseph, the younger son. “Government’s offered another reward, and they’ve brought down a lot more watchers.”
“What’s up?” asked his brother. “What makes ’em wake up all of a sudden?”
“Information,” said Joe; “Somebody’s been peaching.”
“Curse ’em all!” interposed the miller. “Why can’t they leave us alone? If anyone has split, all I can say is, I wish I had him here; but who could?”
“Why, I know one who could.” responded Joe, with a scowling look towards Susan, “What does that fellow Hardisty come sneaking round here for so often?”
“He doesn’t come sneaking, as you call it,” said Susan, suddenly firing up in defence of her lover, “he comes to see me, and father knows it. It’s no business of yours.”
“We shall as to that if he doesn’t look out what he’s after. Lord knows what you may tell him.”
“Now, that’s too bad!” exclaimed Susan, almost ready to weep, “and you know it’s false; whatever I said to him, I should never try to get any of you into trouble.”
“There, that’ll do!” said the father, anxious to avoid a quarrel, “we’ve had plenty of that; but you’d better give the lad warning, my lass, to mind how he interferes here.”
Then taking from his fob a huge silver watch, in size somewhat like a turnip, he slowly observed the time, and continued, “Let’s have some hot water now, lass, and the liquor; then you can go to bed,” an order with which the girl slowly complied, loitering about afterwards to delay her departure, listening attentively to the conversation still carried on by the others
“Did you hear ought else in Hull, Joe?” asked the old man.
“Nothing much;” was the reply, “there was some’at about the reward being ever so many hundreds, and that Wild Hennesey was plotting another rising on behalf of the gentlemen over the water; but that was about all.”
“Is the next ‘go’ fixed for next week, father?” asked Stephen, the elder son.
“Yes, lads! Nest Thursday, and a good one it’ll be I expect, but I shall know more before then.”
“Is’t to be yonder,” asked the young man, jerking his thumb in the direction where Spurn Point lay, “with lights as before?”
“Can’t say yet.” returned Nettleby, “We shall not get instructions as to signals until the day before, to avoid risk of discovery.”
Susan had now learnt all she desired to know, there was to be a run next Thursday, and the signals would be sent the day previous. Bidding her father an affectionate good night, and speaking in an amicable tone to her brothers, she lighted a thin guttering rushlight, and retired to her own chamber, where for the present we will leave her.