These are the flail-like implements, that with the long ash bludgeons, are the weapons of the yokel’s defence. Crumblejohn has a large retinue, a goodly force on which he may depend. Beside the villagers, there is the riding force of smugglers, a company of some thirty or more; innkeepers, tradesmen, farmers, who band together to ride with the goods far inland. The villagers, he may call out with little or no trouble, and as porters of the kegs they are enough; but to-night the riding gang has been summoned, Ratface was to see to this, for this run of goods is exceptional, and only mounted men can manage the bales of silks and other goods. A dark object looms near. There is the sound of muffled oars, a word is passed along to the carriers, and almost before the boat-keel grates the beach, she is surrounded. Each man seizes and slings a brace of kegs around him; there are words of command from the freighters, a sound of trampling feet, of shipping oars, and the hurried breathing of an eager crowd, working in the dark. And then a lighter sound, the jingle of bridles, and horses hoofs upon the sand. “The mounted gang,” mutters Crumblejohn, as he stands upon the shingle, looking down upon the tangled crowd of jostling men. Here and there he sees a lantern, and the light of one bald, flaring torch, held high in the prow of the boat by Thurot. The torch flares vividly, the flame is taken sideways by the wind. It throws its jagged shadows; the sea crawls grey round the beached boat. And then a pistol-shot cracks out upon the air, followed by another, and another, and the man who stands high in the boat with the torch uplifted, falls heavily among the crowd. “God ...”--it is Crumblejohn who stumbles forward; “God....” The air rings now with the sound of fire-arms, there is a stampede among the villagers--they are caught and bound. One man in a mask runs here and there in the crowd, a demon of agility. He is followed by a man on horseback, and wherever he leads, the smugglers are thickest. He passes the villagers, he lets these go by; but of the sixteen men that were in the galley, he has crept, and run, and striven among them, and always at his heels the man on horseback, whose followers secure the chief men. They overpower them, three to one, wherever the man in the mask has given the signal. And the swingles, the ash bludgeons, these have been turned against the men who bore them, wrenched from their hands. And where a stand among the men has been attempted, the mounted officers have ridden them down. The night, so dark and quiet, has been given over to confusion. Oliver Charlock crouches low in the smuggling boat.