the duller noises of clubs and bitter oaths; and the dragoons, incredibly, halted where they stood. Mr. Sidmouth is plainly a gendeman, of a higher order than the smugglers’ band; and, unlike them, his possession of a firearm could hardly cause comment; but the King's men were nonetheless amazed. One only shook himself out of his stupor, and levelled a blunderbuss; and though Sidmouth mastered the horse and attempted to flee the shingle, the dragoon let fire a ball. I saw Forely arch his back in pain, his teeth clenched in a terrible grimace; for an instant of suspended breath, I felt certain the lander should slip from the stallion's heaving flanks; but he proved greater than his wound, and clutched the tighter at Sidmouth, who kicked his horse up the slope with a furious oath. In a very little time, he and his clinging passenger gained the streets of town, the dragoons outstripped, and vanished from sight.
I heaved a shuddering sigh, and wondered at the racing of my heart; and attempted, as best I could, to quiet the chaos of my mind—until, recollecting how unseemly was my presence in the midst of such brutish behaviour, I turned and hastened back along the Parade towards the safety of Wings cottage. I cared not whether Captain Fielding had observed my silent form, high above the brawling men—I cared not what he thought of its purpose or propriety—I felt only the bitterest anger towards that gen-deman, though for the life of me, I knew not how to reconcile it. The Captain had done what any man of decency and sound principles should do; he had observed the weighting of the cargo in exactiy that spot by the Cobb, only the previous afternoon, and he had reported the same to the Revenue men at the nearest opportunity. Having received such excellent intelligence as Captain Fielding was able to provide, the dragoons should have been decidedly remiss in failing to apprehend the smugglers; but it smacked, all the same, of the setting of mantraps on purpose to break a poacher's leg—poor sport indeed, and reflective, in my humble opinion, of a man who delights in mastery at any cost.
“But Sidmouth is yet free,” I murmured, 21s I opened our garden gate, “though he is the Reverend, without a doubt”; and I swung myself up the path, feeling a sadness and an exhilaration at his reprehensible daring.? opened the cottage door, and stepped inside, to my mother's open-mouthed regard—and stopped short, overcome with a blush.
“Whatever have you got about your shoulders, child? And where have you gone in such a state, so early in the morning?”
“I took a turn along The Walk, Mother,” I replied, realising, as I did so, that a smuggler's cloak was yet warm upon my back. “It is the very soul of a September dawn, and I could not be kept indoors.”
“Mind you wake Cassandra in time for the coach,” she called after me, as I mounted the stairs, her puzzlement at my garb replaced by more immediate concerns. I fluttered a hand in the good woman's direction, and hastened towards the comfort of my room—the heady scents of pipe tobacco and brandy, lingering as they will in fine English wool, aflame in my lungs at every breath.
1 Tom Musgrave, a charmingly vacant womanizer in Tlie Watsons manuscript, should not be confused with the more finely drawn Musgrave family of Persuasion. It was Louisa Musgrove who received a near-fatal head injury in falling from the Cobb—an event that may have been inspired by Cassandra Austen's misfortune recounted in this diary. Austen clearly liked the sound of the name and its variations; and her godmother was Jane Musgrave of Oxfordshire, a relative of her mother's. —Editor's note.
2 Frank Austen had recendy fallen in love with Mary Gibson, a girl of Ramsgate whom Jane found disappointing—she considered her as vulgar as her town. Frank married Miss Gibson in 1805; they had six sons and five daughters before her death in childbirth. —Editor's note.
3 George III and his retinue made a habit of visiting the Dorset village of Weymouth, where his brother the Duke of Gloucester often stayed. —Editor's note.
4 Henry refers here to his stepson, Hastings de Feuillide, Eliza's sickly son. The boy died in 1801 at die age of fourteen. —Editor's note.
5 A spigot lanthorn is as Austen described it in the first chapter—a curiously shaped lamp designed specifically for signaling. It was tall, cylindrical, and entirely closed except for the spigot