CHAPTER XII--The Smugglers' Cave
How long I remained insensible I cannot say, but with the return of mysenses I found myself lying on some warm, soft substance, though whatthe object was the gloom did not permit me to ascertain.
The darkness was intense, and for some time I imagined it to be night,till the remembrance of my fall gradually dawned upon me. Once Ithought I was dead, and pinched my limbs to make sure that I was not.My head throbbed terribly, while my wet clothes struck a chill that wasstill more striking by reason of the coldness of the hole or cave intowhich I had fallen.
Then I moved my hands around to try and discover my surroundings. Theobject on which I was lying was an animal, which, though motionless, waseither stunned or recently dead, for its body was still warm.
As far as my arms could reach I could touch nothing else save the floor,which appeared to be of smooth rock. Then I looked upwards, where, farabove, a dim light flickered through a hole which was wellnigh coveredwith brushwood. The light was not sufficient to illuminate the bottom ofthe pit, the hole being, I imagined, some thirty feet in depth.
Here I was, then, in a kind of natural bottle dungeon or "oubliette",such as I have often seen since, both on the Spanish Main and in our owncountry. In fact, it can be well likened to the dungeons of the castleat Newark (which was dismantled by the rebels), where a dismal hole sometwenty feet below ground is only accessible by a rope ladder droppedthrough a narrow opening above.
How, then, could I escape? Climbing was an impossibility, so Istaggered to my feet and began a round of exploration, carefullyshuffling one foot in front of the other for fear of some hiddenpitfall, making towards the sound of water trickling from the roof, asound that seemed a long way off.
Presently my outstretched hand touched a wall of rock. Turning to theleft, I followed the direction of the wall, which, for a cave, was veryregular. At length my left hand touched a rock; either I had reached acorner of the cave, or this was a pillar of detached stone.
Carefully feeling with both hands, I discovered that I was standing inan angle, and right in the corner my hand came in contact with an objectthat, on inspection, proved to be a gun; also, by the smoothness of thebarrel I knew that it had recently been in use, there being no rust onthe ironwork.
This discovery cheered me, as the cave would before long be visited bythe owner of the piece. Taking the musket in my hand I felt the pan,removed the powder from it, then cocked the hammer. On pulling thetrigger the flash of the flint gave a tolerable illumination. Thisaction I repeated several times, till I could form some idea of thecave.
In the part opposite where I was standing I saw more weapons, severallarge casks, and bundles of what looked like woollen and silk goods.
Then the truth flashed across my mind: I was in one of the storehousesof the Tilly Whim smugglers!
Replacing the musket where I found it, I made my way cautiously towardsthe barrels. Here I felt about carefully, till my hand alighted on anopened box of coarse biscuits, which served as a meal, as I was wellnighspent with hunger. Then, after a drink from the water that trickledthrough the roof of the cave, I resumed my tour of inspection.
Groping on, my knees came in contact with a large wooden box. Itscontents were apparently hay and straw, but curiosity prompted me toplunge my hand through the upper surface, and it was no surprise to meto find that underneath was a thick layer of silk. The box or crate wassome six or seven feet in length and three in breadth, the depth beingabout the same as the breadth; so its contents must have been worthseveral hundreds of pounds.
While engaged in my investigations I heard the sound of footsteps andvoices. The smugglers were coming to their storehouse!
There was not a moment to be lost, and rapidly making up my mind, Iburrowed underneath the hay and straw, and concealed myself on thelayers of silk.
The sound of shuffling feet drew nearer, there was a noise like thethrowing back of a curtain, and the cave was flooded with a subdueddaylight.
The men feared no interruption, for they were singing a lusty song inbroad Dorset dialect, the chorus of which ran:
"He used to laugh a horrible laugh, His fav'rite cry was 'Priddys', His life he held in his own right arm, His soul was Cap'n Kiddie's!"
Often in my younger days had old Henry Martin and Master Collings toldme tales of a buccaneering Captain Kidd and his bloodthirsty henchman, arenegade Scotsman called Angus Priddys, whose career was ended atExecution Dock; so I formed a conclusion that these smugglers were menwhose illicit dealings were not the worst of their accomplishments.
Through a knot hole in the side of the box I could see the whole of therascally crew.
There were about thirty, all well armed and dressed in usual mariner'sstyle, save that two or three wore smocks. Several carried beakers ontheir shoulders, while two bore between them a small but heavy chest.They had evidently had a successful haul, for all were in high spirits,and the chorus of their gruesome song echoed along the walls of thecavern. The refrain was interrupted by one of the men exclaiming thattheir stores had been disturbed, and a search commenced which might haveended with my discovery but for the fact that in the far end of thecave, immediately underneath the funnel through which I had fallen, laythe dead body of a fox, whose body had broken my headlong descent.Deeming this a satisfactory explanation for this interruption, therogues resumed their carousing.
I could now see how near I had been to regaining my freedom, for justbeyond the place where my tour of exploration had abruptly terminatedwas the entrance to the cave, skilfully hidden by a heavy screen ofpainted canvas that, even at a short distance, would deceive all whowere not acquainted with the secret.
For nearly an hour the smugglers devoted themselves to a recklesscarouse, till at length their leader called for silence. With adiscipline that is rare amongst such people, the gang sat down onbarrels and rough stools and awaited their captain's orders.
In the broad Dorset dialect their leader recounted the varioussuccessful runs they had made, as if vainglorious of their deeds, andfinished by demanding: "Be there any of ye as be not content with hisshare?"
Their answer, with one voice, was "No". "Then," resumed the speaker, "ifso be as that ye are all content, how comes it that one of ye must needstaake bloodmoney from the gaugers? And how comes it that dree[1] ofour'n have been stuck wi' a Bridport dagger?"[2]
[1] Dree=three, still used in Wilts and Dorset.
[2] "Stuck wi' a Bridport dagger".--A local witticism meaning to behanged, Bridport being noted for the manufacture of hempen rope.
The smugglers looked at one another in amazement. Clearly there was aJudas amongst them.
"Stand out, Ned Crocker!"
There was a scuffling in the farther corner of the cavern, and presentlya man was roughly hauled out into the centre of the assembly. I couldsee him distinctly; he was a little, under-sized apology for a man, withsharp, pointed features, a nose resembling a bird's beak, a loose,weak-natured mouth, and small, shifty eyes. His complexion was dark,almost of a dirty yellow, while his face was covered with blotches andpimples.
In his terror his skin turned almost a greyish white, while his thinlegs, which struck me as being too weak for even his undersized body,were bent and shaking like a reed in a March gale.
Several of the rogues hurled imprecations at him, but their leadersilenced them by raising his hand.
"I bain't a done nothin'!" cried the miserable wretch.
"I don't know as 'ow ye've been taxed wi' aught," ejaculated thecaptain, "but I'll do it now. Look you, Ned Crocker, have ye at anytime been unfairly done by? No? Then why did ye blab on the run wemade nigh Dancing Ledge, when Thompson, John Light, and Long Will ofCorfe were taken?"
"'Tweren't me, maaster!" answered the rogue sturdily and doggedly,though his bearing did not fit with his manner of speech.
"Not ye? Ah, now harken! Know'st Jim Harker, the court-leet man andking's officer at Wareham?"
A
shake of the head was the only reply, though the accused man shookmore violently than before.
"No? Then methinks ye'll know him no more on this earth, for he'sdead!"
The speaker paused to mark the effect of his words, then he continued:
"An', what's more, we killed him close to Arishmell Gap. 'Twas his owndoin'. But on him we found this. Now, being no scholard, I ax MasterFallowfield to read what's on this paaper."
Master Fallowfield, who, as I afterwards learned from the conversation,was the parish clerk of Worth Matravers church on Sabbaths and holydays,and an arrant smuggler at other times, took the paper and read in asonorous voice a message from a neighbouring justice to the ill-fatedJames Harker, telling him that the reward due to the informer Crockerwould be paid at any time after Martinmas.
A deathly silence, broken only by the short gasps of the doomed wretch,followed this announcement.
"And the sentence is----?"
"Death! Death!" shouted the smugglers with no uncertain voice. Crockermade a desperate effort, shook off the men who advanced to hold him,and, flinging himself down before the captain, clasped his knees andbegged for mercy. In a second, however, his executioners sprang upon himand bound him hand and foot, and a scarf was fastened over his eyes.One of the men drew a pistol. I watched the scene, for the momentunmindful of my dangerous position, but drawn by an indescribablefeeling to watch the last moments of a doubly-dyed rogue.
Slowly the pistol was raised till its muzzle was level with the doomedman's temple. I could even see the smuggler's finger resting lightly onthe trigger, while his eyes were turned towards the leader as ifawaiting the signal to fire. The remainder of the rascals looked onimpassively, as if thoroughly used to this kind of rough-and-readyjustice.
But the fatal signal never came. The captain signed for the pistol tobe lowered, the bandage was removed, and the culprit, already half-deadwith fear, was told that he was pardoned conditionally.
Without waiting to hear the conditions, Crocker lurched forward and fellheavily to the ground in a dead faint.
"Hark ye, George Davies! When yon lubber comes to himself, tell him tomake hotfoot for Lyme, and put hundreds of leagues of sea betwixt himand us. If he says nay, keep him safely till we return."
Once more the drunken revels were resumed, and again the rollickingchorus, for the men would sing naught else, echoed through the cave:
"He used to laugh a horrible laugh, His fav'rite cry was 'Priddys'!"
Gradually the dim light of the cave diminished, and I knew that nightwas falling. Torches and lanterns were lighted, and still the smugglerskept high carnival.
Suddenly, above the noise of the revellers, came a shrill whistle, andas if by magic the din of merrymaking gave place to an almost oppressivesilence.
Again the whistle was repeated--like the cry of some bird of night--andone of the smugglers replied with a sound like the hooting of an owl.
Then came the noise of brushwood being removed, and a block and tacklewere lowered through the chimneylike aperture.
"Now, my lads, look alive; casks first."
The smugglers worked with a will. The casks were rolled under thetackle, and whipped up to the open air. Six in all were sent up, andthen the men began to handle the bales. At length two of the rogueslaid hands on the box of silks wherein I lay concealed. I had adifficulty in restraining myself from springing up; but with a greateffort I remained perfectly quiet, though expecting every moment to finda knife passed through my body, or a dozen rough hands seize me in theirmerciless grip.
"Be this one to go?"
"Bide a bit. I'll ax."
The footsteps died away and came again.
"Yes, Charlie, up with it!"
"What a weight!" muttered one man with an oath. "Here, Dick, come herea moment and bear a hand. Who'd a thought as that silk be so weighty?"
"Is the straw agoin' too?"
My heart was literally in my mouth.
"No; but stop! P'raps it'll save questions being axed, and straw'scheap enow."
I felt myself being lifted with my luxurious bed and carried across thefloor of the cave. Then slings were fastened round the crate, the tacklecreaked, and I was on my way to the open air, the box rubbing andgrinding against the sides of the shaft in its ascent.
A Lad of Grit: A Story of Adventure on Land and Sea in Restoration Times Page 12
