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Cormorant Crag; A Tale of the Smuggling Days, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 10. A Venturesome Journey |
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_ CHAPTER TEN. A VENTURESOME JOURNEY "Mind how you go," said Mike in a subdued voice, for the darkness and reverberation following the kicking of a loose pebble impressed him. "All right: it's only a stone. It was just down there that I slipped to. Ahoy!" He shouted softly, with one hand to his mouth, and his cry seemed to run whispering away from them to echo far beneath their feet. "I say, don't do that," said Mike excitedly. "Why not? Nobody could hear." "No; but it sounds so creepy and queer. Let's have a light." It did sound "creepy and queer," for the sounds came from out of the unknown, which is the most startling thing in nature, from the fact that our busy brains are always ready to dress it up in the most weird way, especially if the unknown lies in the dark. But no more was said, for Vince was busy opening his basket, out of which he drew an old-fashioned horn lanthorn and gave it to Mike to hold, while he took something else out of the creel, which rattled as it was moved. "Why, you've only brought half a candle," said Mike, who had opened the lanthorn, and held it so that the rays which streamed down through the brambles overhead fell in its interior. "What shall we do when that burns out?" "Light one of the pieces I've got in my pockets," said Vince coolly, as he sat down on the water-worn granite, and placed a round, flattish tin box between his knees. "Didn't bring a cushion with you, did you?" "Cushion? No; what for?" "One to sit on: this is precious hard." And then _scratch, scratch_: a rub of a tiny wax match upon the sanded side of a box, and a flash of red, dim light followed by a clear white flame? Nothing of the kind: matches of that sort had not been invented fifty or sixty years ago. Whoever wanted a light had to go to work as Vince prepared to do, after placing a thin slip of wood sharpened at each end and dipped in brimstone ready to hand. Taking a piece of steel or iron bent round so as to form a rough handle to be grasped, while the knuckles were guarded by the edge of the steel, this was held over the tin box, which was, on the inner lid or press being removed, half full of burned cotton ash now forming the tinder that was to catch the sparks. Vince was pretty handy at the task from old experience, and gripping the box tightly between his knees he made the hollow, cavernous place echo again as he struck the steel in his left hand with a piece of sharp-edged flint held in his right. _Nick, nick, nick, nick_--the nearly forgotten sound that used to rise in early morning from the kitchen before a fire could be lit--and _nick, nick, nick, nick_ again, here in the narrow opening, where the rays of sunshine shot down and made the sparks which flew from flint and steel look pale as they shot downward at every stroke the lad gave. Mike felt nervous at the idea of penetrating the depths below them, and to hide this nervousness he chattered, and said the first thing that came to his lips in a bantering tone: "Here! you are a fellow to get a light. Let me have a try." But as he spoke one spark fell upon the tinder and seemed to stay, while as soon as Vince saw this he bent down and blew, with the result that it began to glow and increase in size so much that when the brimstoned point of the match was applied to the glowing spot still fanned by the breath the curious yellow mineral began to melt, sputter, and then burst into a soft blue flame, which was gradually communicated to the wood. This burned freely, the candle in the lanthorn was lit, the door shut, and the tinder-box with flint and steel closed and smothered out and returned to the creel. "You'd have done it in half the time, of course," said Vince, rising and slinging the creel on his back. "Now then, are you going to carry the lanthorn?" "I may as well, as I've got it," said Mike. "All right: then you'll have to go first." Mike felt disposed to alter the arrangement, but he could not for very shame. "You take the rope, then. But, I say, you needn't carry that creel as well," he said. "I don't want to; but suppose the candle goes out?" "Oh, you'd better take it," said Mike eagerly. "Ready?" "Yes, if you are." Mike did not feel at all ready, but he held the lanthorn up high and took a step or two forward and downward, which left the sunlit part of the place behind, and then began cautiously to descend a long rugged slope, which was cumbered with stones of all sizes, these having evidently fallen from the roof and sides, the true floor of the tunnel-like grotto being worn smooth by the rushing water which must at one time have swept along, reaching in places nearly to the roof just above the boys' heads. The way was very steep, and winding or rather shooting off here and there, after forming a deep, wonderfully rounded hollow, in which in several cases huge rounded stones lay as they had been left by the torrent, after grinding round and round as if in a mill, smoothing the walls of the hollow, and at the same time making themselves spherical through being kept in constant motion by the water. These pot-holes, as a geologist would call them, are common enough in torrents, where a heavy stone is borne into a whirlpool-like eddy, and goes on grinding itself a deeper and deeper bed, the configuration of the rock-walls where it lies having prevented its being swept down at the first, while every year after it deepens its bed until escape becomes impossible. Again and again, as they went on, places of this kind were met with; while twice over they had to pause at spots where the water must have sprung from a shelf ten or a dozen feet down into a basin which it had hollowed for itself in the course of time. Upon the first of these sudden drops presenting itself Mike stopped with the lanthorn. "Here's the end of it," he said. "Goes down into a sort of bottomless pit, black as ink. Let's go back." Vince stepped close to his side and gazed down into the black depths with a feeling of awe, the place looking the more terrible from the fact that the tunnel had narrowed until there was only just room for them to stand between the smooth granite walls. "Looks rather horrid," said Vince. "Worse than a big well. Let's see how deep it is." He stepped back and picked up a stone that had fallen from the roof, returning to where Mike held up the lanthorn for him to see. Down went the block of stone, and they prepared themselves to hear it go bounding and echoing far away in the bowels of the earth; but it stopped instantly with a loud clang, and Vince cried,-- "Why, it isn't deep at all! I can see it." A ring or two of the rope was cast loose, passed through the handle of the lanthorn, and upon lowering it down block after block presented itself sufficient to enable them to descend into what proved to be quite a hollow, from which the stream must have leapt into another and again into another, each being a fall of only a few feet. After which there was another great pot-hole, like a vast mortar with a handleless pestle of rock remaining therein. Beyond this the water had carved out a rugged trough, steep enough to form a slide if they had felt disposed to trust themselves to it, and Vince laughingly suggested that they should glide down. "Only it wouldn't do," he added. "We can't tell what's at the bottom. Might mean a bad fall. Had enough of it?" "Yes, ever since we started," replied Mike. "Then you want to go back?" "Oh no, I don't," retorted Mike. "One can't help feeling that one must keep on and see where it goes to, even if it does make you turn creepy. Doesn't it you?" "Well, yes, I suppose so," replied Vince thoughtfully; "and I wouldn't go on, only it's so easy to climb back, and the air feels fresh and sweet, so that except that it's dark there's nothing to mind." "But suppose the candle went out. How much is there left?" As Mike spoke, he opened the door of the lanthorn and looked at the light anxiously, but they had not burned an inch. "We could easily get another light," said Vince; "and we must go on now. Here, shall I go down first?" "No; I'll keep to it," cried Mike. "I'm not going to have you jeering at me afterwards and telling me I was afraid. But look here, Cinder: you can't walk down--it really is too steep." "Let's try the rope: I'll fasten it, and then you can hold on." "Nothing to fasten it to." "Soon get over that," said Vince; and, taking out the iron bar and the hammer, he found a crack in the rock directly, into which he drove the narrow edge till it was perfectly firm, the roof just overhead echoing the blows of the hammer so rapidly that in a short time it sounded as if a dozen smiths were at work. "Stop a moment," cried Mike, as he held the light, and Vince began to tie the end of the rope to the strong iron peg he had formed. "What for?" "Suppose when we get down we want the rope for another place, what should we do if we leave it here?" Vince took the lanthorn and held it out before him, so that he could examine the trough-like slope. "I shouldn't like to trust myself to slide down here," he said; "but there's nothing to prevent our climbing up. Let's double the rope and hook the middle over the bar; then, when we're down, we can pull one end and get it free." This was done, and, tying the lanthorn to his neck by means of his kerchief, Mike secured the doubled rope and let himself down, his companion soon after seeing him standing some thirty feet lower. A minute later Vince was by his side, and they looked about them, but there was nothing fresh to see. The roof was only a foot above their heads. The width of the place averaged six or seven feet, and there was this to encourage them--no branches occurred to form puzzling labyrinths. If they had been overtaken by darkness there was nothing to prevent their feeling their way back into the sunshine. So, growing accustomed to the place, familiarity, if it did not breed contempt, made them cooler and more ready to go on descending over similar obstacles to those they had previously encountered, till all at once Mike stopped short, and held up the lanthorn beneath which he peered. "What is it?" said Vince anxiously. "Hark! What's that?" said Mike, in a whisper full of awe. A dull rushing sound smote upon their ears, but in a muffled, strange way, that puzzled them to make out what it might be. "I know," said Vince at last: "it's water." "Think so?" said Mike dubiously. "Yes. I've been puzzling ever so long to make out how it was that water could have run along here, and for there to be none now, but I see how it is. This was once the channel of the stream, till it ate its way down through the rock to a lower one, and that's it we can hear running somewhere below." "Perhaps," said Mike; but his words implied doubt, and, after once more examining the candle in the lanthorn, he led on, but very cautiously and slowly now, though the passage was easier, and the slope less broken by step-like faults in the granite, over which the water must once have flowed. At the end of a dozen yards Mike stopped again, and Vince quite as willingly, for the dull rushing sound continued, and they looked at each other by the light of the lanthorn. "How far down are we, do you think?" said Mike. "I dunno. Must be a long way below the sea." Mike nodded, and Vince continued: "I thought it led down into the Scraw cove, but we must be lower than that." "Yes, ever so much; and it strikes me that we might go on down and down for hours. Haven't we done enough for this time?" "Well, yes," said Vince, in a hesitating tone; "only I should have liked to find out something better than going on and on, just like in one of the caverns on the shore stretched out a tremendous way." "Yes, I should have liked to see something more; but this is a curious place. Old Deane would like to come down here and see those round stones in the holes." "We'll bring him some day," said Vince. "Well, suppose we'd better go back, for it seems to be all like this." "Can't be all like this, because there's water rushing somewhere down below." "Well, let's go on till we come to the water, and then turn back." "But if it's very dangerous?" "We won't go into danger. You keep the lanthorn well up, so that you can see where you go, and then you can stop." "Suppose you lead now," said Mike: "my arm aches awfully with holding up the light." "All right: I'll go first, then." "But I'm not afraid to!" cried Mike hastily. "Well, I am, Ladle," said Vince frankly; "and I shall go very slowly and carefully, I can tell you. Here, you carry the rope and hammer. Stop a minute, though: how's the light?" He opened the lanthorn door now, and was surprised to see how little the candle was burned down, but there was a tremendously long snuff with a fungous top. "I thought it was very dull," he said; and, moistening his fingers, he snuffed the candle.--"Now we shall have a better light." But unfortunately he had moistened his fingers too much, and the result was that the shortened wick hissed, sputtered, burned blue, and then without further warning went out. "Oh!" cried Mike, in tones of horror, as they stood there in profound darkness. "Oh!" was echoed along the passage, and prolonged as if in a groan. _ |
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