Home > Authors Index > Charles Clark Munn > Pocket Island; A Story of Country Life in New England > This page
Pocket Island; A Story of Country Life in New England, a novel by Charles Clark Munn |
||
Chapter 25. The Smuggler's Cave |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER XXV. THE SMUGGLER'S CAVE Manson had faced death on the battlefield when comrades were falling beside him; he had paced for hours on the picket-line in the darkness of night, feeling that at any moment an enemy might fire at him from some thicket or from behind some tree or rock; but amid all these dangers he had not felt the nameless horror that came to him as he saw that hideous skull grinning at him there in the tangle of wreckage just at dusk on Pocket Island. It was like a hand reaching out from a grave, or a voice calling to him from a tomb. Alone on that little, sea-grit isle, trembling beneath the waves that beat upon it, and in the fast-gathering darkness he stood for a moment spellbound. All the ghostly tales he had been told of this spot came to him in an instant and with the force of truth, and had he at that moment beheld some spectral figure rise from among the black rocks he would not have been surprised. Then feeling his strength leaving him, he turned and ran as fast as he could back to where he had built the shelter. With trembling hands he managed to start a fire and sat down beside it. It was a little comfort, but not enough to drive away the dread that seemed to increase as the night grew blacker. He dared not use his small stock of fuel except sparingly, fearing it would not last till morning, and he should be left in total darkness. Back of him was the impassable thicket, and in front the rock-bound shore, and as he listened to the booming of the surges he could see, just in the edge of the zone of light, those eyeless sockets and that mocking grin ever hovering near. Then as the night wore on and the wind increased, slowly rising and falling and rising again, each time a little louder, came that ominous, bellowing sound. It was not like that of any creature he had ever heard or dreamed of, but rather the menace of some horrible monster unknown to earth or air. All the stories of hideous shapes that dwelt beneath the ocean waves, and all the old legends of the sea and its unknown denizens, came to him, and ever mingling with these phantasms that seemed to be crawling all about was that grinning skull. Solitude and night on a lonely shore, far removed from human kind, inevitably produces in the mind strange effects. All ordinary reasoning is set at naught and common sense goes astray. The nearness of the unknown and unapproachable ocean; the ever varying and menacing sounds that issue from it; the leaping and curling billows that, like white and black demons, seem trying to engulf the earth and make even the rocks tremble--all have a weird and uncanny influence. In their presence the imagination runs riot and the ghostly and supernatural usurp reason. Spectral shapes crawl out of dark fissures and leap from rock to rock and hideous sea monsters creep in the verge of shadows. To be alone on a small island of evil repute and many miles out in the ocean, as Manson was, was to have this weird influence more than doubled. At times, when reason seemed trembling in the balance, he fancied himself hovering over the battlefield where he had lain for hours suffering indescribable agony; and looking at the ghastly faces of dead men in the moonlight! He could see their white teeth showing in mocking grin and their glazed eyes staring at him! Here and there were parts of bodies: a head in one place, an arm and hand in another! Then he could see himself sitting upon the ground amid thick bushes, and resting in his lap was a boy's face, the eyes looking up into his in piteous appeal! How well he could recall every moment of that half-hour of dumb anguish and the last fight for life that dying boy had made! He could see the blood gush from his lips at every breath drawn in desperate effort, and feel the tight clasp of his hands and oh! the awful dread of coming death in his eyes! Then the last earthly effort when the poor boy had, in gratitude at sight of a pitying face, kissed the hand that killed him! To Manson's keen imagination it seemed as if Fate had led him to this horrible spot to go mad and die alone, tortured by remorse and despair. As he sat by his one companion, the little fire, all that long night, trying to fight back the imaginary horrors that menaced him, one constant thought weighed heaviest upon his feelings, and that was that some uncomprehended motive force was shaping his every action and asserting itself more and more. What evil was in store for him, or what fate was to come, was a greater burden than all the rest. How long that night was no pen can describe, and when the first faint tinge of morning light came, he felt that nothing in life was quite so blessed as daylight. The fog was still thick, but the hideous darkness, with all its terrors, was passed, and with the light came a bit of returning courage. He had sipped from the cup of rum at times through the night, but had felt no effect, and now he was faint from need of food. He hunted the shore, where clams could be found, and securing a few roasted and ate them. Then once more came the uncanny fascination of that cave! He dreaded to go near it, and yet could not keep away. It was like a voice calling to him that must be answered. But how to enter without a light! Once more he thought of that keg, and going to the pile of wreckage, found pieces of rope, and moistening one end of a bit in the rum that was left in his cup, set it on fire. It burned slowly but steadily, and now he felt he had means to enter the cave. With a few pieces of this rope he made his way down to where the keg was, and soaked them well in the rum. Then he paused and looked around. The frowning walls seemed more menacing than ever, and that black hole just beyond, which he had tried to enter the day before, glared at his like a huge eye of sinister import. He thought of the ghastly skull he had found the night before, and wondered if it had any connection with this cave. Cautiously, step by step, he crept toward it. Was it the hiding-place of some sea monster, and was death there in that dark cavern awaiting him? Once again he felt his courage leaving and a strange weakness stealing his strength. He turned back and sat down by the keg. Given the right conditions, and our imaginations will surround us with hobgoblins and spectres by day as well as night, and almost upset the reasoning power of strong men. To Manson, who had passed one long, sleepless night full of imaginary terrors, and believing himself governed and controlled by some supernatural power, the experience he had passed through, and the impulses that were now alternately pulling him back and pushing him toward that dark cave in front of him, he felt must be ill-omened and uncanny. For an hour he sat and looked at his surroundings, trying to reason away his fears and convince himself they were groundless, and that all the stories he had heard about this island being haunted were purely imaginary. Only partially did he succeed, however, and then, at last yielding to the fascination that constantly drew him toward the cave, arose and once more cautiously crept toward it. At the entrance he paused and listened. Not a sound could be heard except the faint voice of the ocean outside. He stooped and took one step inward, and listened again. All he could hear now was the beating of his own heart. He lit one of his torches and then another. Then he took two steps more and paused again. The faint light showed the cavern sloped sharply upward. Carefully, on his knees, supporting himself by one hand, he crawled up the incline until the floor became level and then he stood upright. For a moment he halted there, trying to peer into the inky darkness. He seemed to be looking into a wide, open space; a peculiar odor tainted the air. He took a few steps and paused again. Then he turned one of his torches down inward to increase the flame, and as it burned brighter he held it above his head. Now he could see the wall of rock all about, and on the further side and close to the wall, a large boulder. Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the semi-darkness, he could see the floor formation, and as its outlines grew more distinct, he caught the gleam of white teeth grinning at him from some creature almost at his feet! Breathless now, and trembling, he lowered his torch, and beheld prostrate there in front of him two shriveled and blackened corpses! _ |
||