What with the high hills that shut in the valley of the Wye, and the
hanging woods that clothe their steep slopes, the nights there are often
so dark as to justify the familiar saying, "You couldn't see your hand
before you." I have been out on some, when a white kerchief held within
three feet of the eye was absolutely invisible; and it required a
skilful Jehu, with best patent lamps, to keep carriage wheels upon the
causeway of the road.
Such a night has drawn down over Rugg's Ferry, shrouding the place in
impenetrable gloom. Situated in a concavity--as it were, at the bottom
of an extinct volcanic crater--the obscurity is deeper than elsewhere;
to-night alike covering the Welsh Harp, detached dwelling houses,
chapel, and burying-ground, as with a pall. Not a ray of light
scintillates anywhere; for the hour is after midnight, and everybody has
retired to rest; the weak glimmer of candles from cottage windows, as
the stronger glare through those of the hotel-tavern, no longer to be
seen. In the last every lamp is extinguished, its latest-sitting
guest--if it have any guest--having gone to bed.
Some of the poachers and night-netters may be astir. If so they are
abroad, and not about the place, since it is just at such hours they are
away from it.
For all, two men are near by, seemingly moving with as much stealth as
any trespassers after fish or game, and with even more mystery in their
movements. The place occupied by them is the shadowed corner under the
wall of the chapel cemetery, where Captain Ryecroft saw three men
embarking on a boat. These are also in a boat; but not one in the act
of rowing off from the river's edge; instead, just being brought into
it.
Soon as its cutwater strikes against the bank, one of the men, rising to
his feet, leaps out upon the land, and attaches the painter to a
sapling, by giving it two or three turns around the stem. Then facing
back towards the boat, he says:--
"Hand me them things; an' look out not to let 'em rattle!"
"Ye need ha' no fear 'bout that," rejoins the other, who has now
unshipped the oars, and stowed them fore and aft along the thwarts, they
not being the things asked for. Then, stooping down, he lifts something
out of the boat's bottom, and passes it over the side, repeating the
movement three or four times. The things thus transferred from one to
the other are handled by both as delicately, as though they were
pheasant's or plover's eggs, instead of what they are--an ordinary set
of grave-digger's tools--spade, shovel, and mattock. There is, besides,
a bundle of something soft, which, as there is no danger of its making
noise, is tossed up to the top of the bank.
He who has flung follows it; and the two gathering up the hardware,
after some words exchanged in muttered tone, mount over the cemetery
wall. The younger first leaps it, stretching back, and giving a hand to
the other--an old man, who finds some difficulty in the ascent.
Inside the sacred precincts they pause; partly to apportion the tools,
but as much to make sure that they have not hitherto been heard. Seen,
they could not be, before or now.
Becoming satisfied that the coast is clear, the younger man says in a
whisper--
"It be all right, I think. Every livin' sinner--an' there be a good
wheen o' that stripe 'bout here--have gone to bed. As for him, blackest
o' the lot, who lives in the house adjoinin', ain't like he's at home.
Good as sure down at Llangorren Court, where just now he finds quarters
more comfortable. We hain't nothin' to fear, I take it. Let's on to
the place. You lay hold o' my skirt, and I'll gie ye the lead. I know
the way, every inch o' it."
Saying which he moves off, the other doing as directed, and following
step for step.
A few paces further, and they arrive at a grave; beside which they again
make stop. In daylight it would show recently made, though not
altogether new. A month, or so, since the turf had been smoothed over
it.
The men are now about to disturb it, as evinced by their movements and
the implements brought along. But, before going further in their
design--body-snatching, or whatever it be--both drop down upon their
knees, and again listen intently, as though still in some fear of being
interrupted.
Not a sound is heard save the wind, as it sweeps in mournful cadence
through the trees along the hill slopes, and nearer below, the rippling
of the river.
At length, convinced they have the cemetery to themselves, they proceed
to their work, which begins by their spreading out a sheet on the grass
close to and alongside the grave--a trick of body-stealers--so as to
leave no traces of their theft. That done, they take up the sods with
their hands, carefully, one after another; and, with like care, lay them
down upon the sheet, the grass sides underneath. Then, seizing hold of
the tools--spade and shovel--they proceed to scoop out the earth,
placing it in a heap beside.
They have no need to make use of the mattock; the soil is loose, and
lifts easily. Nor is their task as excavators of long continuance--even
shorter than they anticipated. Within less than eighteen inches of the
surface their tools come in contact with a harder substance, which they
can tell to be timber--the lid of a coffin.