THE WHITE BADGER OF CAIRN KENIDZHEK—_Continued_
THE BADGER’S CAPTURE AND ESCAPE
PRESENTLY they hear a faint bark and that peculiar thumping noise which
a badger makes when moving along its underground passages.
“He’s theere, sir,” says Andrew. By way of response the Squire winks his
right eye as though to say “I can hear him.” A sharp struggle succeeds,
and the yell of the dog echoes along the winding way. At last the
Earthstopper catches what he has been listening for, the welcome yap,
yap, yap . . . coming always from the same spot, which tells him that
the terrier is face to face with the badger in an end of its earth.
Without a moment’s delay, Sir Bevil instructs the miners where to sink a
shaft to intercept the badger and cut it off from its galleries. The
surface is littered with boulders, but fortunately there is a clear
space some four feet wide between two outcropping rocks, and there the
men set to work. Whilst they ply pick and spade, Andrew listens
anxiously to the sounds that reach him from below, his fear being that
the badger may force its way to some remoter part of its earth and
render their labour of no avail. Hour after hour, six men working in
reliefs continue to sink the shaft through the soft ground between the
two walls of granite. No child’s play is this. As the pit gets deeper
and deeper, the effort required to throw the earth to the surface begins
to tell on the miners, who are working away as energetically as if some
of their mates were entombed below. And here let it be said that digging
out a badger, always an arduous operation, is frequently impracticable.
Some of the sets in use to-day, such as those at Toldavas, Bosistow and
Boscawen-un, are of considerable depth and extent, and defy all efforts
of the spade. Whether they are hundreds or thousands of years old must
remain a matter of conjecture, but as the badger is one of the oldest of
living mammals there is little room for doubt that it has had its earths
in the Cornish hillsides from a very remote past. Andrew is wondering as
he lies there whether the set below him is one which will baffle all
their efforts. As long as the terrier can keep the badger where it is
there is hope of bagging it. But Vixen has already been for three hours
in that stifling den, and during that time has been throwing her tongue
almost incessantly. Incited by her yaping and an occasional cry of pain,
the miners—they can hear her now—work bravely, despite their aching
arms and backs. Suddenly the sound ceases, and shortly after, the
Earthstopper hears Vixen as she makes her way slowly along the passages
to the surface. Panting and exhausted out she staggers at last, and the
next instant Turk, who has long been straining at his chain, is sent in
to continue her work. Fatal interval! Alive now to the insecurity the
holt it had deemed impregnable, and unable to dig its way farther on
account of the rocky nature of the ground, the harried creature has
stolen quietly away—at least neither Earthstopper nor miners heard
it—and by means of a side gallery reached another stronghold on the far
side of the Cairn. The Earthstopper, ignorant of this strategic move, is
wondering why it is that Turk, so long gone and generally so noisy, is
not giving tongue. What he fears as he continues to listen is that the
badger has buried itself during the few seconds it was left, in which
case all hope of securing it is gone. . . . Ah! what was that? a very
faint yap, a mere echo of a yap, reaches his ear. It seems to come—does
come—from far away under the Cairn.
“Wonder if the men down below can hear anything, sir,” says Andrew to
Sir Bevil.
“Not a sound,” is the Squire’s response after inquiry.
“The badger’s shifted, sir; I can hear Turk, and that’s about all.”
Then the Squire takes the Earthstopper’s place and listens. “It’s a long
way off, Andrew, it comes from under the Witch’s Cauldron.”
“Iss, sir, that’s where I maake et.” The note of despondency in the
Earthstopper’s voice as he said this, served only to stimulate the
Squire. The hopelessness of the situation would have daunted most
people, but Sir Bevil had no thought of giving in, much less of owning
that he was beaten.
Jumping up from the mouth of the earth, he rushes to the edge of the
work and letting himself down the face of the rock, joins the two miners
at the bottom of the shaft.
“Men,” says the Squire, “the badger has shifted from his old quarters,
and we must drive a level under the Cairn. Andrew!”
“Plaase, sir?”
“Give me the direction; is that about it?” says he, stretching his arm
across the shaft.
“Iss, sir, as near as can be.”
“Now, my man, give me your pick and let me have a turn: it’s not the
first time I’ve used one.” Taking off his coat, he uses the tool with a
vigour that astonishes the miner.
Fortunately, the ground admits of his working round the edge of the rock
nearer the Cairn, in a direction almost at right angles to its already
exposed face, and before long he has dug his way out of sight, and is
shouting for a candle to enable him to see what he is about. A forlorn
proceeding it might well seem to the old miner shovelling away the soil
as the Squire fetches it down, for they are nearly a hundred feet from
the badger, and at any moment may come on rocky ground and have to give
up. The Squire knows this, but sticks to the apparently impossible task
with his never-say-die tenacity. And when things seem hopeless, fortune
befriends him. For to his surprise, after driving several feet, and
narrowly escaping injury from a rock that fell behind him and dented the
miner’s shovel, the pick penetrates the wall of mixed earth and stone at
the end of the level. Putting his ear to the aperture, he makes out
distinctly the yapping of the terrier on the far side of what, judging
from the hollow sound, appears to be a cave. The discovery stimulates
him to further exertions, and in a short time pick and spade clear away
the partition that separates the workers from a cavernous chamber. The
flame of the candle held at arm’s length burns as steadily as in a room.
Its light falls on huge columns of granite under the Cairn, and makes
the mica sparkle. This is not the place to describe the grim remains
that were subsequently found in this weird sepulchre. An article from
the pen of that learned antiquary, the village doctor, in the records of
the Cornubian Society, gives a detailed description of the bones of
animals now extinct, discovered there, and of the skeletons of two men
with their tattered plaids still about them.
“A queer place this,” says the Squire, forgetting the badger for a
moment; “a place for bats, owls, and buccaboos.”
“Yes, a wisht ould plaace, sure ’nuf, ’tis a soart o’ fogau, sir,” says
Andrew, who has crept along the tunnel, and is peering over the Squire’s
shoulder. “How deep es et, sir? I caan’t see the bottom.”
“Only a few feet, judging from the sound of the stones as they rattled
down.”
Then the Earthstopper lets himself down the wall of the cave, and holds
the candle whilst the Squire descends. The flame, held at arm’s length,
was nearly on a level with the floor of the tunnel. Guided by the sounds
of the conflict, they thread their way between the rude pillars of
granite, and at length reach the badger’s stronghold on the far side.
“They are no distance in, Andrew,” says the Squire, speaking of the
terrier and the badger, who are going at it tooth and nail.
“No, sir, touchin’, do ee hear un gruntin’, wonder ef I can see un.”
Whereupon he lies flat on the loose soil, and holding the candle in
front of him, looks into the hole.
“Can you see the badger?”
“No, sir, the dog’s in the way, and the dust es enough to blind ee; but
he’s ourn, sir, we shall get un; white or grey, we shall get un. Have ee
got the tongs, case they’re wanted?”
“Yes, I’m holding them.”
At this moment the man who had been shovelling comes up with another
miner, with candles stuck in their hats, Shellal and the coachman, from
the mouth of the tunnel, see the twinkling lights come and go as the
miners make their way across the cave, and a spark or two struck by
hobnailed boots, and they start at Andrew’s scream of encouragement to
the dog, and the echoes it awakes.
“Es that your teeth chatterin’, Shellal?”
“Iss, you wonder, do ee? bra’ wisht auld place edna? don’t et strike
thee that way? mowldy smill about un.”
“Arn’t you goin’ hover to ’em?”
“What? Shellal go over there? No, no, my son, not for the best dunkey
this side New Brudge. Theer diggin’ again: hear ’em do ee? Bra’ fuss
about an auld badger, semmin’ to me.”
Yes, they are digging again. The Earthstopper has taken a pick, and with
his shirt-sleeves tucked up, is working away with a will, whilst one of
the miners shovels the soil back, and keeps the hole open to enable the
dog to breathe. The badger retreats as the sappers advance, and
unfortunately the earth extends farther in than the Earthstopper
imagined; but that is a trifling matter, as every stroke of the pick is
bringing him nearer to the prize. It is only a question of time. The
Squire leans against a huge rock, just behind the workers, holding the
tongs in one hand, and pulling his moustache with the other. Every sound
in the savage fray can now be heard, and at times the excitement is
intense. Once the badger charges the dog to the mouth of the hole, and
would have shown itself, but that the indomitable Turk pushes home the
counter attack, and drives his foe right back to the corner of its
earth. For half an hour longer the fight lasts, and at the end of it the
dog comes out exhausted. For once the bull terrier has had as much
fighting as it cared for but, though its under jaw is scored with
wounds, its panting shows that its exhaustion is due rather to the
stifling, dust-laden atmosphere in which the unequal struggle has been
carried on.
But where is the other terrier? why is not Nell at hand to engage the
badger and prevent him from digging his way farther in? Unpardonable
over-sight! There can be no excuse. Squire and Earthstopper must have
known that “fighting Turk,” as he was called, could not last very long
against the badger in that cramped, suffocating hole. “Look sharp and
fetch Nell,” says Sir Bevil. “She should have been here”—and would have
been, had he but given the word. The keeper has no difficulty in getting
Turk to follow him across the mirky cave, but what a time he is, getting
the terrier up to the dimly-lighted tunnel from which Shellal and the
coachman have already withdrawn. Hurry man! What an age he is, making
his way along the level! A child would crawl faster. Every second is of
the utmost value. The instant the terrier came out of the earth, the
badger, most formidable of all sappers, began to dig his way farther in,
gaining at every stroke of his powerful claws on Andrew and the miner.
Then the Earthstopper, impelled by a curiosity excusable perhaps, but
certainly ill-timed, drops his pick, believing he has hit upon a means
of seeing whether the creature before him is really the white badger or
not. Taking the shovel from the miner, he sticks a piece of candle on
the end of it and pushes it into the earth as far as his arm allows.
Then he peers into the hole. Better that he had kept on with the pick
instead of wasting his time! Not a glimpse does he get of the creature.
The flame burns feebly in the stifling air, and through the dust he can
barely discern the heaped-up soil behind which the badger has
effectually concealed itself since the terrier came out. He hears the
untiring beast working away with the power and regularity of a machine,
though he sees not a hair of it; but where are his quick, faultless eyes
that he fails to descry that bit of furze root amidst the soil? It
would, at least, have warned him that the badger is near the surface. As
he withdraws the light he sees to his dismay that a big boulder arches
over the hole, a little way in, rendering further digging impracticable.
“I’m afeerd we shall lose un after all, sir,” says he turning his face
towards Sir Bevil.
“Lose him, lose him, why? why lose him, my man?”
“We’ve got into hard ground, sir, the rocks have closed in like the
walls of a drain, nawthin’ but a drill and dynamite can get through this
cappin’ stone,” and the sound as he strikes it with the iron of the
shovel reaches Sir Bevil’s ears above the pounding of the indefatigable
creature within, and makes painful discord to the music of the badger’s
claws. “Halloo!” says the astonished Earthstopper as he withdraws the
shovel; for at this instant a current of fresh air fans his heated face,
the noise from the earth almost immediately ceases, and he
realises—what he had known happen but once before—that the badger has
dug his way through to the open. “He’s broke out, sir,” says he
excitedly, as he jumps to his feet. Seizing a candle he hurries with Sir
Bevil and the miners across the cave, climbs the wall of it, and crawls
along the tunnel into the trench. In a twinkling he reaches the surface
and rushes in frantic haste round the rocks, shouting as he runs, “Loose
the dogs, loose the dogs.”
On the other side of the Cairn he expects to get a glimpse of the badger
hurrying down the rugged hill at its best pace. But when he gets there,
no sign of fugitive, white or grey, meets his disappointed gaze.
Climbing a rock he looks down on the somewhat sparse brake, his eyes
searching the motionless furze and waving bents to detect by tell-tale
movements of bush or withered grass the whereabouts of the quarry. If it
is stealing away under their shelter, the cover keeps its secret well.
From its unresponsive surface the Earthstopper gleans no inkling of its
presence, and with surprise, so quickly have the hours sped, sees that
the gathering shadows are stealing over the base of the sunlight slope.
Suddenly with a wild scream he leaps from the rock into the stunted
furze and plunges through it like one possessed. It was only the
snapping of a brittle stick he had heard, but it was enough; it betrayed
the whereabouts of the heavy beast that had unwisely dwelt near the
Cairn until it heard the hue and cry raised by the Earthstopper.
Attracted by Andrew’s scream, Vixen and Nell fly to him, and getting on
the line of the badger soon overtake it. “Where’s the badger?” shouts
Sir Bevil as he and the others come tearing down the hill. No need is
there of other answer than Vixen’s yell to tell him where badger and
dogs are keeping up a running fight by that big boulder half-way down
the slope. All eyes are riveted on the spot, but till now only the
terriers have seen the creature. A somewhat barren patch lies right
ahead of where the bushes are being violently shaken. Has the badger
slackened its pace that it seems so tantalisingly long in reaching the
edge of the furze? . . .
“’Tes, ’tes the whi——, the white wan, sure ’nuf, sir, and a beety,”
cries the Earthstopper, as the clean-cut head projects beyond the bush.
“What a grand beast! but how are we to secure him?”
“Dust ee want un livin’ or dead, sir?” shouts the excited Andrew in his
broadest vernacular, running to keep abreast of the creature.
“Alive, alive, my man,” replies the Squire rather testily, as the quarry
crosses a belt of ground Shellal had recently burnt, and its hair, that
all but sweeps the ground, shows as white as snow against the charred
surface. With the tongs underground—the Squire had dropped them as he
scrambled up the wall of the cave—and no man volunteering to go and
fetch them for fear of losing the fun, here is a nice business for
Andrew. He must secure the badger with his bare hands: an order easily
given but difficult to execute. The dogs too, good as they are at
sticking a badger up in its earth, game as they are at meeting its
terrible rushes underground, are powerless to hold such a monster as
that brushing on there through the bushes and treating their savage
attentions with disdain. Through close furze and brambly thicket it
presses forward as if through gossamer, stopping but to make the
terriers yell with pain.
Ned now arrives breathless with the sack, and not a minute too soon, for
Andrew, despite his excitement, sees that the beast is heading for an
old drain in the valley, in which it would find safe refuge. “Stand
handy, Ned,” says he to the keeper, in a voice so ominously calm and
firm as to make even the coachman feel that the crisis has arrived and
that the next few minutes will be worth living to a spectator. A barren
space, it might be twenty yards wide, lies in the badger’s path; and
there Andrew awaits. He is only just in time. A movement of the furze,
and its sharp muzzle protrudes, then the eyes are seen—they were not
pink—then the massive body. Vixen and Nell, bleeding from their wounds,
make feints at it, one on each side. Listen to the snapping of the jaws
as the badger bites right and left at them. Clear of the bush, not a
tussock screens the plucky, friendless creature. Across the bare patch
lies a close brake at the foot of which is the unstopped drain. The
cover gained, he is safe. The badger knows it, and is resolved to reach
its shelter. Andrew is equally determined to dispute the passage. The
Earthstopper is not hampered for space; the semicircle of spectators
give him plenty of elbow-room. With every fibre strung but under
control, he closes in on the badger, with nimble, springy movement
learnt in the wrestling ring. He looks the incarnation of wariness. He
knows his enemy, he knows the risk he is running. Ill-timed onset may
mean the loss of finger or hand.
With a cry that thrills man and dog but does not daunt the quarry he
calls on Vixen and Nell to seize the badger, and stooping the instant
its attention seems occupied by the terriers, he tries to seize its
tail. Quick as lightning the supple creature, shaking off the dogs,
turns on him, just missing his hand as suddenly withdrawn. Fired by
failure and desperate from the nearness of the brake now scarce two
yards away, Andrew renews the attempt, and this time getting a firm grip
of the tail lifts the heavy beast clear of the ground, totters and
staggers under the weight, but by an effort recovers his balance and
holds his prize at arm’s length. Then raising it above the mouth of the
canvas bag which Sir Bevil and the keeper are holding open with
trembling fingers, he twirls the writhing, snapping brute round and
round, and plunges it into the sack. It was the work of a few seconds,
but the exertion brought the sweat to the Earthstopper’s face.
“Bravo, Andrew,” shouts the Squire, who with the others had been looking
on breathlessly, “very neatly done: twice I was afraid he’d got you.”
After tying the mouth of the sack, the keeper slung the badger on his
back and made for the wagonette. The rest of the party, with the
exception of Sir Bevil, Trevaskis and Shellal, returned to the Cairn to
collect their belongings. Though it was dusk, they succeeded in
recovering everything except the tongs, which were afterwards found by
the exploring party. Lights were already twinkling in the windows of the
farmhouse as they descended the hill; and before they entered the yard,
Ned had lit the lamps of the carriage, where they found him standing
guard over the badger, locked up in the boot.
“A good day’s sport, Andrew,” said the Squire as he put on his coat
which the Earthstopper had brought him.
“A grand finish, sir; but a very poor start.”
The next minute Shellal brought out the horse which he had been saddling
by the light of the stable lantern and held it for the Squire to mount.
After a cheery “good night, sir,” from the miners, whom he had liberally
rewarded, Sir Bevil hurried home along the dark lanes as light-hearted
as a schoolboy, tossing a crown-piece through the open door of the
toll-house as he galloped past.
He was anxious to select a safe kennel for his precious and formidable
capture. He chose a strongly-built stye, once the abode of a savage
boar, and had it well littered with straw. One of the troughs in the
enclosure was half-filled with milk; into a smaller one Sir Bevil
himself poured a jar of honey. An hour later the badger was turned loose
in this luxurious snuggery, securely fastened in, and left to himself.
Early next morning Sir Bevil went to see how the captive had fared. The
milk and honey had not been touched, but in the space between the
troughs was a pile of bricks, mortar, and soil. The heap lay at the
mouth of a U-shaped tunnel that passed under the foundations and came
out on the other side of the wall.
“The devil! he’s gone!”
Yes, the badger had dug his way out and escaped.
Hue and cry and search till nightfall proved of no avail. He had sought
a cairn that overlooks the ocean, drearier and safer than Cairn
Kenidzhek. Had he been content to stay in the Squire’s pigstye, his
would have been the life of a prisoner, pampered, but pining for
liberty. He chose the bare subsistence and the freedom of the wild; and
from that day to this, the eyes of cliff-owl and fox alone have seen his
white form as he wanders mid gorse and bracken and fallen cromlech,
within easy reach of his lonely refuge.