The Cave in the Lonely Heath
The track was clearly defined, the sinister dark patches showing
boldly upon the bright green grass with the utmost regularity. The
man had certainly fled in a north-easterly direction, towards Black
Down, the densest part of the forest. He had a start of at least six
hours, but, even had he not already swooned from loss of blood, this
advantage was slight. In my enthusiasm I imagined that the rogue was
already my prisoner, marching, with my piece at his head, towards
the common jail at Lymington.
The tell-tale line of spots crossed the highway and led on to the
gorse-clad heath, but though there were evidences that the fugitive
had blundered into many bushes in his flight in the dark, the
general direction remained the same. At this I wondered not a
little, for from my forest experience I knew that a man crossing an
open space in the dark would, without a light or other means to
guide him, inevitably make a wide circle, unless he had the sense to
keep his course by observing the direction of the wind. Yet I knew
that after the storm the wind had died utterly away, so that the
circumstance seemed stranger still.
I suppose I had not gone half a mile when, thrown behind some
bushes, I espied the picture that the rogue had cut from its frame.
There were signs that he had made a lengthy halt, one being a large
dark stain upon the damp soil, showing that much blood had been
spilled. Another thing I conjectured: he had discovered that the
chart was not, as evidently he had imagined, part of the picture,
and in his rage he had thrown it aside. That being so, it showed
that day had dawned ere he could have become acquainted with the
failure of his fell designs.
Making the canvas into a roll, I slipped it into my belt, and
continued my way.
On and on I went, sometimes breaking into a run, keeping both a
sharp lookout in case of a surprise and a careful watch on the dull
brown track, which now began to show at greater intervals than
heretofore.
At length my progress was stopped by a narrow, gurgling stream that
flowed southwards between gravelly banks lined with bushes and
dwarfed trees. This stream I knew to be the Lym, the same that joins
the sea at Lymington.
Here I was thwarted, for though I took off my hose and shoes and
waded over the clayey bottom, not the slightest track could I find
on the farther bank. I walked both up and down stream for nearly a
quarter of a mile, carefully examining the soft clay, which would
assuredly reveal any trace of footprints after the heavy rain of the
previous night; but the bank was innocent of any traces of human
agency, though I encountered well-defined marks of ponies, deer, and
otters.
Sick at heart, I now bethought me of Captain Jeremy's warning, so,
uncocking my piece, I shouldered the weapon and set my face
homewards. Bruno, who had followed the trail as keenly as I had
done, seemed to share my dejection, for, instead of keeping a few
paces ahead as he had done on the outward journey, he stuck close to
my heels.
I was not returning by the same path, but rather, I should think,
about two hundred yards to the right of it; yet with the smoke of
the chimneys of Brockenhurst village to guide me I kept steadily
onwards.
Suddenly, almost before I could utter a sound of alarm, the ground
gave way beneath me; the bracken and the gorse seemed to shoot up
past me, and the daylight gave place to semi-darkness.
Instinctively I clutched at the ledge of the pit, but without avail;
then a thousand lights seemed to flash across my eyes, and I lost
consciousness.
When I recovered my senses I found myself lying on the sandy floor
of a natural cave or hollow, into which the light filtered through
an aperture almost above my head--the hole through which I had
fallen.
My head throbbed painfully, and, putting my hands to my forehead, I
found that it was bound with a wet rag. As I moved my arm Bruno
thrust his muzzle against my hand with a low bark of joy; the
faithful dog had evidently followed his master in his fall.
I tried to raise myself into a sitting posture, but the exertion was
too great, and with a stifled exclamation of pain I fell back.
"Lie still, young maaester," exclaimed a gruff though kindly voice.
"You'll be safe enow wi' us."
"Give him a drink o' water," said another. "He'll do better sittin'
up."
With that I felt myself raised and propped against the wall of the
cave, so that I could look about.
Eight or ten men, dressed in rough clothing, some with peajackets,
others in tarpaulins, were either seated on the ground or standing
with folded arms regarding me intently. Two or three had pistols
stuck in their belts, while a pair of heavy cutlasses and a bundle
of stout staves, some with iron spikes, were placed in one corner of
the cave, which was roughly three-sided, and formed by hands, as far
as I could make out in the subdued light.
In the centre of the cavern was the trunk of a young tree, its upper
portion leaning against the aperture overhead, while the branches
had been lopped off sufficiently close to the stem to allow of the
stumps being used as a rough ladder. Two small casks, an earthenware
vessel containing water, a heap of clothing, and a coil of rope
completed the utensils of this subterranean retreat.
"You'll be the son of Cap'n Foul-weather Dick?" asked the man who
had first spoken.
"Yes," I replied, for my questioner had used the name by which my
father was frequently called by the seafaring population of
Lymington.
"'Twas well for you I knew it, for when you came tumbling down that
hole we thought 'twas the sogers, and Bill 'ere got ready to knock
you over th' head. D'ye know me?"
I looked at the man as intently as my throbbing head would allow,
then at his companions. Like an inspiration a thought flashed across
my mind.
"Yes," I answered. "Ye are the men who went with Captain Miles to
the West."
"Aye," said the man referred to as Bill, "an' well we know it. Look
'ee, young maaester, can we trust ye to keep your mouth shut on this
business?"
"I have as weighty a matter on my mind now," I replied. "You can
count upon my silence."
"The youngster's true enow, 'Enery," said Bill. "Maybe he'll lend us
a hand afore long. Look you," he continued, addressing me, "there
are but eleven left of the score of Lymington men who marched to
help the Duke o' Monmouth. Kitt Binns, Carrol Tanner, Cripps, Fred
Dadge--they went down in the fight; young Garge Pitman the
red-coated devils took near Bridgwater. They strung him up on a
gallows at the roadside. Poor fellow, he didn't half give 'em a
rough time afore they did the dirty job, an' I was up to my neck in
a ditch an' saw it all, yet couldn't bear a hand to help him. That
makes five. What happened to the rest of us we don't know--taken,
doubtless, after the fight. Anyways, Cap'n Miles, Joe Scott, Sammy
Cross, an' Long Bristowe won't see Lymington again, I fear, though
we aren't much better off on that score."
"Captain Miles!" I exclaimed. "Why!----" I broke off, though
reasoning that as these men had confided in me, there was little
harm in telling them of Captain Jeremy's hiding-place in our house.
"What of him?" asked several of the men.
"He is alive and well; I saw him scarce two hours ago."
"Hurrah!" exclaimed the men, but softly, for they durst not shout
lest the noise should betray them.
"Alive and well, say you?" repeated 'Enery, a burly, bearded seaman
who, it seemed, had no other name. "'Enery" he answered to, and
'Enery he remains till the close of my story. "But, young maaester,
'tis a good six hours you've been lying 'ere."
"Six hours!" I exclaimed amazedly; then, remembering my father's
condition, I attempted to rise.
"Nay, young sir," said Bill, noticing my effort, "you cannot go home
without aid, and none can we give till Black Lewis comes. But
concerning Captain Jeremy?"
In a few words I told them all I knew of the Captain's adventures,
the men eagerly following every word.
"Tell him," said 'Enery, as I finished my story, "that ten stanch
men await him here. Cooped up like rats in a hold, we durst not show
our faces in Lymington, much less try for a ship; but with Cap'n
Jeremy to lead us, we'll shape a true course yet. Tell him also----"
A low cry like the call of a forest stag for its mate broke upon our
ears. Twice 'twas repeated.
"'Tis Black Lewis," said one of the men, for my information, and the
next instant the bushes overhead were thrust back, and a man began
to descend the rough ladder.
Black Lewis gave no sign of surprise at seeing a lad in the cave. I
knew him by sight, and also by repute--a short, shrivelled-up little
man, with a head that seemed too large and heavy for his body,
wrinkled face, massive and protruding cheek bones, and
sandy-coloured hair. He lived mainly by his wits, killing adders
that infested the forest glades, hawking the skins of animals he
caught, and, no doubt, poaching, though he had as yet managed to
escape being branded as a felon. Some would have it that he was
dullwitted, yet those who thus avowed had often cause to fear his
tongue, which was as sharp as a rapier. He was dressed in loose,
home-made garments of moleskin, and carried a long forked stick in
his hand, not even relinquishing it when he descended the tree
trunk. Over his back was strung a canvas bag, from which he produced
a hare, some eggs, and a flagon of ale.
He readily consented to assist me to my home, and having bade
farewell to the refugee seamen (who had persuaded me to lend them my
fowling-piece), I was slung up the shaft by means of the rope, Bruno
being carried up on the shoulders of one of the men. Once in the
open air I walked strongly, though twice or thrice I reeled, and
would have fallen but for my companion's assistance.
At the entrance to our grounds Black Lewis left me, and just as I
gained the door Captain Jeremy met me. By the look on his face I
knew that some thing was amiss.
"They have searched for you high and low, Master Clifford," said he;
"but thanks be you are safe! Come at once and see your father,
for----"
"He is not dead?" I asked anxiously.
"Nay, lad, but be prepared for the worst. Master Blackwood says
he'll not last the night. If so, he'll pass away before the young
flood sets in."