AT THE HOLE OF CREE
It was dark enough when we started to make it no easy matter to find our
way across the moors, but as we advanced it grew lighter and lighter,
until by the time we reached Fullarton's cabin it was broad daylight.
Early as it was, he was up and about, for the Wigtown peasants are an
early rising race. We explained our mission to him in as few words as
possible, and having made his bargain--what Scot ever neglected that
preliminary?--he agreed not only to let us have the use of his dog but
to come with us himself.
Mordaunt, in his desire for privacy, would have demurred at this
arrangement, but I pointed out to him that we had no idea what was in
store for us, and the addition of a strong, able-bodied man to our party
might prove to be of the utmost consequence.
Again, the dog was less likely to give us trouble if we had its master
to control it. My arguments carried the day, and the biped accompanied
us as well as his four-footed companion.
There was some little similarity between the two, for the man was a
towsy-headed fellow with a great mop of yellow hair and a straggling
beard, while the dog was of the long-haired, unkempt breed looking like
an animated bundle of oakum.
All our way to the Hall its owner kept retailing instances of the
creature's sagacity and powers of scent, which, according to his
account, were little less than miraculous. His anecdotes had a poor
audience, I fear, for my mind was filled with the strange story which I
had been reading, while Mordaunt strode on with wild eyes and feverish
cheeks, without a thought for anything but the problem which we had to
solve.
Again and again as we topped an eminence I saw him look eagerly round
him in the faint hope of seeing some trace of the absentee, but over the
whole expanse of moorland there was no sign of movement or of life. All
was dead and silent and deserted.
Our visit to the Hall was a very brief one, for every minute now was
of importance. Mordaunt rushed in and emerged with an old coat of his
father's, which he handed to Fullarton, who held it out to the dog.
The intelligent brute sniffed at it all over, then ran whining a little
way down the avenue, came back to sniff the coat again, and finally
elevating its stump of a tail in triumph, uttered a succession of sharp
yelps to show that it was satisfied that it had struck the trail. Its
owner tied a long cord to its collar to prevent it from going too fast
for us, and we all set off upon our search, the dog tugging and
straining at its leash in its excitement as it followed in the general's
footsteps.
Our way lay for a couple of hundred yards along the high road, and then
passed through a gap in the hedge and on to the moor, across which we
were led in a bee-line to the northward.
The sun had by this time risen above the horizon, and the whole
countryside looked so fresh and sweet, from the blue, sparkling sea to
the purple mountains, that it was difficult to realise how weird and
uncanny was the enterprise upon which we were engaged.
The scent must have lain strongly upon the ground, for the dog never
hesitated nor stopped, dragging its master along at a pace which
rendered conversation impossible.
At one place, in crossing a small stream, we seemed to get off the trail
for a few minutes, but our keen-nosed ally soon picked it up on the
other side and followed it over the trackless moor, whining and yelping
all the time in its eagerness. Had we not all three been fleet of foot
and long of wind, we could not have persisted in the continuous, rapid
journey over the roughest of ground, with the heather often well-nigh up
to our waists.
For my own part, I have no idea now, looking back, what goal it was
which I expected to reach at the end of our pursuit. I can remember that
my mind was full of the vaguest and most varying speculations.
Could it be that the three Buddhists had had a craft in readiness off
the coast, and had embarked with their prisoners for the East? The
direction of their track seemed at first to favour this supposition,
for it lay in the line of the upper end of the bay, but it ended by
branching off and striking directly inland. Clearly the ocean was not to
be our terminus.
By ten o'clock we had walked close upon twelve miles, and were compelled
to call a halt for a few minutes to recover our breath, for the last
mile or two we had been breasting the long, wearying slope of the
Wigtown hills.
From the summit of this range, which is nowhere more than a thousand
feet in height, we could see, looking northward, such a scene of
bleakness and desolation as can hardly be matched in any country.
Right away to the horizon stretched the broad expanse of mud and of
water, mingled and mixed together in the wildest chaos, like a portion
of some world in the process of formation. Here and there on the
dun-coloured surface of this great marsh there had burst out patches of
sickly yellow reeds and of livid, greenish scum, which only served
to heighten and intensify the gloomy effect of the dull, melancholy
expanse.
On the side nearest to us some abandoned peat-cuttings showed that
ubiquitous man had been at work there, but beyond these few petty scars
there was no sign anywhere of human life. Not even a crow nor a seagull
flapped its way over that hideous desert.
This is the great Bog of Cree. It is a salt-water marsh formed by an
inroad of the sea, and so intersected is it with dangerous swamps and
treacherous pitfalls of liquid mud, that no man would venture through
it unless he had the guidance of one of the few peasants who retain the
secret of its paths.
As we approached the fringe of rushes which marked its border, a foul,
dank smell rose up from the stagnant wilderness, as from impure water
and decaying vegetation--an earthy, noisome smell which poisoned the
fresh upland air.
So forbidding and gloomy was the aspect of the place that our stout
crofter hesitated, and it was all that we could do to persuade him
to proceed. Our lurcher, however, not being subject to the delicate
impressions of our higher organisation, still ran yelping along with its
nose on the ground and every fibre of its body quivering with excitement
and eagerness.
There was no difficulty about picking our way through the morass, for
wherever the five could go we three could follow.
If we could have had any doubts as to our dog's guidance they would
all have been removed now, for in the soft, black, oozing soil we could
distinctly trace the tracks of the whole party. From these we could
see that they had walked abreast, and, furthermore, that each was about
equidistant from the other. Clearly, then, no physical force had been
used in taking the general and his companion along. The compulsion had
been psychical and not material.
Once within the swamp, we had to be careful not to deviate from the
narrow track, which offered a firm foothold.
On each side lay shallow sheets of stagnant water overlying a
treacherous bottom of semi-fluid mud, which rose above the surface
here and there in moist, sweltering banks, mottled over with occasional
patches of unhealthy vegetation. Great purple and yellow fungi had
broken out in a dense eruption, as though Nature were afflicted with a
foul disease, which manifested itself by this crop of plague spots.
Here and there dark, crab-like creatures scuttled across our path,
and hideous, flesh-coloured worms wriggled and writhed amid the sickly
reeds. Swarms of buzzing, piping insects rose up at every step and
formed a dense cloud around our heads, settling on our hands and faces
and inoculating us with their filthy venom. Never had I ventured into so
pestilent and forbidding a place.
Mordaunt Heatherstone strode on, however, with a set purpose upon his
swarthy brow, and we could but follow him, determined to stand by him
to the end of the adventure. As we advanced, the path grew narrower
and narrower until, as we saw by the tracks, our predecessors had been
compelled to walk in single file. Fullarton was leading us with the dog,
Mordaunt behind him, while I brought up the rear. The peasant had been
sulky and surly for a little time back, hardly answering when spoken to,
but he now stopped short and positively refused to go a step farther.
“It's no' canny,” he said, “besides I ken where it will lead us tae.”
“Where, then?” I asked.
“Tae the Hole o' Cree,” he answered. “It's no far frae here, I'm
thinking.”
“The Hole of Cree! What is that, then?”
“It's a great, muckle hole in the ground that gangs awa' doon so deep
that naebody could ever reach the bottom. Indeed there are folk wha says
that it's just a door leadin' intae the bottomless pit itsel'.”
“You have been there, then?” I asked.
“Been there!” he cried. “What would I be doin' at the Hole o' Cree? No,
I've never been there, nor any other man in his senses.”
“How do you know about it, then?”
“My great-grandfeyther had been there, and that's how I ken,” Fullarton
answered. “He was fou' one Saturday nicht and he went for a bet. He
didna like tae talk aboot it afterwards, and he wouldna tell a' what
befell him, but he was aye feared o' the very name. He's the first
Fullarton that's been at the Hole o' Cree, and he'll be the last for
me. If ye'll tak' my advice ye'll just gie the matter up and gang hame
again, for there's na guid tae be got oot o' this place.”
“We shall go on with you or without you,” Mordaunt answered. “Let us
have your dog and we can pick you up on our way back.”
“Na, na,” he cried, “I'll no' hae my dog scaret wi' bogles, and running
down Auld Nick as if he were a hare. The dog shall bide wi' me.”
“The dog shall go with us,” said my companion, with his eyes blazing.
“We have no time to argue with you. Here's a five-pound note. Let us
have the dog, or, by Heaven, I shall take it by force and throw you in
the bog if you hinder us.”
I could realise the Heatherstone of forty years ago when I saw the
fierce and sudden wrath which lit up the features of his son.
Either the bribe or the threat had the desired effect, for the fellow
grabbed at the money with one hand while with the other he surrendered
the leash which held the lurcher. Leaving him to retrace his steps, we
continued to make our way into the utmost recesses of the great swamp.
The tortuous path grew less and less defined as we proceeded, and was
even covered in places with water, but the increasing excitement of the
hound and the sight of the deep footmarks in the mud stimulated us to
push on. At last, after struggling through a grove of high bulrushes,
we came on a spot the gloomy horror of which might have furnished Dante
with a fresh terror for his “Inferno.”
The whole bog in this part appeared to have sunk in, forming a great,
funnel-shaped depression, which terminated in the centre in a circular
rift or opening about forty feet in diameter. It was a whirlpool--a
perfect maelstrom of mud, sloping down on every side to this silent and
awful chasm.
Clearly this was the spot which, under the name of the Hole of Cree,
bore such a sinister reputation among the rustics. I could not wonder at
its impressing their imagination, for a more weird or gloomy scene, or
one more worthy of the avenue which led to it, could not be conceived.
The steps passed down the declivity which surrounded the abyss, and we
followed them with a sinking feeling in our hearts, as we realised that
this was the end of our search.
A little way from the downward path was the return trail made by the
feet of those who had come back from the chasm's edge. Our eyes fell
upon these tracks at the same moment, and we each gave a cry of horror,
and stood gazing speechlessly at them. For there, in those blurred
footmarks, the whole drama was revealed.
_Five had gone down, but only three had returned_.
None shall ever know the details of that strange tragedy. There was no
mark of struggle nor sign of attempt at escape. We knelt at the edge of
the Hole and endeavoured to pierce the unfathomable gloom which shrouded
it. A faint, sickly exhalation seemed to rise from its depths, and there
was a distant hurrying, clattering sound as of waters in the bowels of
the earth.
A great stone lay embedded in the mud, and this I hurled over, but we
never heard thud or splash to show that it had reached the bottom.
As we hung over the noisome chasm a sound did at last rise to our ears
out of its murky depths. High, clear, and throbbing, it tinkled for an
instant out of the abyss, to be succeeded by the same deadly stillness
which had preceded it.
I did not wish to appear superstitious, or to put down to extraordinary
causes that which may have a natural explanation. That one keen note may
have been some strange water sound produced far down in the bowels of
the earth. It may have been that or it may have been that sinister bell
of which I had heard so much. Be this as it may, it was the only sign
that rose to us from the last terrible resting-place of the two who had
paid the debt which had so long been owing.
We joined our voices in a call with the unreasoning obstinacy with which
men will cling to hope, but no answer came back to us save a hollow
moaning from the depths beneath. Footsore and heart-sick, we retraced
our steps and climbed the slimy slope once more.
“What shall we do, Mordaunt?” I asked, in a subdued voice. “We can but
pray that their souls may rest in peace.”
Young Heatherstone looked at me with flashing eyes.
“This may be all according to occult laws,” he cried, “but we shall see
what the laws of England have to say upon it. I suppose a _chela_ may be
hanged as well as any other man. It may not be too late yet to run them
down. Here, good dog, good dog--here!”
He pulled the hound over and set it on the track of the three men.
The creature sniffed at it once or twice, and then, falling upon its
stomach, with bristling hair and protruding tongue, it lay shivering and
trembling, a very embodiment of canine terror.
“You see,” I said, “it is no use contending against those who have
powers at their command to which we cannot even give a name. There is
nothing for it but to accept the inevitable, and to hope that these poor
men may meet with some compensation in another world for all that they
have suffered in this.”
“And be free from all devilish religions and their murderous
worshippers!” Mordaunt cried furiously.
Justice compelled me to acknowledge in my own heart that the murderous
spirit had been set on foot by the Christian before it was taken up by
the Buddhists, but I forbore to remark upon it, for fear of irritating
my companion.
For a long time I could not draw him away from the scene of his father's
death, but at last, by repeated arguments and reasonings, I succeeded in
making him realise how useless and unprofitable any further efforts on
our part must necessarily prove, and in inducing him to return with me
to Cloomber.
Oh, the wearisome, tedious journey! It had seemed long enough when we
had some slight flicker of hope, or at least of expectation, before us,
but now that our worst fears were fulfilled it appeared interminable.
We picked up our peasant guide at the outskirts of the marsh, and having
restored his dog we let him find his own way home, without telling him
anything of the results of our expedition. We ourselves plodded all
day over the moors with heavy feet and heavier hearts until we saw the
ill-omened tower of Cloomber, and at last, as the sun was setting, found
ourselves once more beneath its roof.
There is no need for me to enter into further details, nor to describe
the grief which our tidings conveyed to mother and to daughter. Their
long expectation of some calamity was not sufficient to prepare them for
the terrible reality.
For weeks my poor Gabriel hovered between life and death, and though
she came round at last, thanks to the nursing of my sister and the
professional skill of Dr. John Easterling, she has never to this day
entirely recovered her former vigour. Mordaunt, too, suffered much
for some time, and it was only after our removal to Edinburgh that he
rallied from the shock which he had undergone.
As to poor Mrs. Heatherstone, neither medical attention nor change of
air can ever have a permanent effect upon her. Slowly and surely, but
very placidly, she has declined in health and strength, until it is
evident that in a very few weeks at the most she will have rejoined her
husband and restored to him the one thing which he must have grudged to
leave behind.
The Laird of Branksome came home from Italy restored in health, with the
result that we were compelled to return once more to Edinburgh.
The change was agreeable to us, for recent events had cast a cloud over
our country life and had surrounded us with unpleasant associations.
Besides, a highly honourable and remunerative appointment in connection
with the University library had become vacant, and had, through the
kindness of the late Sir Alexander Grant, been offered to my father,
who, as may be imagined, lost no time in accepting so congenial a post.
In this way we came back to Edinburgh very much more important people
than we left it, and with no further reason to be uneasy about the
details of housekeeping. But, in truth, the whole household has been
dissolved, for I have been married for some months to my dear Gabriel,
and Esther is to become Mrs. Heatherstone upon the 23rd of the month. If
she makes him as good a wife as his sister has made me, we may both set
ourselves down as fortunate men.
These mere domestic episodes are, as I have already explained,
introduced only because I cannot avoid alluding to them.
My object in drawing up this statement and publishing the evidence which
corroborates it, was certainly not to parade my private affairs before
the public, but to leave on record an authentic narrative of a most
remarkable series of events. This I have endeavoured to do in as
methodical a manner as possible, exaggerating nothing and suppressing
nothing.
The reader has now the evidence before him, and can form his own
opinions unaided by me as to the causes of the disappearance and death
of Rufus Smith and of John Berthier Heatherstone, V.C., C.B.
There is only one point which is still dark to me. Why the _chelas_ of
Ghoolab Shah should have removed their victims to the desolate Hole of
Cree instead of taking their lives at Cloomber, is, I confess, a mystery
to me.
In dealing with occult laws, however, we must allow for our own complete
ignorance of the subject. Did we know more we might see that there was
some analogy between that foul bog and the sacrilege which had been
committed, and that their ritual and customs demanded that just such a
death was the one appropriate to the crime.
On this point I should be sorry to be dogmatic, but at least we must
allow that the Buddhist priests must have had some very good cause for
the course of action which they so deliberately carried out.
Months afterwards I saw a short paragraph in the _Star of India_
announcing that three eminent Buddhists--Lal Hoomi, Mowdar Khan, and Ram
Singh--had just returned in the steamship _Deccan_ from a short trip
to Europe. The very next item was devoted to an account of the life and
services of Major-General Heatherstone, “who has lately disappeared from
his country house in Wigtownshire, and who, there is too much reason to
fear, has been drowned.”
I wonder if by chance there was any other human eye but mine which
traced a connection between these paragraphs. I never showed them to
my wife or to Mordaunt, and they will only know of their existence when
they read these pages.
I don't know that there is any other point which needs clearing up. The
intelligent reader will have already seen the reasons for the general's
fear of dark faces, of wandering men (not knowing how his pursuers might
come after him), and of visitors (from the same cause and because his
hateful bell was liable to sound at all times).
His broken sleep led him to wander about the house at night, and
the lamps which he burnt in every room were no doubt to prevent his
imagination from peopling the darkness with terrors. Lastly, his
elaborate precautions were, as he has himself explained, rather the
result of a feverish desire to do something than in the expectation that
he could really ward off his fate.
Science will tell you that there are no such powers as those claimed
by the Eastern mystics. I, John Fothergill West, can confidently answer
that science is wrong.
For what is science? Science is the consensus of opinion of scientific
men, and history has shown that it is slow to accept a truth. Science
sneered at Newton for twenty years. Science proved mathematically that
an iron ship could not swim, and science declared that a steamship could
not cross the Atlantic.
Like Goethe's Mephistopheles, our wise professor's forte is “stets
verneinen.” Thomas Didymus is, to use his own jargon, his prototype. Let
him learn that if he will but cease to believe in the infallibility
of his own methods, and will look to the East, from which all great
movements come, he will find there a school of philosophers and of
savants who, working on different lines from his own, are many thousand
years ahead of him in all the essentials of knowledge.
THE END