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!