Within the dark recesses of a great cavern in the western cliffs, in the
midst of a mass of wreckage, there sat one morning a man whose general
appearance might have suggested to a beholder "the wild man of the
cave"--or, at the least, an unhappy maniac--for his grey locks were long
and unkempt, his eyes bloodshot and wild, his garments torn, so that his
wasted limbs were exposed in numerous places, and his beard and
moustache dishevelled and bristling.
No one looking at that gaunt creature--not even the mother who bore
him--would have easily recognised John Mitford; yet it was he.
On the day when he mysteriously disappeared he had come upon a great
hollow, or hole, of about sixty yards in diameter, which appeared to
descend into the very depths of the earth. The sides of the hollow
sloped towards the centre, and were covered with bushes. Noting this,
our romantic friend resolved to explore the spot. He descended
cautiously till he came to a place where the hole had narrowed to about
twenty feet in diameter, and the herbage ceased because of the absence
of the earth to sustain it. Filled with eager curiosity, the reckless
man held on to a branch and stretched his head over the edge of the
hole. He saw nothing but blackness. He soon felt something, however,
for the branch suddenly broke off, and John went headlong down into that
hole!
Then and there he would certainly have paid for his curiosity with his
life, had not a mass of earth, a few feet further down, and against
which he struck, broken his fall in some measure, and shunted him off to
the opposite wall of the rock. This latter proved to be a slope so
steep that it let him slide, like lightning, to the bottom, a depth of
about thirty feet or more, where he was stopped with such violence that
he lay stunned for a considerable time.
Recovering, he found that no bones were broken, and that, indeed, he was
not much damaged considering the violence of the fall; but the
satisfaction and thankfulness that this undoubtedly caused him were
diminished by the fact that he was in total darkness, and at the bottom
of a hole of unknown depth. A feeling of horror rushed over him at the
thought of being thus, as it were, buried alive. Springing up, he felt
all round the walls of his prison for some inequalities or projections,
by which he might climb out, but none such could he find. The place was
like a well of not more than about ten feet wide, with smooth rocky
sides, which were almost perpendicular as far up as he could reach. On
looking upward, he could see the mouth of the hole, through which he had
fallen, glimmering like a little star above him.
After a fruitless search of nearly half-an-hour the poor man sat down on
a piece of fallen rock, over which he had stumbled several times in his
search, and a deep groan burst from him as he began to realise the fact
that escape from the place was impossible, and that a lingering death
awaited him--for he could scarcely hope that his companions would find
him in such a place. Hope, however, is hard to kill in the human
breast. Perhaps they might hear him if he shouted. Immediately he
began to shout for help with all the strength of his lungs. Then, as no
answering shout came down from the little star above--at which he
continuously gazed--a feeling of wild despair took possession of him,
and he yelled and shrieked in mortal agony until his vocal chords
refused to act, and nothing but a hoarse whisper passed his parched
lips. Overcome at last, alike with horror and exhaustion, he fell to
the ground and became partially unconscious.
How long he lay thus he could not tell; but, on recovering and looking
up, he found that the star was gone--telling plainly that night had set
in.
Then it was, when all hope of delivering himself, or of being delivered
by others, had fled, that a word which had been uttered by Dr Hayward
to a dying man on board the ship, leaped into John Mitford's mind like a
gleam of light. "Call upon Me in the time of trouble and I will deliver
thee, and thou shalt glorify Me." He had seen this invitation accepted
by the dying man and deliverance obtained--if a happy smile and a
triumphant gaze across the river of death were to be regarded as
testimony. "But, then," thought John Mitford, "that was spiritual
deliverance. Here it is a hard physical fact, from which nothing short
of a miracle can deliver me. No--it is impossible!"
Was it a voice within him, or an old memory, that immediately whispered
the words, "With God all things are possible?" At all events, the poor
man rose up slowly in a somewhat calmer frame of mind, and began once
more to feel round the walls of his narrow prison. He found nothing
mew, save that once he narrowly escaped falling down what seemed to be a
still deeper hole among the fallen rocks already referred to. Then he
lay down--or rather fell on the floor exhausted--and slept till morning.
The fact that another day had begun was only ascertainable by the
shining of the star-like mouth of the hole. He attempted again to
shout, but found that his voice had left him, and that even if his
comrades should return to the place he could not make them hear! In the
fit of despair which followed he went round and round his living tomb
like some wild beast in a cage. During one of these perambulations, he
stumbled again over the fallen rocks, dropped into the hole behind them,
and slid a few feet downwards, but not rapidly, for the slope was
gradual, and it terminated on a flat floor. Looking cautiously round,
on reaching this lower depth, he saw what appeared to be a faint light
far beneath him, and considerably in advance of the spot where he stood,
or rather to which he clung.
Gradually his mind calmed, and, resolving to make for this light, he
groped his way downward. It was a long and wearisome scramble,
involving many a slip and slide, and not a few falls, (for it was made,
of course, in total darkness), and the distant light did not appear to
become stronger or nearer. At last it seemed as though it were growing.
Then John found himself on ground over which he could walk, guiding
himself by touching perpendicular walls of rock on either side with his
hands. It was a great split in the mountain, caused perhaps by those
mighty subterranean forces, which some men recognise as volcanic action,
whilst others, admitting--but passing beyond--second causes, recognise
them as tools with which God is moulding this world according to His
will.
"Strange!" thought the man, as he moved slowly forward. "Was this split
made hundreds--perhaps thousands--of years ago, for the purpose of
enabling me to escape?"
"Certainly not--absurd, presumptuous idea," answered Unbelief, smartly.
"It was," remarked Faith, slowly, "made, no doubt, for hundreds--it may
be millions--of other purposes, but among these purposes the saving of
your life was certainly in the mind of Him who `knows all things from
the beginning,' and with whom even the falling of a sparrow is a matter
for consideration."
We do not assert that John Mitford's reasoning took the precise form of
these words, for many minds can think somewhat profoundly without being
able to express themselves clearly; but some such thoughts undoubtedly
coursed through John's mind, as he moved through that subterranean
labyrinth, and finally emerged--through a narrow crack, not so large as
an ordinary door--upon the inner margin of a stupendous cavern.
With a fervent "Thank God!" and a hopeful leap of the heart, the poor
man beheld the waters of the sea rushing up to his very feet; and beyond
the cave's mouth lay the grand ocean itself, like a bright picture in a
black frame. But what was that projecting from the water, not twenty
yards from where he stood? The broken mast of a sunken wreck!
Mitford's heart almost stood still, for he became aware that he had made
his way to the very cavern, in which the ill-fated _Lapwing_ had met her
doom, and around him were masses of wreckage that had been washed up and
thrown on the rocks at the inner end of the cave where he stood.
An involuntary shudder passed through the man's frame as he glanced
round expecting to see the dead bodies of his late shipmates. But
nothing of the kind was visible, and the spars, masts, and other
wreckage which had reached the rocks had been shattered into "matchwood"
by frequent gales.
John Mitford now hastened in eager hope along the sides of the cave
towards its mouth, intending to go out to the base of the cliffs,
forgetting, in his eagerness, that the mouth could not be reached
without a boat. He soon discovered this, and was then thrown into
another fit of despair by remembering that he could not swim.
Oh! how bitterly he blamed himself for having neglected to acquire such
a simple accomplishment. He might have learnt it when young, had he not
been indifferent, or lazy about it. Often had he been advised to learn
it by companions, but had treated the matter lightly and let the chance
go by--and now, only fifty yards or so of deep water intervened between
the end of the ledges of rock and the outside of the cavern, where he
might perhaps find foothold enough to scramble along the base of the
cliffs--but those fifty yards were equal to the Atlantic to him, he
could not swim that distance to save his life. Once or twice, in a fit
of desperation, he had almost plunged in to attempt it, and take his
chance. Fortunately his courage failed. Had he taken the plunge his
fate would no doubt have been sealed.
Returning to the inner end of the cave he searched among the wreckage
for wood, with which to make a raft, but it was so shattered that he
found no pieces large enough to be thus used. He found, however, a
barrel of pork and another of pease jammed into a crevice. These proved
an immense relief to his feelings, for they secured him against absolute
starvation, which he had begun to think stared him in the face.
From that time forward the unfortunate man made incessant and wild
efforts to get out of the cave. He climbed and scrambled about until
his clothes were almost torn off his back. He gathered the largest
masses of wood he could find and tied them together in bundles, until he
had made something like a raft; but John was not a handy workman; his
raft overturned the first time he tried it, and went to pieces, and he
would have been drowned at that time if he had not been within grasping
distance of the rocks. As it was, he got a fright which made him
finally turn from that method of escape in despair.
Then the raw pork and hard pease tried him severely, and brought on a
complaint which lasted a considerable time and greatly reduced his
strength, but John was tough, and recovered--though not much more than
the skeleton of his former self remained.
Thus he continued to exist in that cavern, during all the time that his
wife and friends were mourning him as dead; and in this condition was he
there seated, on the morning in which this chapter opens.
"Weary, weary--desolation!" moaned the unfortunate man, lifting his head
and gazing round, with the air of one from whom all hope has long since
departed.
It is said, or supposed, that when a spoke in Fortune's wheel is at the
lowest, there must needs be a rise. Mitford's experience at this time
would seem to give ground for belief in the saying; for the word
"desolation" had scarcely passed his lips, when distant voices of men
were heard, causing his heart to bound violently. Next moment a boat
glided in front of the cave's mouth.
John Mitford sprang up and gave vent to a yell!
Hope raised to strong life after being long deferred; despair suddenly
trampled in the dust; joy bounding as from the tomb into rampant being--
and a host of indescribable sentiments and passions found vent in that
tremendous, that inconceivable howl!