How long I remained insensible I cannot say, but with the return of my
senses I found myself lying on some warm, soft substance, though what
the object was the gloom did not permit me to ascertain.
The darkness was intense, and for some time I imagined it to be night,
till the remembrance of my fall gradually dawned upon me. Once I
thought I was dead, and pinched my limbs to make sure that I was not.
My head throbbed terribly, while my wet clothes struck a chill that was
still more striking by reason of the coldness of the hole or cave into
which I had fallen.
Then I moved my hands around to try and discover my surroundings. The
object on which I was lying was an animal, which, though motionless, was
either stunned or recently dead, for its body was still warm.
As far as my arms could reach I could touch nothing else save the floor,
which appeared to be of smooth rock. Then I looked upwards, where, far
above, a dim light flickered through a hole which was wellnigh covered
with brushwood. The light was not sufficient to illuminate the bottom of
the pit, the hole being, I imagined, some thirty feet in depth.
Here I was, then, in a kind of natural bottle dungeon or "oubliette",
such as I have often seen since, both on the Spanish Main and in our own
country. In fact, it can be well likened to the dungeons of the castle
at Newark (which was dismantled by the rebels), where a dismal hole some
twenty feet below ground is only accessible by a rope ladder dropped
through a narrow opening above.
How, then, could I escape? Climbing was an impossibility, so I
staggered to my feet and began a round of exploration, carefully
shuffling one foot in front of the other for fear of some hidden
pitfall, making towards the sound of water trickling from the roof, a
sound that seemed a long way off.
Presently my outstretched hand touched a wall of rock. Turning to the
left, I followed the direction of the wall, which, for a cave, was very
regular. At length my left hand touched a rock; either I had reached a
corner of the cave, or this was a pillar of detached stone.
Carefully feeling with both hands, I discovered that I was standing in
an angle, and right in the corner my hand came in contact with an object
that, on inspection, proved to be a gun; also, by the smoothness of the
barrel I knew that it had recently been in use, there being no rust on
the ironwork.
This discovery cheered me, as the cave would before long be visited by
the owner of the piece. Taking the musket in my hand I felt the pan,
removed the powder from it, then cocked the hammer. On pulling the
trigger the flash of the flint gave a tolerable illumination. This
action I repeated several times, till I could form some idea of the
cave.
In the part opposite where I was standing I saw more weapons, several
large casks, and bundles of what looked like woollen and silk goods.
Then the truth flashed across my mind: I was in one of the storehouses
of the Tilly Whim smugglers!
Replacing the musket where I found it, I made my way cautiously towards
the barrels. Here I felt about carefully, till my hand alighted on an
opened box of coarse biscuits, which served as a meal, as I was wellnigh
spent with hunger. Then, after a drink from the water that trickled
through the roof of the cave, I resumed my tour of inspection.
Groping on, my knees came in contact with a large wooden box. Its
contents were apparently hay and straw, but curiosity prompted me to
plunge my hand through the upper surface, and it was no surprise to me
to find that underneath was a thick layer of silk. The box or crate was
some six or seven feet in length and three in breadth, the depth being
about the same as the breadth; so its contents must have been worth
several hundreds of pounds.
While engaged in my investigations I heard the sound of footsteps and
voices. The smugglers were coming to their storehouse!
There was not a moment to be lost, and rapidly making up my mind, I
burrowed underneath the hay and straw, and concealed myself on the
layers of silk.
The sound of shuffling feet drew nearer, there was a noise like the
throwing back of a curtain, and the cave was flooded with a subdued
daylight.
The men feared no interruption, for they were singing a lusty song in
broad Dorset dialect, the chorus of which ran:
"He used to laugh a horrible laugh,
His fav'rite cry was 'Priddys',
His life he held in his own right arm,
His soul was Cap'n Kiddie's!"
Often in my younger days had old Henry Martin and Master Collings told
me tales of a buccaneering Captain Kidd and his bloodthirsty henchman, a
renegade Scotsman called Angus Priddys, whose career was ended at
Execution Dock; so I formed a conclusion that these smugglers were men
whose illicit dealings were not the worst of their accomplishments.
Through a knot hole in the side of the box I could see the whole of the
rascally crew.
There were about thirty, all well armed and dressed in usual mariner's
style, save that two or three wore smocks. Several carried beakers on
their shoulders, while two bore between them a small but heavy chest.
They had evidently had a successful haul, for all were in high spirits,
and the chorus of their gruesome song echoed along the walls of the
cavern. The refrain was interrupted by one of the men exclaiming that
their stores had been disturbed, and a search commenced which might have
ended with my discovery but for the fact that in the far end of the
cave, immediately underneath the funnel through which I had fallen, lay
the dead body of a fox, whose body had broken my headlong descent.
Deeming this a satisfactory explanation for this interruption, the
rogues resumed their carousing.
I could now see how near I had been to regaining my freedom, for just
beyond the place where my tour of exploration had abruptly terminated
was the entrance to the cave, skilfully hidden by a heavy screen of
painted canvas that, even at a short distance, would deceive all who
were not acquainted with the secret.
For nearly an hour the smugglers devoted themselves to a reckless
carouse, till at length their leader called for silence. With a
discipline that is rare amongst such people, the gang sat down on
barrels and rough stools and awaited their captain's orders.
In the broad Dorset dialect their leader recounted the various
successful runs they had made, as if vainglorious of their deeds, and
finished by demanding: "Be there any of ye as be not content with his
share?"
Their answer, with one voice, was "No". "Then," resumed the speaker, "if
so be as that ye are all content, how comes it that one of ye must needs
taake bloodmoney from the gaugers? And how comes it that dree[1] of
our'n have been stuck wi' a Bridport dagger?"[2]
[1] Dree=three, still used in Wilts and Dorset.
[2] "Stuck wi' a Bridport dagger".--A local witticism meaning to be
hanged, Bridport being noted for the manufacture of hempen rope.
The smugglers looked at one another in amazement. Clearly there was a
Judas amongst them.
"Stand out, Ned Crocker!"
There was a scuffling in the farther corner of the cavern, and presently
a man was roughly hauled out into the centre of the assembly. I could
see him distinctly; he was a little, under-sized apology for a man, with
sharp, pointed features, a nose resembling a bird's beak, a loose,
weak-natured mouth, and small, shifty eyes. His complexion was dark,
almost of a dirty yellow, while his face was covered with blotches and
pimples.
In his terror his skin turned almost a greyish white, while his thin
legs, which struck me as being too weak for even his undersized body,
were bent and shaking like a reed in a March gale.
Several of the rogues hurled imprecations at him, but their leader
silenced them by raising his hand.
"I bain't a done nothin'!" cried the miserable wretch.
"I don't know as 'ow ye've been taxed wi' aught," ejaculated the
captain, "but I'll do it now. Look you, Ned Crocker, have ye at any
time been unfairly done by? No? Then why did ye blab on the run we
made nigh Dancing Ledge, when Thompson, John Light, and Long Will of
Corfe were taken?"
"'Tweren't me, maaster!" answered the rogue sturdily and doggedly,
though his bearing did not fit with his manner of speech.
"Not ye? Ah, now harken! Know'st Jim Harker, the court-leet man and
king's officer at Wareham?"
A shake of the head was the only reply, though the accused man shook
more violently than before.
"No? Then methinks ye'll know him no more on this earth, for he's
dead!"
The speaker paused to mark the effect of his words, then he continued:
"An', what's more, we killed him close to Arishmell Gap. 'Twas his own
doin'. But on him we found this. Now, being no scholard, I ax Master
Fallowfield to read what's on this paaper."
Master Fallowfield, who, as I afterwards learned from the conversation,
was the parish clerk of Worth Matravers church on Sabbaths and holydays,
and an arrant smuggler at other times, took the paper and read in a
sonorous voice a message from a neighbouring justice to the ill-fated
James Harker, telling him that the reward due to the informer Crocker
would be paid at any time after Martinmas.
A deathly silence, broken only by the short gasps of the doomed wretch,
followed this announcement.
"And the sentence is----?"
"Death! Death!" shouted the smugglers with no uncertain voice. Crocker
made a desperate effort, shook off the men who advanced to hold him,
and, flinging himself down before the captain, clasped his knees and
begged for mercy. In a second, however, his executioners sprang upon him
and bound him hand and foot, and a scarf was fastened over his eyes.
One of the men drew a pistol. I watched the scene, for the moment
unmindful of my dangerous position, but drawn by an indescribable
feeling to watch the last moments of a doubly-dyed rogue.
Slowly the pistol was raised till its muzzle was level with the doomed
man's temple. I could even see the smuggler's finger resting lightly on
the trigger, while his eyes were turned towards the leader as if
awaiting the signal to fire. The remainder of the rascals looked on
impassively, as if thoroughly used to this kind of rough-and-ready
justice.
But the fatal signal never came. The captain signed for the pistol to
be lowered, the bandage was removed, and the culprit, already half-dead
with fear, was told that he was pardoned conditionally.
Without waiting to hear the conditions, Crocker lurched forward and fell
heavily to the ground in a dead faint.
"Hark ye, George Davies! When yon lubber comes to himself, tell him to
make hotfoot for Lyme, and put hundreds of leagues of sea betwixt him
and us. If he says nay, keep him safely till we return."
Once more the drunken revels were resumed, and again the rollicking
chorus, for the men would sing naught else, echoed through the cave:
"He used to laugh a horrible laugh,
His fav'rite cry was 'Priddys'!"
Gradually the dim light of the cave diminished, and I knew that night
was falling. Torches and lanterns were lighted, and still the smugglers
kept high carnival.
Suddenly, above the noise of the revellers, came a shrill whistle, and
as if by magic the din of merrymaking gave place to an almost oppressive
silence.
Again the whistle was repeated--like the cry of some bird of night--and
one of the smugglers replied with a sound like the hooting of an owl.
Then came the noise of brushwood being removed, and a block and tackle
were lowered through the chimneylike aperture.
"Now, my lads, look alive; casks first."
The smugglers worked with a will. The casks were rolled under the
tackle, and whipped up to the open air. Six in all were sent up, and
then the men began to handle the bales. At length two of the rogues
laid hands on the box of silks wherein I lay concealed. I had a
difficulty in restraining myself from springing up; but with a great
effort I remained perfectly quiet, though expecting every moment to find
a knife passed through my body, or a dozen rough hands seize me in their
merciless grip.
"Be this one to go?"
"Bide a bit. I'll ax."
The footsteps died away and came again.
"Yes, Charlie, up with it!"
"What a weight!" muttered one man with an oath. "Here, Dick, come here
a moment and bear a hand. Who'd a thought as that silk be so weighty?"
"Is the straw agoin' too?"
My heart was literally in my mouth.
"No; but stop! P'raps it'll save questions being axed, and straw's
cheap enow."
I felt myself being lifted with my luxurious bed and carried across the
floor of the cave. Then slings were fastened round the crate, the tackle
creaked, and I was on my way to the open air, the box rubbing and
grinding against the sides of the shaft in its ascent.