Percy F. Westerman – The Complete Collection

Chapter 16

Then a seaman close to me cried out: "Never a helping hand will we get from they, bos'n. I know where we be, for yon's the Tilly Whim Caves, and nought but smugglers and wreckers bide hereabouts."

Smugglers and wreckers! Instantly my mind harked back to the scene in the court at Winton, when Master Joseph Hawkes gave testimony against the two rascally Dorset smugglers.

"Now, men, bestir yourselves," said the bos'n, turning towards us. "Bear a hand with that spar, and with the help of Providence we'll save our skins yet."

The prospect of safety lashed the worn-out crew to action. By their combined efforts a fore-t'gallant spar was dragged to the spot where the broken bowsprit formed a secure support. With a hoarse "Yo ho!" the spar was thrust forward, and just as its weight was on the point of overbalancing the weight of the seamen on the inboard part, the extremity touched the edge of the rocks. With another effort it was thrust securely on to the ledge, and the bos'n, with a line round his waist, crawled carefully ashore.

The rope served as a guideline to the rest, and without further mishap the twenty-two survivors of the Gannet made the perilous passage, though after three years' knocking about on the high seas it was a sorry homecoming.

The inhuman spectators of our plight had vanished, and not a single being was to be seen. In our wretched and half-starved condition we were nearly exhausted; in fact, many of the seamen dropped on the ground from sheer want of strength.

The bos'n, who was the life and soul of the survivors, then picked out the more active men to explore the locality. The old seaman who had recognized the coast said that two villages were within easy distance--Worth Matravers and Swanage--though a lofty barren line of rugged hills separated us from both of them.

By this time I had recovered sufficiently to look around. We were on a flat ledge some fifty yards in length and about ten broad, thirty feet from the water, and close on a hundred from the top of the cliffs that towered above us. Running back into the cliff were two or three small caves, but there was nothing in them save a few broken barrels and a coil of rope. The ledge itself, though level, was encumbered by numerous massive boulders that had at one time fallen from the beetling cliffs, while to the left ran a path which undoubtedly led to the top of the dizzy heights above us.

All the while the spray dashed over us, while swiftly the irresistible breakers were grinding to pieces the wreck of the ill-fated Gannet .

But there was no time for mournful reveries on the untimely end of our noble craft and her gallant captain, for already the exploring party had returned with the news that the cliff path had been found, and that a village was not far distant.

The sorry remnant moved forward, those whose strength failed them supported by the arms of their stronger companions.

The path was steep and rugged. After having been so long on board, and being weak in body through the hardships I had undergone, I felt weary and ill before half the ascent was completed; so, while my shipmates proceeded, I was obliged to sit down to recover my breath.

In a few moments I felt better; then, starting to my feet, I hurried after them, half running, half walking up the path.

I had not gone farther than twenty paces when my ankles turned under me, and I fell sideways, crashing into a thick bush.

Vainly endeavouring to save myself, I clutched at the bush, but the ground all around seemed to be flying upwards. The daylight gave way to pitch darkness, and I was falling, falling,...

Then I dimly remember striking on some hard substance, and with that I lost consciousness.

CHAPTER XII

--The Smugglers' Cave

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 c****d 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.