Whatever claims
this story may have upon the notice of the world, they will rest on no niceties
of style or aptness of illustration. It is a plain tale, plainly told: nor, as
I conceive, does its native horror need any ingenious embellishment. There are many
books that I, though a man of no great erudition, can remember, which gain much
of interest from the pertinent and appropriate comments with which the writer
has seen fit to illustrate any striking situation. From such books an observing
man may often draw the exactest rules for the regulation of life and conduct,
and their authors may therefore be esteemed public benefactors. Among these I,
Jasper Trenoweth, can claim no place; yet I venture to think my history will
not altogether lack interest—and this for two reasons. It deals with the
last chapter (I pray Heaven it be the last) in the adventures of a very
remarkable gem—none other, in fact, than the Great Ruby of Ceylon; and it
lifts, at least in part, the veil which for some years has hidden a certain
mystery of the sea. For the moral, it must be sought by the reader himself in
the following pages.
To make all
clear, I must go back half a century, and begin with the strange and
unaccountable Will made in the year of Grace 1837 by my grandfather, Amos Trenoweth,
of Lantrig in the
I have hinted,
what I fear is but the truth, that my grandfather had led a hot and riotous
youth, fearing neither God, man, nor devil. Before his return, however, he had
"got religion" from some quarter, and was confirmed in it by the
preaching of one Jonathan Wilkins, as I have heard, a Methodist from "up
the country," and a powerful mover of souls. As might have been expected
in such a man as my grandfather, this religion was of a joyless and gloomy
order, full of anticipations of hell-fire and conviction of the sinfulness of
ordinary folk. But it undoubtedly was sincere, for his wife Philippa believed
in it, and the master and mistress of Lantrig were alike the glory and strong
support of the meeting-house at Polkimbra until her death. After this event,
her husband shut himself up with the tortures of his own stern conscience, and
was seen by few. In this dismal self-communing he died on the 27th of October,
1837, leaving behind him one mourner, his son Ezekiel, then a strong and comely
youth of twenty-two.
This brings me
to my grandfather's Will, discovered amongst his papers after his death; and
surely no stranger or more perplexing document was ever penned, especially as
in this case any will was unnecessary, seeing that only one son was left to
claim the inheritance. Men guessed that those dark years of seclusion and
self-repression had been spent in wrestling with memories of a sinful and
perhaps a criminal past, and predicted that Amos Trenoweth could not die
without confession. They were partly right, from knowledge of human nature; and
partly wrong, from ignorance of my grandfather's character.
The Will was
dated "June 15th, 1837," and ran as follows:—
"I, Amos Trenoweth, of Lantrig, in the Parish of Polkimbra and County of Cornwall, feeling, in this year of Grace Eighteen hundred and thirty-seven, that my Bodily Powers are failing and the Hour drawing near when I shall be called to account for my Many and Grievous Sins, do hereby make Provision for my Death and also for my son Ezekiel, together with such Descendants as may hereafter be born to him. To this my son Ezekiel I give and bequeath the Farm and House of Lantrig, with all my Worldly Goods, and add my earnest hope that this may suffice to support both him and his Descendants in Godliness and Contentment, knowing how greatly these excell the Wealth of this World and the Lusts of the Flesh. But, knowing also the mutability of earthly things, I do hereby command and enjoin that, if at any time He or his Descendants be in stress and tribulation of poverty, the Head of our Family of Trenoweth shall strictly and faithfully obey these my Latest Directions. He shall take ship and go unto Bombay in India, to the house of Elihu Sanderson, Esquire, or his Heirs, and there, presenting in person this my last Will and Testament, together with the Holy Bible now lying in the third drawer of my Writing Desk, shall duly and scrupulously execute such instructions as the said Elihu Sanderson or his Heirs shall lay upon him.
"Also I command and enjoin, under pain of my Dying Curse, that the Iron Key now hanging from the Middle Beam in the Front Parlour be not touched or moved, until he who undertakes this Task shall have returned and have crossed the threshold of Lantrig, having duly performed all the said Instructions. And furthermore that the said Task be not undertaken lightly or except in direst Need, under pain of Grievous and Sore Affliction. This I say, knowing well the Spiritual and worldly Perils that shall beset such an one, and having myself been brought near to Destruction of Body and Soul, which latter may Christ in His Mercy avert.
"Thus, having eased my mind of great and pressing Anguish, I commend my soul to God, before Whose Judgment Bar I shall be presently summoned to stand, the greatest of sinners, yet not without hope of Everlasting Redemption, for Christ's sake. Amen.
"AMOS TRENOWETH."
Such was the
Will, written on stiff parchment in crabbed and unscholarly characters, without
legal forms or witnesses; but all such were needless, as I have pointed out.
And, indeed, my father was wise, as I think, to show it to nobody, but go his
way quietly as before, managing the farm as he had managed it during the old
man's last years. Only by degrees he broke from the seclusion which had been
natural to him during his parents' lifetime, so far as to look about for a
wife—shyly enough at first—until he caught the dark eyes of Margery
Freethy one Sunday morning in Polkimbra Church, whither he had gone of late for
freedom, to the no small tribulation of the meeting-house. Now, whether this
tribulation arose from the backsliding of a promising member, or the loss of
the owner of Lantrig (who was at the same time unmarried), I need not pause
here to discuss. Nor is it necessary to tell how regularly Margery and Ezekiel
found themselves in church, nor how often they caught each other's eyes
straying from the prayer-book. It is enough that at the year's end Margery
answered Ezekiel's question, and shortly after came to Lantrig "for
good."
The first years
of their married life must have been very happy, as I gather from the hushed
joy with which my mother always spoke of them. I gather also that my first
appearance in this world caused more delight than I have ever given
since—God forgive me for it! But shortly after I was four years old
everything began to go wrong. First of all, two ships in which my father had
many shares were lost at sea; then the cattle were seized with plague, and the
stock gradually dwindled away to nothing. Finally, my father's bank
broke—or, as we say in the West, "went scat!"—and we were
left all but penniless, with the prospect of having to sell Lantrig, being
without stock and lacking means to replenish it. It was at this time, I have
since learnt from my mother, that Amos Trenoweth's Will was first thought
about. She, poor soul! had never heard of the parchment before, and her heart
misgave her as she read of peril to soul and body sternly hinted at therein.
Also, her best-beloved brother had gone down in a squall off the
So my father
sailed away, carrying with him—sewn for safety in his jersey's
side—the Will and the small clasped Bible; nor can I think of stranger
equipment for the hunting of earthly treasure. And the great iron key hung
untouched from the beam, while the spiders outvied one another in wreathing it
with their webs, knowing it to be the only spot in Lantrig where they were safe
from my mother's broom. It is with these spiders that my recollections begin,
for of my father, before he sailed away, remembrance is dim and scanty, being
confined to the picture of a tall fair man, with huge shoulders and wonderful
grey eyes, that changed in a moment from the stern look he must have inherited
from Amos to an extraordinary depth of love and sympathy. Also I have some
faint memories of a pig, named Eleazar (for no well-explained reason), which
fell over the cliff one night and awoke the household with its cries. But this
I mention only because it happened, as I learn, before my father's going, and
not for any connection with my story. We must have lived a very quiet life at
Lantrig, even as lives go on our Western coast. I remember my mother now as she
went softly about the house contriving and scheming to make the two ends of our
small possessions meet. She was a woman who always walked softly, and, indeed,
talked so, with a low musical voice such as I shall never hear again, nor can
ever hope to. But I remember her best in church, as she knelt and prayed for
her absent husband, and also in the meeting-house, which she sometimes
attended, more to please Aunt Elizabeth than for any good it did her. For the
religion there was too sombre for her quiet sorrow; and often I have seen a
look of awful terror possess her eyes when the young minister gave out the hymn
and the fervid congregation wailed forth—
"In midst of life we are in death.
Oh! stretch Thine arm to save.
Amid the storm's tumultuous breath
And roaring of the wave."
Which, among a
fishing population, was considered a particularly appropriate hymn; and, truly,
to hear the unction with which the word "tu-mult-u-ous" was rendered,
with all strength of lung and rolling of syllables, was moving enough. But my
mother would grow all white and trembling, and clutch my hand sometimes, as
though to save herself from shipwreck; whilst I too often would be taken with
the passion of the chant, and join lustily in the shouting, only half
comprehending her mortal anguish. It was this, perhaps, and many another such
scene, which drew upon me her gentle reproof for pointing one day to the text
above the pulpit and repeating, "How dreadful is this place!" But
that was after I had learned to spell.
It had always
been my father's wish that I should grow up "a scholar," which, in
those days, meant amongst us one who could read and write with no more than
ordinary difficulty. So one of my mother's chief cares was to teach me my
letters, which I learnt from big A to "Ampusand" in the old hornbook
at Lantrig. I have that hornbook still,
——"Covered with pellucid horn,
To save from fingers wet the letters fair."
The horn, alas!
is no longer pellucid, but dim, as if with the tears of the many generations
that have struggled through the alphabet and the first ten numerals and reached
in due course the haven of the Lord's Prayer and Doxology. I had passed the
Doxology, and was already deep in the "Pilgrim's Progress" and the
"Holy War" (which latter book, with the rude taste of childhood, I
greatly preferred, so that I quickly knew the mottoes and standards of its
bewildering hosts by heart), when my father's first letter came home. In those
days, before the great canal was cut, a voyage to the East Indies was no light
matter, lying as it did around the treacherous
Than this
blessed letter surely no written sheet was ever more read and re-read; read to
me every night before prayers were said, read to Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle
Loveday, read (in extracts) to all the neighbours of Polkimbra, for none knew
certainly why Ezekiel had gone to India except that, somewhat vaguely, it was
to "better hisself." How many times my mother read it, and kissed it,
and cried over it, God alone knows; I only know that her step, which had been
failing of late, grew firmer, and she went about the house with a light in her
face like "the face of an angel," as the vicar said. It may have
been: I have never since seen its like upon earth.
After this came
the great joy of sending an answer, which I wrote (with infinite pains as to
the capital letters) at my mother's dictation. And then it was read over and
corrected, and added to, and finally directed, as my father had instructed us,
to "Mr. Ezekiel Trenoweth; care of John P. Eversleigh, Esq., of the East
India Company's Service, Colombo, Ceylon." I remember that my mother sealed
it with the red cornelian Ezekiel had given her when he asked her to be his
wife, and took it with her own hands to Penzance to post, having, for the
occasion, harnessed old Pleasure in the cart for the first time since we had
been alone.
Then we had to
wait again, and the little store of money grew small indeed. But Aunt Elizabeth
was a wonderful contriver, and tender of heart besides, although in most things
to be called a "hard" woman. She had married, during my grandfather's
long absence, Dr. Loveday, of
My Aunt. "So, my dear, we thought as we were
driving in this direction we would see how you were getting on; and by great
good fortune, or rather as I should say (Jasper, do not hang your head so; it
looks so deceitful) by the will of Heaven (and Heaven's will be done, you know,
my dear, which must be a great comfort to you in your sore affliction), as
Cyrus was driving into Cadgwith yesterday—were you not, Cyrus?"
My Uncle. "To be sure, my dear."
My Aunt. "Well, as I was saying, as Cyrus
was driving into Cadgwith yesterday to see Martha George's husband, who was run
over by the Helston coach, and she such a regular attendant at the
Prayer-meeting, but in the midst of life (Jasper, don't fidget)—well,
whom should he see but Jane Ann Collins, with the finest pair of ducks, too,
and costing a mere nothing. Cyrus will bear me out."
My Uncle. "Nothing at all, my dear. Jasper,
come here and talk to me. Do you know, Jasper, what happens to little boys that
tell lies? You do? Something terrible, eh? Soul's perdition, my boy; soul's
ev-er-last-ing perdition. There, come and show me the pig."
What agonies of
conscience it must have cost these two good souls thus to conspire together for
benevolence, none ever knew. Nor was it less pathetic that the fraud was so
hollow and transparent. I doubt not that the sin of it was washed out with
self-reproving tears, and cannot think that they were shed in vain.
So the seasons
passed, and we waited, till in the late summer of 1849 (my father having been
away nineteen months) there came another letter to say that he was about to
start for home. He had found what he sought, so he said, but could not rightly
understand its value, or, indeed, make head or tail of it by himself, and dared
not ask strangers to help him. Perhaps, however, when he came home, Jasper (who
was such a scholar) would help him; and maybe the key would be some aid. For
the rest, he had been stricken with a fever—a malady common enough in
those parts—but was better, and would start in something over a week, in
the Belle Fortune, a barque of some 650 tons register, homeward bound
with a cargo of sugar, spices, and coffee, and having a crew of about eighteen
hands, with, he thought, one or two passengers. The letter was full of strong
hope and love, so that my mother, who trembled a little when she read about the
fever, plucked up courage to smile again towards the close. The ship would be
due about October, or perhaps November. So once more we had to resume our weary
waiting, but this time with glad hearts, for we knew that before Christmas the
days of anxiety and yearning would be over.
The long summer
drew to a glorious and golden September, and so faded away in a veil of grey
sky; and the time of watching was nearly done. Through September the skies had
been without cloud, and the sea almost breathless, but with the coming of
October came dirty weather and a strong sou'-westerly wind, that gathered day
by day, until at last, upon the evening of October 11th, it broke into a gale.
My mother for days had been growing more restless and anxious with the growing
wind, and this evening had much ado to sit quietly and endure. I remembered
that as the storm raged without and tore at the door-hinges, while the rain
lashed and smote the tamarisk branches against the panes, I sat by her knee
before the kitchen fire and read bits from my favourite "Holy War,"
which, in the pauses of the storm, she would explain to me.
I was much put
to it that night, I recollect, by the questionable morality at one point of
Captain Credence, who in general was my favourite hero, dividing that honour
with General Boanerges for the most part, but exciting more sympathy by reason
of his wound—so grievously I misread the allegory, or rather saw no
allegory at all. So my mother explained it to me, though all the while, poor
creature, her heart was racked with terror for her Mansoul, beaten,
perhaps, at that moment from its body by the fury of that awful night. Then
when the fable's meaning was explained, and my difficulty smoothed away, we
fell to talking of father's home-coming, in vain endeavours to cheat ourselves
of the fears that rose again with every angry bellow of the tempest, and agreed
that his ship could not possibly be due yet (rejoicing at this for the first
time), but must, we feigned, be lying in a dead calm off the West Coast of
Africa; until we almost laughed—God pardon us!—at the picture of
his anxiety to be home while such a storm was raging at the doors of Lantrig.
And then I listened to wonderful stories of the East Indies and the marvels
that men found there, and wondered whether father would bring home a parrot,
and if it would be as like Aunt Loveday as the parrot down at the "Lugger
Inn," at Polkimbra, and so crept upstairs to bed to dream of Captain
Credence and parrots, and the "Lugger Inn" in the city of Mansoul, as
though no fiends were shouting without and whirling sea and sky together in one
devil's cauldron.
How long I slept
I know not; but I woke with the glare of a candle in my eyes, to see my mother,
all in white, standing by the bed, and in her eyes an awful and soul-sickening
horror.
"Jasper,
Jasper! wake up and listen!"
I suppose I must
have been still half asleep, for I lay looking at her with dazzled sight, not
rightly knowing whether this vision were real or part of my strange dreams.
"Jasper,
for the love of God wake up!"
At this, so full
were her words of mortal fear, I shook off my drowsiness and sat up in bed,
wide awake now and staring at the strange apparition. My mother was white as
death, and trembling so that the candle in her hand shook to and fro, casting
wild dancing shadows on the wall behind.
"Oh,
Jasper, listen, listen!"
I listened, but
could hear nothing save the splashing of spray and rain upon my window, and
above it the voice of the storm; now moaning as a creature in pain, now rising
and growing into an angry roar whereat the whole house from chimney to base
shook and shuddered, and anon sinking slowly with loud sobbings and sighings as
though the anguish of a million tortured souls were borne down the blast.
"Mother, I
hear nothing but the storm."
"Nothing
but the storm! Oh, Jasper, are you sure you hear nothing but the storm?"
"Nothing
else, mother, though that is bad enough."
She seemed
relieved a little, but still trembled sadly, and caught her breath with every
fresh roar. The tempest had gathered fury, and was now raging as though
Judgment Day were come, and earth about to be blotted out. For some minutes we
listened almost motionless, but heard nothing save the furious elements; and,
indeed, it was hard to believe that any sound on earth could be audible above
such a din. At last I turned to my mother and said—
"Mother
dear, it is nothing but the storm. You were thinking of father, and that made
you nervous. Go back to bed—it is so cold here—and try to go to
sleep. What was it you thought you heard?"
"Dear
Jasper, you are a good boy, and I suppose you are right, for you can hear
nothing, and I can hear nothing now. But, oh, Jasper! it was so terrible, and I
seemed to hear it so plainly; though I daresay it was only my—Oh, God!
there it is again! listen! listen!"
This time I
heard—heard clearly and unmistakably, and, hearing, felt the blood in my
veins turn to very ice.
Shrill and
distinct above the roar of the storm, which at the moment had somewhat lulled,
there rose a prolonged wail, or rather shriek, as of many human voices rising
slowly in one passionate appeal to the mercy of Heaven, and dying away in
sobbing, shuddering despair as the wild blast broke out again with the mocking
laughter of all the fiends in the pit—a cry without similitude on earth,
yet surely and awfully human; a cry that rings in my ears even now, and will
continue to ring until I die.
I sprang from
bed, forced the window open and looked out. The wind flung a drenching shower
of spray over my face and thin night-dress, then tore past up the hill. I
looked and listened, but nothing could be seen or heard; no blue light, nor
indeed any light at all; no cry, nor gun, nor signal of distress—nothing
but the howling of the wind as it swept up from the sea, the thundering of the
surf upon the beach below; and all around, black darkness and impenetrable
night. The blast caught the lattice from my hand as I closed the window, and
banged it furiously. I turned to look at my mother. She had fallen forward on
her knees, with her arms flung across the bed, speechless and motionless, in
such sort that I speedily grew possessed with an awful fear lest she should be
dead. As it was, I could do nothing but call her name and try to raise the dear
head that hung so heavily down. Remember that I was at this time not eight
years old, and had never before seen a fainting fit, so that if a sight so like
to death bewildered me it was but natural. How long the fit lasted I cannot
say, but at last, to my great joy, my mother raised her head and looked at me
with a puzzled stare that gradually froze again to horror as recollection came
back.
"Oh,
Jasper, what could it be?—what could it be?"
Alas! I knew
not, and yet seemed to know too well. The cry still rang in my ears and
clamoured at my heart; while all the time a dull sense told me that it must
have been a dream, and a dull desire bade me believe it so.
"Jasper,
tell me—it cannot have been—"
She stopped as
our eyes met, and the terrible suspicion grew and mastered us, numbing,
freezing, paralysing the life within us. I tried to answer, but turned my head
away. My mother sank once more upon her knees, weeping, praying, despairing,
wailing, while the storm outside continued to moan and sob its passionate
litany.
Morning came at
last, and with the first grey light the storm had spent its fury. By degrees my
mother had grown calmer, and was now sleeping peacefully upon her bed, worn out
with the passion of her terror. I had long ago dressed; but even had I wished
to sleep again, curiosity to know the meaning of that awful cry would have been
too strong for me. So, as soon as I saw that my mother was asleep, I took my
boots in my hand and crept downstairs. The kitchen looked so ghostly in the dim
light, that I had almost resolved to give up my plan and go back, but reflected
that it behoved me to play the man, if only to be able to cheer mother when I
came back. So, albeit with my heart in my mouth, I drew back the
bolt—that surely, for all my care, never creaked so loudly before or
since—and stepped out into the cool air. The fresh breeze that smote my
cheeks as I sat down outside to put on my boots brought me back to the everyday
world—a world that seemed to make the events of the night unreal and
baseless, so that I had, with boyish elasticity of temper, almost forgotten all
fear as I began to descend the cliff towards Ready-Money Cove.
Before I go any
further, it will be necessary to describe in a few words that part of the coast
which is the scene of my story. Lantrig, as I have said, looks down upon
Ready-Money Cove from the summit of Pedn-glas, its northern arm. The cove
itself is narrow, running in between two scarred and rugged walls of
serpentine, and terminating in a little beach of whitest sand beneath a
frowning and precipitous cliff. It is easy to see its value in the eyes of
smugglers, for not only is the cove difficult of observation from the sea, by
reason of its straitness and the protection of its projecting arms, but the
height and abruptness of its cliffs also give it seclusion from the land side.
For Pedn-glas on the north rises sheer from the sea, sloping downwards a little
as it runs in to join the mainland, but only enough to admit of a rough and
winding path at its inmost point, while to the south the cove is guarded by a
strange mass of rock that demands a somewhat longer description.
For some
distance the cliff ran out as on the north side, but, suddenly breaking off as
if cleft by some gigantic stroke, left a gloomy column of rock, attached to it
only by an isthmus that stood some six or seven feet above high-water mark.
This separate mass went by the name of Dead Man's Rock—a name dark and
dreadful enough, but in its derivation innocent, having been but Dodmen, or
"the stony headland," until common speech perverted it. For this
reason I suppose I ought not to call it Dead Man's Rock, the "Rock"
being superfluous, but I give it the name by which it has always been known,
being to a certain extent suspicious of those antiquarian gentlemen that
sometimes, in their eagerness to restore a name, would deface a tradition.
Let me return to
the rock. Under the neck that joins it to the main cliff there runs a natural
tunnel, which at low water leads to the long expanse of Polkimbra Beach, with
the village itself lying snugly at its further end; so that, standing at the
entrance of this curious arch, one may see the little town, with the purple
cliffs behind framed between walls of glistening serpentine. The rock is always
washed by the sea, except at low water during the spring tides, though not
reaching out so far as Pedn-glas. In colour it is mainly black as night, but is
streaked with red stains that bear an awful likeness to blood; and, though it
may be climbed—and I myself have done it more than once in search of
eggs—it has no scrap of vegetation save where, upon its summit, the gulls
build their nests on a scanty patch of grass and wild asparagus.
By the time I
had crossed the cove, the western sky was brilliant with the reflected dawn.
Above the cliffs behind, morning had edged the flying wrack of indigo clouds
with a glittering line of gold, while the sea in front still heaved beneath the
pale yellow light, as a child sobs at intervals after the first gust of passion
is over-past. The tide was at the ebb, and the fresh breeze dropped as I got
under the shadow of Dead Man's Rock and looked through the archway on to
Polkimbra Sands.
Not a soul was
to be seen. The long stretch of beach had scarcely yet caught the distinctness
of day, but was already beginning to glisten with the gathering light, and, as
far as I could see, was desolate. I passed through and clambered out towards
the south side of the rock to watch the sea, if perchance some bit of floating
wreckage might explain the mystery of last night. I could see nothing.
Stay! What was
that on the ledge below me, lying on the brink just above the receding wave? A
sailor's cap! Somehow, the sight made me sick with horror. It must have been a
full minute before I dared to open my eyes and look again. Yes, it was there!
The cry of last night rang again in my ears with all its supreme agony as I
stood in the presence of this silent witness of the dead—this rag of
clothing that told so terrible a history.
Child as I was,
the silent terror of it made me faint and giddy. I shut my eyes again, and
clung, all trembling, to the ledge. Not for untold bribes could I have gone
down and touched that terrible thing, but, as soon as the first spasm of fear
was over, I clambered desperately back and on to the sands again, as though all
the souls of the drowned were pursuing me.
Once safe upon
the beach, I recovered my scattered wits a little. I felt that I could not
repass that dreadful rock, so determined to go across the sands to Polkimbra,
and homewards around the cliffs. Still gazing at the sea as one fascinated, I
made along the length of the beach. The storm had thrown up vast quantities of
weed, that lined the water's edge in straggling lines and heaps, and every heap
in turn chained and riveted my shuddering eyes, that half expected to see in
each some new or nameless horror.
I was half
across the beach, when suddenly I looked up towards Polkimbra, and saw a man
advancing towards me along the edge of the tide.
He was about two
hundred yards from me when I first looked. Heartily glad to see any human being
after my great terror, I ran towards him eagerly, thinking to recognise one of
my friends among the Polkimbra fishermen. As I drew nearer, however, without
attracting his attention—for the soft sand muffled all sound of
footsteps—two things struck me. The first was that I had never seen a
fisherman dressed as this man was; the second, that he seemed to watch the sea
with an absorbed and eager gaze, as if expecting to find or see something in
the breakers. At last I was near enough to catch the outline of his face, and
knew him to be a stranger.
He wore no hat,
and was dressed in a red shirt and trousers that ended in rags at the knee. His
feet were bare, and his clothes clung dripping to his skin. In height he could
not have been much above five feet six inches, but his shoulders were broad,
and his whole appearance, cold and exhausted as he seemed, gave evidence of
great strength. His tangled hair hung over a somewhat weak face, but the most
curious feature about the man was the air of nervous expectation that marked,
not only his face, but every movement of his body. Altogether, under most
circumstances, I should have shunned him, but fear had made me desperate. At
the distance of about twenty yards I stopped and called to him.
I had advanced
somewhat obliquely from behind, so that at the sound of my voice he turned
sharply round and faced me, but with a terrified start that was hard to account
for. On seeing only a child, however, the hesitation faded out of his eyes, and
he advanced towards me. As he approached, I could see that he was shivering
with cold and hunger.
"Boy,"
he said, in an eager and expectant voice, "what are you doing out on the
beach so early?"
"Oh,
sir!" I answered, "there was such a dreadful storm last night, and
we—that is, mother and I—heard a cry, we thought; and oh! I have
seen—"
"What have
you seen?"—and he caught me by the arm with a nervous grip.
"Only a
cap, sir," I said, shrinking—"only a cap; but I climbed up on
Dead Man's Rock just now—the rock at the end of the beach—and I saw
a cap lying there, and it seemed—"
"Come along
and show it to me!" and he began to run over the sands towards the rock,
dragging me helpless after him.
Suddenly he
stopped.
"You saw
nothing else?" he asked, facing round and looking into my eyes.
"No,
sir."
"Nor
anybody?"
"Nobody,
sir."
"You are
sure you saw nobody but me? You didn't happen to see a tall man with black
hair, and rings in his ears?"
"Oh, no,
sir."
"You'll
swear you saw no such man? Swear it now; say, 'So help me, God, I haven't seen
anybody on the beach but you.'"
I swore it.
"Say,
'Strike me blind if I have!'"
I repeated the
words after him, and, with a hurried look around, he set off running again
towards the rock. I had much ado to keep from tumbling, and even from crying
aloud with pain, so tight was his grip. Fast as we went, the man's teeth
chattered and his limbs shook; his wet clothes flapped and fluttered in the
cold morning breeze; his face was drawn and pinched with exhaustion, but he
never slackened his pace until we reached Dead Man's Rock. Here he stopped and
looked around again.
"Is there
any place to hide in hereabouts?" he suddenly asked.
The oddness of
the question took me aback: and, indeed, the whole conduct of the man was so
strange that I was heartily frightened, and longed greatly to run away. There
was no help for it, however, so I made shift to answer—
"There is a
nice cave in Ready-Money Cove, which is the next cove to this, sir. The
smugglers used to use it because it was hidden so, but—"
I suppose my
eyes told him that I was wondering why he should want to hide, for he broke in
again—
"Well, show
me this cap. Out on the face of this rock, you say— what's the name? Dead
Man's Rock, eh? Well, it's an ugly name enough, and an ugly rock enough!"
he added, with a shiver.
I climbed up the
rock, and he after me, until we gained the ledge where I had stood before. I
looked down. The cap was still lying there, and the tide had ebbed still
further.
My companion
looked for a moment, then, with a short cry, scrambled quickly down and picked
it up. To me it had looked like any ordinary sailor's cap, but he examined it,
fingered it, and pulled it about, muttering all the time, so that I imagined it
must be his own, though at a loss to know why he made so much of recovering it.
At last he climbed up again, holding it in his hands, and still muttering to
himself—
"His cap,
sure enough; nothing in it, though. But he was much too clever a devil.
However, he's gone right enough; I knew he must, and this proves it, curse him!
Well, I'll wear it. He's not left behind as much as he thought, but mad enough
he'd be to think I was his heir. I'll wear it for old acquaintance' sake. Sit
down, boy," he said aloud to me; "we're safe here, and can't be seen.
I want to talk with you."
The rocky ledge
on which we stood was about seven feet long and three or four in breadth. On
one side of it ran down the path by which we had ascended; the other end broke
off with a sheer descent into the sea of some forty feet in the present state
of the tide. High above us rose an unscaleable cliff; at our feet lay a short
descent to the ledge on which the cap had rested, and after that another
precipice. It was not a pleasant position in which to be left alone with this
strange companion, but I was helpless, and perhaps the trace of weakness and a
something not altogether evil in his face, gave me some courage. Little enough
it was, however, and in mere desperation I sat down on the side by the path. My
companion flung himself down on the other side, with his legs dangling over the
ledge, and so sat for a minute or two watching the sea.
The early sun
was now up, and its oblique rays set the waves dancing with a myriad points of
fire. Above us the rock cast its shadow into the green depths below, making
them seem still greener and deeper. To my left I could see the shining sands of
Polkimbra, still desolate, and, beyond, the purple line of cliffs towards
Kynance; on my right the rock hid everything from view, except the open sea and
the gulls returning after the tempest to inspect and pry into the fresh masses
of weed and wreckage. I looked timidly at my companion. He was still gazing out
towards the sea, apparently deep in thought. The cap was on his head, and his
legs still dangled, while he muttered to himself as if unconscious of my
presence. Presently, however, he turned towards me.
"Got
anything to eat?"
I had forgotten
it in my terror, but I had, as I crossed the kitchen, picked up a hunch of
bread to serve me for breakfast. This, with a half-apologetic air, as if to
deprecate its smallness, I produced from my pocket and handed to him. He
snatched it without a word, and ate it ravenously, keeping his eye fixed upon
me in the most embarrassing way.
"Got any
more?"
I was obliged to
confess I had not, though sorely afraid of displeasing him. He turned still
further towards me, and stared without a word, then suddenly spoke again.
"What is
your name?"
Truly this man
had the strangest manner of questioning. However, I answered him duly—
"Jasper
Trenoweth."
"God in
heaven! What?"
He had started
forward, and was staring at me with a wild surprise. Unable to comprehend why
my name should have this effect on him, but hopeless of understanding this
extraordinary man's behaviour, I repeated the two words.
His face had
turned to an ashy white, but he slowly took his eyes off me and turned them
upon the sea, almost as though afraid to meet mine. There was a pause.
"Father by
any chance answering to the name of Ezekiel—Ezekiel Trenoweth?"
Even in my
fright I can remember being struck with this strange way of speaking, as though
my father were a dog; but a new fear had gained possession of me. Dreading to
hear the answer, yet wildly anxious, I cried—
"Oh, yes.
Do you know him? He was coming home from
My words died
away in terrified entreaty; but he seemed not to hear me. Still gazing out on
the sea, he said—
"Sailed in
the Belle Fortune, barque of 600 tons, or thereabouts, bound for
"Our house
is on the cliff above the next cove," I replied. "But, oh! please
tell me if anything has happened to him!"
"And why
should anything have happened to Ezekiel Trenoweth? That's what I want to know.
Why should anything have happened to him?"
He was still
watching the waves as they danced and twinkled in the sun. He never looked
towards me, but plucked with nervous fingers at his torn trousers. The gulls
hovered around us with melancholy cries, as they wheeled in graceful circles
and swooped down to their prey in the depths at our feet. Presently he spoke
again in a meditative, far-away voice—
"Ezekiel
Trenoweth, fair, broad, and six foot two in his socks; why should anything have
happened to him?"
"But you
seem to know him, and know the ship he sailed in. Tell me— please tell me
what has happened. Did you sail in the same ship? And, if so, what has become
of it?"
"I
sailed," said my companion, still examining the horizon, "from
But he had
lifted a great load from my heart, so that for very joy at knowing my father
was not among the crew of the Mary Jane I could not speak for a time,
but sat watching his face, and thinking how I should question him next.
"Sailed in
the Mary Jane, bound for Liverpool," he repeated, his face
twitching slightly, and his hands still plucking at his trousers, "sailed
along with—never mind who. And this boy's Ezekiel Trenoweth's son, and I
knew him; knew him well." His voice was husky, and he seemed to have
something in his throat, but he went on: "Well, it's a strange world. To
think of him being dead!" looking at the cap—which he had taken off
his head.
"What!
Father dead?"
"No, my
lad, t'other chap: him as this cap belonged to. Ah, he was a devil, he was.
Can't fancy him dead, somehow; seemed as though the water wasn't made as could
have drowned him; always said he was born for the gallows, and joked about it.
But he's gone this time, and I've got his cap. 'Tis a hard thought that I
should outlive him; but, curse him, I've done it, and here's his cap for
proof—why, what the devil is the lad staring at?"
During his
muttered soliloquy I had turned for a moment to look across
"What's the
matter, boy? Speak, can't you?"
"It's a
man."
"A man!
Where?"
He made a motion
forwards to look over the edge, but checked himself, and crouched down close
against the rock.
"Lie
down!" he murmured in a hoarse whisper. "Lie down low and look
over."
My arm was
clutched as though by a vice. I sank down flat, and peered over the edge.
"It's a
man," I said, "not fifty yards off, and coming this way. He has on a
red shirt, and is watching the sea just as you did. I don't think that he saw
us."
"For the
Lord's sake don't move. Look; is he tall and dark?"
His terrified
excitement was dreadful. I thought I should have had to shriek with pain, so
tightly he clutched me, but found voice to answer—
"Yes, he
seems tall, and dark too, though I can't well see at—"
"Has he got
earrings?"
"I can't
see; but he walks with a stoop, and seems to have a sword or something slung
round his waist."
"God defend
us! that's he! Curse him, curse him! Lie down—lie down, I say! It's death
if he catches sight of us."
We cowered
against the rock. My companion's face was livid, and his lips worked as though
fingers were plucking at them, but made no sound. I never saw such abject,
hopeless terror. We waited thus for a full minute, and then I peered over the
ledge again.
He was almost
directly beneath us now, and was still watching the sea. At his side hung a
short sheath, empty. I could not well see his face, but the rings in his ears
glistened in the sunlight.
I drew back
cautiously, for my companion was plucking at my jacket.
"Listen,"
he said—and his hoarse voice was sunk so low that I could scarcely catch
his words—"Listen. If he catches us it's death— death to me,
but perhaps he may let you off, though he's a cold-blooded, murderous devil.
However, there's no saying but you might get off. Any way, it'll be safest for
you to have this. Here, take it quick, and stow it away in your jacket, so as
he can't see it. For the love of God, look sharp!"
He took
something out of a pocket inside his shirt, and forced it into my hands. What
it was I could not see, so quickly he made me hide it in my jacket. But I
caught a glimpse of something that looked like brass, and the packet was hard
and heavy.
"It's
death, I say; but you may be lucky. If he does for me, swear you'll never give
it up to him. Take your Bible oath you'll never do that. And look here: if I'm
lucky enough to get off, swear you'll give it back. Swear it. Say, 'Strike me
blind!'"
He clutched me
again. Shaking and trembling, I gave the promise.
"And look,
here's a letter; put it away and read it after. If he does for me—curse
him!—you keep what I've given you. Yes, keep it; it's my last Will and
Testament, upon my soul. But you ought to go half shares with little Jenny; you
ought, you know. You'll find out where she lives in that there letter. But
you'll never give it up to him. Swear it. Swear it again."
Again I
promised.
"Mind you,
if you do, I'll haunt you. I'll curse you dying, and that's an awful thing to
happen to a man. Look over again. He mayn't be coming—perhaps he'll go
through to the next beach, and then we'll run for it."
Again I peered
over, but drew back as if shot; for just below me was a black head with
glittering earrings, and its owner was steadily coming up the path towards us.
There was no
escape. I have said that the ascent of Dead Man's Rock was possible, but that
was upon the northern side, from which we were now utterly cut off. Hemmed in
as we were between the sheer cliff and the precipice, we could only sit still
and await the man's coming. Utter fear had apparently robbed my companion of
all his faculties, for he sat, a stony image of despair, looking with staring,
vacant eyes at the spot where his enemy would appear; while as for me, dreading
I knew not what, I clung to the rock and listened breathlessly to the sound of
the footsteps as they came nearer and nearer. Presently, within about fifteen
feet, as I guess, of our hiding-place, they suddenly ceased, and a full, rich
voice broke out in song—
"Sing hey! for the dead man's eyes, my lads;
Sing ho! for the dead man's hand;
For his glittering eyes are the salt sea's prize,
And his fingers clutch the sand, my lads—
Sing ho! how they grip the land!"Sing hey! for the dead man's lips, my lads;
Sing ho! for the dead man's soul.
At his red, red lips the merrymaid sips
For the kiss that his sweetheart stole, my lads—
Sing ho! for the bell shall toll!"
The words were
full and clear upon the morning air—so clear that their weird horror,
together with the strangeness of the tune (which had a curious catch in the
last line but one) and, above all, the sweetness of the voice, held me
spellbound. I glanced again at my companion. He had not changed his position,
but still sat motionless, save that his dry lips were again working and
twitching as though they tried to follow the words of the song. Presently the
footsteps again began to advance, and again the voice broke out—
"So it's hey! for the homeward bound, my lads,
And ho! for the drunken crew.
For his messmates round lie dead and drowned,
And the devil has got his due, my Lads—
Sing ho! but he—"
He saw us. He
had turned the corner, and stood facing us; and as he faced us, I understood my
companion's horror. The new-comer wore a shirt of the same red colour as my
comrade, and trousers of the same stuff, but less cut and torn with the rocks.
At his side hung an empty sheath, that must once have held a short knife, and
the handle of another knife glittered above his waistband. But it was his face
that fascinated all my gaze. Even had I no other cause to remember it, I could
never forget the lines of that wicked mouth, or the glitter in those cruel eyes
as their first sharp flash of surprise faded into a mocking and evil smile.
For a minute or
so he stood tranquilly watching our confusion, while the smile grew more and
more devilishly bland. Not a word was spoken. What my comrade did I know not,
but, for myself, I could not take my eyes from that fiendish face.
At last he
spoke: in a sweet and silvery voice, that in company with such eyes was an
awful and fantastic lie, he spoke—
"Well, this
is pleasant indeed. To run across an old comrade in flesh and blood when you
thought him five fathom deep in the salt water is one of the pleasantest things
in life, isn't it, lad? To put on sackcloth and ashes, to go about refusing to
be comforted, to find no joy in living because an old shipmate is dead and
drowned, and then suddenly to come upon him doing the very same for
you—why, there's nothing that compares with it for real, hearty pleasure;
is there, John? You seem a bit dazed, John: it's too good to be true, you
think? Well, it shows your good heart; shows what I call real feeling. But you
always were a true friend, always the one to depend upon, eh, John? Why don't
you speak, John, and say how glad you are to see your old friend back, alive
and hearty?"
John's lips were
trembling, and something seemed working in his throat, but no sound came.
"Ah, John,
you were always the one for feeling a thing, and now the joy is too much for
you. Considerate, too, it was of you, and really kind—but that's you,
John, all over—to wear an old shipmate's cap in affectionate memory. No,
John, don't deprive yourself of it."
The wretched man
felt with quivering fingers for the cap, took it off and laid it on the rock
beside me, but never spoke.
"And who is
the boy, John? But, there, you were always one to make friends. Everybody loves
you; they can't help themselves. Lucy loved you when she wouldn't look at me,
would she? You were always so gentle and quiet, John, except perhaps when the
drink was in you: and even then you didn't mean any harm; it was only your
play, wasn't it, John?"
John's face was
a shade whiter, and again something worked in his throat, but still he uttered
no word.
"Well,
anyhow, John, it's a real treat to see you—and looking so well, too. To
think that we two, of all men, should have been on the jib-boom when she
struck! By the way, John, wasn't there another with us? Now I come to think of
it, there must have been another. What became of him? Did he jump too,
John?"
John found
speech at last. "No; I don't think he jumped." The words came
hoarsely and with difficulty. I looked at him; cold and shivering as he was,
the sweat was streaming down his face.
"No? I
wonder why."
No answer.
"You're
quite sure about it, John? Because, you know, it would be a thousand pities if
he were thrown up on this desolate shore without seeing the faces of his old
friends. So I hope you are quite sure, John; think again."
"He didn't
jump."
"No?"
"He
fell."
"Poor
fellow, poor fellow!" The words came in the softest, sweetest tones of
pity. "I suppose there is no mistake about his melancholy end?"
"I saw him
fall. He just let go and fell; it's Bible oath, Captain— it's Bible oath.
That's how it happened; he just—let go—and fell. I saw it with my
very eyes, and—Captain, it was your knife." To this effect John,
with great difficulty and a nervous shifting stare that wandered from the
Captain to me until it finally rested somewhere out at sea.
The Captain gave
a sharp keen glance, smiled softly, set his thin lips together as though whistling
inaudibly, and turned to me.
"So you
know John, my boy? He's a good fellow, is John; just the sort of quiet, steady,
Christian man to make a good companion for the young. No swearing, drinking, or
vice about John Railton; and so truthful, too—the very soul of truth!
Couldn't tell a lie for all the riches of the
I looked
helplessly at the model of truth to see how he took this tribute; but his eyes
were still fixed in that eternal stare at the sea.
"And so,
John, you saw him fall? 'Who saw him die?'—'I,' said the soul of truth,
'with my little eye'—and you have very sharp eyes, John. However, the
poor fellow's gone; 'fell off,' you say? I don't wonder you feel it so; but,
John, with all our sympathy for the unfortunate dead, don't you think this is a
good opportunity for reading the Will? We three, you know, may possibly never
meet again, and I am sure our young friend—what name did you say? Jasper?—I
am sure that our young friend Mr. Jasper would like the melancholy satisfaction
of hearing the Will."
The man's eyes
were devilish. John, as he faced about and caught their gaze, looked round like
a wild beast at bay.
"Will? What
do you mean? I don't know—I haven't got no Will."
"None of
your own, John, none of your own; but maybe you might know something of the
last Will and Testament of—shall we say—another party? Think, John;
don't hurry, think a bit."
"Lord,
strike me—"
"Hush,
John, hush! Think of our young friend Mr. Jasper. Besides, you know, you were
such a friend of the deceased—such a real friend—and knew all his
secrets so thoroughly, John, that I am sure if you only consider quietly, you
must remember; you who watched his last moments, who saw him—'fall,' did
you say?"
No answer.
"Come,
come, John; I'm sorry to press you, but really our young friend and I must
insist on an answer. For consider, John, if you refuse to join in our
conversation, we shall have to go—reluctantly, of course, but still we
shall have to go—and talk somewhere else. Just think how very awkward
that would be."
"You
devil—you devil!"
John's voice was
still hoarse and low, but it had a something in it now that sounded neither of
hope nor fear.
"Well, yes;
devil if you like: but the devil must have his due, you know—
"And the devil has got his due, my lads—
Sing hey! but he waits for you!
"Yes, John,
devil or no devil, I'm waiting for you. As to having my due, why, a
lucky fellow like you shouldn't grudge it. Why, you've got Lucy, John: what
more can you want? We both wanted Lucy, but you got her, and now she's waiting
at home for you. It would be awkward if I turned up with the news that you were
languishing in gaol—I merely put a case, John—and little Jenny wouldn't
have many sweethearts if it got about that her father—and I suppose you
are her father—"
Before the words
were well out of his mouth John had him by the throat. There was a short,
fierce struggle, an oath, a gleam of light—and then, with a screech of
mortal pain and a wild clutch at the air, my companion fell backwards over the
cliff.
It was all the
work of a moment—a shriek, a splash, and then silence. How long the
silence lasted I cannot tell. What happened next—whether I cried or
fainted, looked or shut my eyes—is to me an absolute blank. Only I
remember gradually waking up to the fact that the Captain was standing over me,
wiping his knife on a piece of weed he had picked up on the rock, and regarding
me with a steady stare.
I now suppose
that during those few moments my life hung in the balance: but at the time I
was too dazed and stunned to comprehend anything. The Captain slowly replaced
his knife, hesitated, went to the ledge and peered over, and then finally came
back to me.
"Are you
the kind of boy that's talkative?" His voice was as sweet as ever, but his
eyes were scorching me like live coals.
I suppose I must
have signified my denial, for he went on—
"You heard
what he called me? He called me a devil; a devil, mark you; and that's what I am."
In my state of
mind I could believe anything; so I easily believed this.
"Being a
devil, naturally I can hear what little boys say, no matter where I am; and
when little boys are talkative I can reach them, no matter how they hide. I
come on them in bed sometimes, and sometimes from behind when they are not
looking; there's no escaping me. You've heard of Apollyon perhaps? Well, that's
who I am."
I had heard of
Apollyon in Bunyan; and I had no doubt he was speaking the truth.
"I catch
little boys when they are not looking, and carry them off, and then their
fathers and mothers don't see any more of them. But they die very slowly, very
slowly indeed—you will find out how if ever I catch you talking."
But I did not at
all want to know; I was quite satisfied, and apparently he was also; for, after
staring at me a little longer, he told me to get up and go down the rock in
front of him.
The agonies I
suffered during that descent no pen can describe. Every moment I expected to
feel my shoulder gripped from behind, or to feel the hands of some mysterious
and infernal power around my neck. Close behind me followed my companion,
humming—