Deep Down, a Tale of the Cornish Mines
“Truly I had been gone altogether but for your timely assistance; may God reward you for it!” said Oliver earnestly.
“Well, I don’t think you would be so ready to thank me if you did knaw I had half made up my mind to lev ’ee go.”
Oliver looked at the man in some surprise, for he spoke gruffly, almost angrily, and was evidently in earnest.
“You are jesting,” said he incredulously.
“Jestin’; no I ain’t, maister. Do ’ee see the boat out over?” he said, pointing to a small craft full of men which was being rowed swiftly round a point not more than half a mile distant; “the villains are after me. They might as well have tried to kitch a cunger by the tail as nab Jim Cuttance in one of his dens, if he hadn’t bin forced by the softness of his ’art to pull a young fool out o’ the say. You’ll have to help me to fight, lad, as I’ve saved your life. Come, follow me to the cave.”
“But—my clothes—” said Oliver, glancing round him in search of his garments.
“They’re all safe up here; come along, sur, an’ look sharp.”
At any other time, and in other circumstances, Oliver Trembath’s fiery spirit would have resented the tone and manner of this man’s address, but the feeling that he owed his life to him, and that in some way he appeared to be the innocent cause of bringing misfortune on him, induced him to restrain his feelings and obey without question the mandate of his rescuer. Jim Cuttance led the way to a cave in the rugged cliffs, the low entrance to which was concealed by a huge mass of granite. The moment they entered several voices burst forth in abuse of the fisherman for his folly in exposing himself; but the latter only replied with a sarcastic laugh, and advised his comrades to get ready for action, for he had been seen by the enemy, who would be down on them directly. At the same time he pointed to Oliver’s clothes, which lay in a recess in the side of the cavern.
The youth dressed himself rapidly, and, while thus engaged, observed that there were five men in the cavern, besides his guide, with whom they retired into the farthest recess of the place, and entered into animated and apparently angry, though low-toned, conversation. At length their leader, for such he evidently was, swung away from them, exclaiming, with a laugh, “Well, well, he’s a good recruit, and if he should peach on we—us can—”
He concluded the sentence with a significant grunt.
“Now, sur,” he said, advancing with his comrade towards Oliver, who was completing his toilet, “they’ll be here in ten minutes, an’ it is expected that you will lend we a hand. Here’s a weapon for you.”
So saying, he handed a large pistol to Oliver, who received it with some hesitation.
“I trust that your cause is a good one,” he said. “You cannot expect me to fight for you, even though I am indebted to you for my life, without knowing against whom I fight, and why.”
At this a tall thick-set man suddenly cocked his pistol, and uttering a fierce oath swore that if the stranger would not fight, he’d shoot him through the head.
“Silence, Joe Tonkin!” cried Jim Cuttance, in a tone that at once subdued the man.
Oliver, whose eyes had flashed like those of a tiger, drew himself up, and said— “Look at me, lads; I have no desire to boast of what I can or will do, but I assure you it would be as easy to turn back the rising tide as to force me to fight against my will—except, indeed, with yourselves. As I have said, I owe my life to your leader, and apparently have been the innocent means of drawing his enemies upon him. Gratitude tells me to help him if I can, and help him will if the cause be not a bad one.”
“Well spoken, sur,” said the leader, with an approving nod; “see to the weapons, Maggot, and I’ll explain it all to the gentleman.”
So saying, he too Oliver aside, told him hurriedly that the men who ere expected to attack them were fishermen belonging to a neighbouring cove, whose mackerel nets had been accidentally cut by his boat some weeks ago, and who were bent on revenge, not believing that the thing had been done by accident.
“But surely you don’t mean to use fire-arms against them in such a quarrel?” said Oliver.
A sort of humorous smile crossed the swarthy countenance of the man as he replied—
“They will use pistols against we.”
“Be that as it may,” said Oliver; “I will never consent to risk taking the life of a countryman in such a cause.”
“But you can’t fight without a weapon,” said the man; “and sure, if ’ee don’t shut them they’ll shut you.”
“No matter, I’ll take my chance,” said Oliver; “my good cudgel would have served me well enough, but it seems to have been swept away by the sea. Here, however, is a weapon that will suit me admirably,” he added, picking up a heavy piece of driftwood that lay at his feet.
“Well, if you scat their heads with that, they won’t want powder and lead,” observed the other with a grin, as he rose and returned to the entrance of the cave, where he warned his comrades to keep as quiet as mice.
The boat which had caused so much angry discussion among the men of the cave had by this time neared the beach, and one of the crew stood up in the bow to guide her into the narrow cove, which formed but a slight protection, even in calm weather, against the violence of that surf which never ceases to grind at the hard rocks of West Cornwall. At length they effected a landing, and the crew, consisting of nine men armed with pistols and cutlasses, hurried up to the cliffs and searched for the entrance to the cavern.
While the events which have been related were taking place, the shades of evening had been gradually creeping over land and sea, and the light was at that time scarcely sufficient to permit of things being distinguished clearly beyond a few yards. The men in the cavern hid themselves in the dark recesses on each side of the entrance, ready for the approaching struggle.
Oliver crouched beside his rescuer with the piece of driftwood by his side. Turning suddenly to his companion, he said, in an almost inaudible whisper—
“Friend, it did not occur to me before, but the men we are about to fight with will recognise me again if we should ever chance to meet; could I not manage to disguise myself in some way?”
“If you get shut,” replied his companion in the same low tone, “it won’t matter much; but see here—shut your eyes.”
Without further remark the man took a handful of wet earth and smeared it over Oliver’s face, then, clapping his own “sou’-wester” on his head, he said, with a soft chuckle, “There, your own mother wouldn’t knaw ’ee!”
Just then footsteps were heard approaching, and the shadow of a man was seen to rest for a moment on the gravel without. The mouth of the cave was so well hidden, however, that he failed to observe it, and passed on, followed by several of his comrades. Suddenly one of them stopped and said—
“Hold on, lads, it can’t be far off, I’m sartin’ sure; I seed ’em disappear hereabouts.”
“You’re right,” cried Jim Cuttance, with a fierce roar, as he rushed from the cavern and fired full at the man who had spoken. The others followed, and a volley of shots succeeded, while shouts of defiance and anger burst forth on all sides. Oliver sprang out at the same moment with the leader, and rushed on one of the boat’s crew with such violence that his foot slipped on a piece of seaweed and precipitated him to the ground at the man’s feet; the other, having sprung forward to meet him was unable to check himself, tripped over his shoulders, and fell on the top of him. The man named Maggot, having been in full career close behind Oliver, tumbled over both, followed by another man named John Cock. The others, observing them down, rushed with a shout to the rescue, just as Oliver, making a superhuman effort, flung the two men off his back and leaped to his feet. Maggot and the boatman also sprang up, and the latter turned and made for the boat at full speed, seeing that his comrades, overcome by the suddenness of the onset, were in retreat, fighting as they went.
All of them succeeded in getting into the boat unharmed, and were in the act of pushing off, when Jim Cuttance, burning with indignation, leaped into the water, grasped the bow of the boat, and was about to plunge his cutlass into the back of the man nearest him, when he was seized by a strong hand from behind and held back. Next moment the boat was beyond his reach.
Turning round fiercely, the man saw that it was Oliver Trembath who had interfered. He uttered a terrible oath, and sprang on him like a tiger; Oliver stood firm, parried with the piece of driftwood the savage cut which was made at his head, and with his clenched left hand hit his opponent such a blow on the chest as laid him flat on the sand. The man sprang up in an instant, but instead of renewing the attack, to Oliver’s surprise he came forward and held out his hand, which the youth was not unwilling to grasp.
“Thank ’ee, sur,” he said, somewhat sternly, “you’ve done me a sarvice; you’ve prevented me committin’ two murders, an’ taught me a lesson I never knaw’d afore—that Jim Cuttance an’t invulnerable. I don’t mind the blow, sur—not I. It wor gov’n in feer fight, an’ I was wrang.”
“I’m glad to find that you view the matter in that light,” said Oliver with a smile, “and, truly, the blow was given in self-defence by one who will never forget that he owes you his life.”
A groan here turned the attention of the party to one of their number who had seated himself on a rock during the foregoing dialogue.
“What! not hurt, are ’ee, Dan?” said his leader, going towards him.
To this Dan replied with another groan, and placed his hand on his hip.
His comrades crowded round him, and, finding that he was wounded and suffering great pain, raised him in their arms and bore him into the cavern, where they laid him on the ground, and, lighting a candle, proceeded to examine him.
“You had better let me look at him, lads,” said Oliver, pushing the men gently aside, “I am a surgeon.”
They gave place at once, and Oliver soon found that the man had received a pistol-ball in his thigh. Fortunately it had been turned aside in its course, and lay only a little way beneath the skin, so that it was easily extracted by means of a penknife.
“Now, friends,” said Oliver, after completing the dressing of the wound, “before I met with you I had missed my way while travelling to St. Just. Will one of you direct me to the right road, and I shall bid you good-night, as I think you have no further need of my services.”
The men looked at their leader, whom they evidently expected to be their spokesman.
“Well, sur, you have rendered we some help this hevenin’, both in the way o’ pickin’ out the ball an’ helpin’ to break skulls as well as preventin’ worse, so we can do no less than show ’ee the road; but hark ’ee, sur,” here the man became very impressive, “ef you do chance to come across any of us in your travels, you had better not knaw us, ’xcept in an or’nary way, d’ye understand? an’ us will do the same by thee.”
“Of course I will act as you wish,” said Oliver with a smile, “although I do not see why we should be ashamed of this affair, seeing that we were the party attacked. There is only one person to whom I would wish to explain the reason of my not appearing sooner, because he will probably know of the arrival in Penzance this morning of the conveyance that brought me to Cornwall.”
“And who may that be?” demanded Jim Cuttance.
“My uncle, Thomas Donnithorne of St. Just,” said Oliver.
“Whew!” whistled the fisherman in surprise, while all the others burst into a hearty fit of laughter.
“Why do you laugh?” asked Oliver.
“Oh, never mind, sur, it’s all right,” said the man with a chuckle. “Iss, you may tell Thomas Donnithorne; there won’t be no harm in tellin’ he—oh, dear no!”
Again the men laughed loud and long, and Oliver felt his powers of forbearance giving way, when Cuttance said to him: “An’ you may tell all his friends too, for they’re the right sort. Come now, Maggot here will show ’ee the way up to St. Just.”
So saying, the stout fisherman conducted the young surgeon to the mouth of the cavern, and shaking hands with him left him to the guidance of the man named Maggot, who led him through several lanes, until he reached the highroad between Sennen church-town and St. Just. Here he paused; told his companion to proceed straight on for about four miles or so, when he would reach the town, and bade him good-night.
“And mind ’ee, don’t go off the road, sur,” shouted Maggot, a few seconds after the young man had left him, “if ’ee don’t want to fall down a shaft and scat your skull.”
Oliver, not having any desire to scat his skull, whatever that might be, assured the man that he would keep to the road carefully.
The moon shone clear in a cloudless sky, covering the wide moor and the broad Atlantic with a flood of silver light, and rendering the road quite distinct, so that our traveller experienced no further difficulty in pursuing his way. He hurried forward at a rapid pace, yet could not resist the temptation to pause frequently and gaze in admiration on the scene of desolate grandeur around him. On such occasions he found it difficult to believe that the stirring events of the last few hours were real. Indeed, if it had not been that there were certain uneasy portions of his frame—the result of his recent encounter on the beach—which afforded constant and convincing evidence that he was awake, he would have been tempted to believe that the adventures of that day were nothing more than a vivid dream.
Chapter Three.
Introduces a few more Characters and Homely Incidents
It was late when our hero entered the little town of St. Just, and inquired for the residence of his uncle, Thomas Donnithorne. He was directed to one of the most respectable of the group of old houses that stood close to the venerable parish church from which St. Just derives its title of “Church-town.”
He tapped at the door, which was opened by an elderly female.
“Does Mr Thomas Donnithorne live here?” asked Oliver.
“Iss, sur, he do,” answered the woman; “walk in, sur.”
She ushered him into a small parlour, in which was seated a pretty, little, dark-eyed, rosy-cheeked girl, still in, or only just out of, her teens. Oliver was so taken aback by the unexpected sight that he stood gazing for a moment or two in rather stupid silence.
“Your name is Oliver Trembath, I presume,” said the girl, rising and laying down the piece of needlework with which she was occupied.
“It is,” replied Oliver, in some surprise, as he blundered out an apology for his rudeness.
“Pray sit down, sir,” said the girl; “we have been expecting you for some time, and my uncle told me to act the part of hostess till his return.”
“Your uncle!” exclaimed Oliver, whose self-possession, not to say impudence, returned immediately; “if Thomas Donnithorne be indeed your uncle, then, fair maid, you and I must needs be cousins, the which, I confess, fills me with satisfaction and also with somewhat of surprise, for up to this hour I have been ignorant of my good fortune in being related to so—so—”
“I made a mistake, sir,” said the girl, interrupting a speech which was evidently verging towards impropriety, “in calling Mr Donnithorne uncle to you, who are not aware, it seems, that I am only an adopted niece.”
“Not aware of it! Of course not,” said Oliver, throwing himself into a large armchair, while his fair companion busied herself in spreading the board for a substantial meal. “I could not be aware of much that has occurred in this distant part of the kingdom, seeing that my worthy uncle has vouchsafed to write me only two letters in the course of my life; once, many years ago, to condole with me—in about ten lines, address and signature included—on the death of my dear mother; and once again to tell me he had procured an appointment for me as assistant-surgeon in the mining district of St. Just. He must have been equally uncommunicative to my mother, for she never mentioned your existence. However, since I have now made the agreeable discovery, I trust that you will dispense with ceremony, and allow me at once to call you cousin. By the way, you have not yet told me your name.”
The maiden, who was charmingly unsophisticated, replied that her name was Rose Ellis, and that she had no objection whatever to being called cousin without delay.
“Well, cousin Rose,” said Oliver, “if it be not prying into secrets, I should like to know how long it is since my uncle adopted you.”
“About nineteen years ago,” replied Rose.
“Oh!” said Oliver remonstratively, “before you were born? impossible!”
Rose laughed—a short, clear, little laugh which she nipped in the bud abruptly, and replied—
“Well, it was only a short time after I was born. I was wrecked on this coast”—the expressive face here became very grave—“and all on board our ship perished except myself.”
Oliver saw at once that he had touched on a tender subject, and hastened to change it by asking a number of questions about his uncle, from which he gradually diverged to the recent events in his own history, which he began to relate with much animation. His companion was greatly interested and amused. She laughed often and heartily in a melodious undertone, and Oliver liked her laugh, for it was peculiar, and had the effect of displaying a double row of pretty little teeth, and of almost entirely shutting up her eyes. She seemed to enjoy a laugh so much that he exerted all his powers to tickle her risible faculties, and dwelt long and graphically on his meeting with the irascible old gentleman in the lane. He was still busy with this part of the discourse when a heavy step was heard outside.
“There’s my uncle,” exclaimed Rose, springing up.
A moment after the door opened, and in walked the identical irascible old gentleman himself!
If a petrified impersonation of astonishment had been a possibility, Oliver Trembath would, on that occasion, have presented the phenomenon. He sat, or rather lay, extended for at least half a minute with his eyes wide and his mouth partly open, bereft alike of the powers of speech and motion.
“Heyday, young man!” exclaimed the old gentleman, planting his sturdy frame in the middle of the floor as if he meant then and there to demand and exact an ample apology, or to inflict condign and terrible chastisement, for past misdeeds; “you appear to be making yourself quite at home—eh?”
“My dear sir!” exclaimed Oliver, leaping up with a look of dismay; “how can I express my—my—but is it, can it be possible that you are Mr Donnithorne—m–my—uncle?”
Oliver’s expression, and the look of amazement on the countenance of Rose Ellis, who could not account for such a strange reception of her newly-found cousin, proved almost too much for the old gentleman, whose eyes had already begun to twinkle.
“Ay, young man, I am Tom Donnithorne, your uncle, the vile, old, smuggling, brandy-loving rascal, who met his respectful nephew on the road to St. Just”—at this point Rose suddenly pressed her hand over her mouth, darted to her own apartment in a distant corner of the house, and there, seated on her little bed, went into what is not inaptly styled fits of laughter—“and who now,” continued the old gentleman, relaxing into a genial smile, and grasping his nephew’s hand, “welcomes Oliver Trembath to his house, with all his heart and soul; there, who will say after that, that old Donnithorne does not know how to return good for evil?”
“But, my dear uncle,” began Oliver, “allow me to explain—”
“Now, now, look at that—kept me hours too late for supper already, and he’s going to take up more time with explanations,” cried the old gentleman, flinging himself on the chair from which Oliver had risen, and wiping his bald pate with a red silk handkerchief. “What can you explain, boy, except that you met an angry old fellow in a lane who called your uncle such hard names that you couldn’t help giving him a bit of your mind—there, there, sit down, sit down.—Hallo!” he shouted, starting up impulsively and thrusting his head into the passage, “Rose, Rose, I say, where are you?—hallo!”
“Coming, uncle—I’m here.”
The words came back like an echo, and in another minute Rose appeared with a much-flushed countenance.
“Come along, lass, let’s have supper without delay. Where is aunty? Rout her out, and tell that jade of a cook that if she don’t dish up in five minutes I’ll—I’ll—. Well, Oliver, talking of explanations, how comes it that you are so late?”
“Because I took the wrong road after leaving you in the lane,” replied the youth, with a significant glance at his uncle, whose eyes were at the moment fixed gravely on the ground.
“The wrong road—eh?” said Mr Donnithorne, looking up with a sly glance, and then laughing. “Well, well, it was only quid pro quo, boy; you put a good deal of unnecessary earth and stones over my head, so I thought it was but fair that I should put a good deal more of the same under your feet, besides giving you the advantage of seeing the Land’s End, which, of course, every youth of intelligence must take a deep interest in beholding. But, sure, a walk thither, and thence to St. Just, could not have detained you so long?”
“Truly no,” replied Oliver; “I had a rencontre—a sort of adventure with fishermen, which—”
“Fishermen!” exclaimed Mr Donnithorne in surprise; “are ye sure they were not smugglers—eh?”
“They said they were fishermen, and they looked like such,” replied Oliver; “but my adventure with them, whatever they were, was the cause of my detention, and I can only express my grief that the circumstance has incommoded your household, but, you see, it took some time to beat off the boat’s crew, and then I had to examine a wound and extract—”
“What say you, boy!” exclaimed Mr Donnithorne, frowning, “beat off a boat’s crew—examine a wound! Why, Rose, Molly, come hither. Here we have a young gallant who hath begun life in the far west in good style; but hold, here comes my excellent friend Captain Dan, who is no friend to the smugglers; he is to sup with us to-night; so we will repress our curiosity till after supper. Let me introduce you, Oliver to my wife, your Aunt Molly, or, if you choose to be respectful, Aunt Mary.”
As he spoke, a fat, fair, motherly-looking lady of about five-and-forty entered the room, greeting her husband with a rebuke, and her nephew with a smile.
“Never mind him, Oliver,” said the good lady; “he is a vile old creature. I have heard all about your meeting with him this forenoon, and only wish I had been there to see it.”
“Listen to that now, Captain Dan,” cried Mr Donnithorne, as the individual addressed entered the room; “my wife calls me—me, a staid, sober man of fifty-five—calls me a vile old creature. Is it not too bad? really one gets no credit nowadays for devoting oneself entirely to one’s better half; but I forget: allow me to introduce you to my nephew, Oliver Trembath, just come from one of the Northern Universities to fight the smugglers of St. Just—of which more anon. Oliver, Captain Hoskin of Botallack, better known as Captain Dan. Now, sit down and let’s have a bit of supper.”
With hospitable urgency Mr Donnithorne and his good dame pressed their guests to do justice to the fare set before them, and, during the course of the meal, the former kept up a running fire of question, comment, and reply on every conceivable subject, so that his auditors required to do little more than eat and listen. After supper, however, and when tumblers and glasses were being put down, he gave the others an opportunity of leading the conversation.
“Now, Oliver,” he said, “fill your glass and let us hear your adventures. What will you have—brandy, gin, or rum? My friend, Captain Dan here, is one of those remarkable men who don’t drink anything stronger than ginger-beer. Of course you won’t join him.”
“Thank you,” said Oliver. “If you will allow me, I will join your good lady in a glass of wine. Permit me, Aunt Mary, to fill—”
“No, I thank you, Oliver,” said Mrs Donnithorne good-humouredly but firmly, “I side with Captain Dan; but I’ll be glad to see you fill your own.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Mr Donnithorne, “Molly’s sure to side with the opponent of her lawful lord, no matter who or what he be. Fill your own glass, boy, with what you like—cold water, an it please you—and let us drink the good old Cornish toast, ‘Fish, tin, and copper,’ our three staples, Oliver—the bone, muscle, and fat of the county.”