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.”
“Fish, tin, and copper,” echoed Captain Dan.
“In good sooth,” continued Mr Donnithorne, “I have often thought of turning teetotaller myself, but feared to do so lest my wife should take to drinking, just out of opposition. However, let that pass—and now, Oliver, open thy mouth, lad, and relate those surprising adventures of which you have given me a hint.”
“Indeed, uncle, I do not say they are very surprising, although, doubtless, somewhat new to one who has been bred, if not born, in comparatively quiet regions of the earth.”
Here Oliver related circumstantially to his wondering auditors the events which befell him after the time when he left his uncle in the lane—being interrupted only with an occasional exclamation—until he reached the part when he knocked down the man who had rescued him from the waves, when Mr Donnithorne interrupted him with an uncontrollable burst.
“Ha!” shouted the old gentleman; “what! knocked down the man who saved your life, nephew? Fie, fie! But you have not told us his name yet. What was it?”
“His comrades called him Jim, as I have said; and I think that he once referred to himself as Jim Cuttance, or something like that.”
“What say you, boy?” exclaimed Mr Donnithorne, pushing back his chair and gazing at his nephew in amazement. “Hast fought side by side with Jim Cuttance, and then knocked him down?”
“Indeed I have,” said Oliver, not quite sure whether his uncle regarded him as a hero or a fool.
The roar of laughter which his answer drew from Captain Dan and his uncle did not tend to enlighten him much.
“Oh! Oliver, Oliver,” said the old gentleman, on recovering some degree of composure, “you should have lived in the days of good King Arthur, and been one of the Knights of the Round Table. Knocked down Jim Cuttance! What think’ee, Captain Dan?”
“I think,” said the captain, still chuckling quietly, “that the less our friend says about the matter the better for himself.”
“Why so?” inquired Oliver quickly.
“Because,” replied his uncle, with some return of gravity, “you have assisted one of the most notorious smugglers that ever lived, to fight his Majesty’s coastguard—that’s all. What say you, Molly—shall we convict Oliver on his own confession?”
The good lady thus appealed to admitted that it was a serious matter, but urged that as Oliver did the thing in ignorance and out of gratitude, he ought to be forgiven.
“I think he ought to be forgiven for having knocked down Jim Cuttance,” said Captain Dan.
“Is he then so notorious?” asked Oliver.
“Why, he is the most daring smuggler on the coast,” replied Captain Dan, “and has given the preventive men more trouble than all the others put together. In fact, he is a man who deserves to be hanged, and will probably come to his proper end ere long, if not shot in a brawl beforehand.”
“I fear he stands some chance of it now,” said Mr Donnithorne, with a sigh, “for he has been talking of erecting a battery near his den at Prussia Cove, and openly defying the Government men.”
“You seem to differ from Captain Dan, uncle, in reference to this man,” said Oliver, with a smile.
“Truly, I do, for although I condemn smuggling,—ahem!” (the old gentleman cast a peculiar glance at the captain), “I don’t like to see a sturdy man hanged or shot—and Jim Cuttance is a stout fellow. I question much whether you could find his match, Captain Dan, amongst all your men?”
“That I could, easily,” said the captain with a quiet smile.
“Pardon me, captain,” said Oliver, “my uncle has not yet informed me on the point. May I ask what corps you belong to?”
“To a sturdy corps of tough lads,” answered the captain, with another of his quiet smiles—“men who have smelt powder, most of ’em, since they were little boys—live on the battlefield, I may say, almost night and day—spring more mines in a year than all the soldiers in the world put together—and shorten their lives by the stern labour they undergo; but they burn powder to raise, not to waste, metal. Their uniform is red, too, though not quite so red, nor yet so elegant, as that of the men in his Majesty’s service. I am one of the underground captains, sir, of Botallack mine.”
Captain Dan’s colour heightened a very little, and the tones of his voice became a little more powerful as he concluded this reply; but there was no other indication that the enthusiastic soul of one of the “captains” of the most celebrated mine in Cornwall was moved. Oliver felt, however, the contact with a kindred spirit, and, expressing much interest in the mines, proceeded to ask many questions of the captain, who, nothing loath, answered all his queries, and explained to him that he was one of the “captains,” or “agents,” whose duty it was to superintend the men and the works below the surface—hence the title of “underground;” while those who super-intended the works above ground were styled “grass, or surface captains.” He also made an appointment to conduct the young doctor underground, and go over the mine with him at an early date.
While the party in old Mr Donnithorne’s dwelling were thus enjoying themselves, a great storm was gathering, and two events, very different from each other in character, were taking place—the one quiet, and apparently unimportant, the other tremendous and fatal—both bearing on and seriously influencing the subjects of our tale.