Deep Down, a Tale of the Cornish Mines Part 13

Maggot was knocked down at the first gush, but leaped up and turned to fly. Of course both candles--that in his hat as well as that which he had affixed to the wall--were extinguished, and he was at once plunged in total darkness, for the rays of the next light, although visible, were too feeble to penetrate with any effect to the extremity of the adit. Blinded by rushing water and confused by his fall, the smith mistook his direction, and ran against the side of the level with such violence that he fell again, but his st.u.r.dy frame withstood the shock, and once more he sprang to his feet and leaped along the narrow tunnel with all the energy of desperation.

Well was it for Maggot at that hour that his heart was bold and his faculties cool and collected, else then and there his career had ended.

Bending forward and stooping low, he bounded away like a hunted deer, but the rush of water was so great that it rapidly gained on him, and, by concealing the uneven places in the path, caused him to stumble. His relay of candles served him in good stead; nevertheless, despite their light and his own caution, he more than once narrowly missed dashing out his brains on the low roof. On came the water after the fugitive, a mighty, hissing, vaulting torrent, filling the level behind, and leaping up on the man higher and higher as he struggled and floundered on for life. Quickly, and before quarter of the distance to the adit mouth was traversed, it gurgled up to his waist, swept him off his legs, and hurled him against projecting rocks. Once and again did he succeed in regaining his foothold, but in a moment or two the rising flood swept him down and hurled him violently onward, sporting with him on its foaming crest until it disgorged him at last, and cast him, stunned, bruised, and bleeding, on the seash.o.r.e.

Of course the unfortunate man's friends had waited for him with some impatience, and great was their anxiety when the first of the flood made its appearance. When, immediately after, the battered form of their comrade was flung on the beach, they ran forward and bore him out of the stream.

Oliver Trembath being on the spot, Maggot wae at once attended to, and his wounds bound up.

"He'll do; he's all right," said Oliver, on completing the work--"only got a few cuts and bruises, and lost a little blood, but that won't harm him."

The expression of anxiety that had appeared on the faces of those who stood around at once vanished on hearing these rea.s.suring words.

"I knaw'd it," said John c.o.c.k energetically. "I knaw'd he couldn't be killed--not he."

"I trust that you may be right, Oliver," said old Mr Donnithorne, looking with much concern on the pale countenance of the poor smith, who still lay stretched out, with only a slight motion of the chest to prove that the vital spark had not been altogether extinguished.

"No fear of him, he's sure to come round," replied Oliver; "come, lads, up with him on your backs."

He raised the smith's shoulder as he spoke. Three tall and powerful miners promptly lent their aid, and Maggot was raised shoulder-high, and conveyed up the steep, winding path that led to the top of the cliff.

"It would never do to lose Maggot," murmured Mr Donnithorne, as if speaking to himself while he followed the procession beside Mr Cornish; "he's far too good a--"

"A smuggler--eh?" interrupted the purser, with a laugh.

"Eh, ah! did I say smuggler?" cried Mr Donnithorne; "surely not, for of all vices that of smuggling is one of the worst, unless it be an overfondness for the bottle. I meant to have said that he is too valuable a man for St. Just to lose--in many ways; and you know, Mr Cornish, that he is a famous wrestler--a man of whom St. Just may be justly proud."

Mr Donnithorne cast a sly glance at his companion, whom he knew to be partial to the ancient Cornish pastime of wrestling. Indeed, if report said truly, the worthy purser had himself in his youthful days been a celebrated amateur wrestler, one who had never been thrown, even although he had on more than one occasion been induced in a frolic to enter the public ring and measure his strength with the best men that could be brought against him. He was long past the time of life when men indulge in such rough play, but his tall commanding figure and huge chest and shoulders were quite sufficient to warrant the belief that what was said of him was possible, while the expression of his fine ma.s.sive countenance, and the humorous glance of his clear, black eye, bore evidence that it was highly probable.

"'Twould be foul injustice," said the purser with a quiet laugh, "if I were to deny that Maggot is a good man and true, in the matter of wrestling; nevertheless he is an arrant rogue, and defrauds the revenue woefully. But, after all he is only the cat's-paw; those who employ him are the real sinners--eh, Mr Donnithorne?"

"Surely, surely," replied the old gentleman with much gravity; "and it is to be hoped that this accident will have the effect of turning Maggot from his evil ways."

The purser could not refrain from a laugh at the hypocritical solemnity of the old gentleman, who was, he well knew, one of the very sinners whom he condemned with such righteous indignation, but their arrival at Maggot's cottage prevented further conversation on the subject at that time.

Mrs Maggot, although a good deal agitated when her husband's almost inanimate and b.l.o.o.d.y form was carried in and laid on the bed, was by no means overcome with alarm. She, like the wives of St. Just miners generally, was too well accustomed to hear of accidents and to see their results, to give way to wild fears before she had learned the extent of her calamity; so, when she found that it was not serious, she dried her eyes, and busied herself in attending to all the little duties which the occasion required. Little Grace, too, although terribly frightened, and very pale, was quite self-possessed, and went about the house a.s.sisting her mother ably, despite the tendency to sob, which she found it very difficult to overcome. But the baby behaved in the most shameful and outrageous manner. His naughtiness is almost indescribable. The instant the door opened, and his father's b.l.o.o.d.y face was presented to view, baby set up a roar so tremendous that a number of dogs in the neighbourhood struck in with a loud chorus, and the black kitten, startled out of an innocent slumber, rushed incontinently under the bed, faced about, and fuffed in impotent dismay!

But not only did baby roar--he also fell on the floor and kicked, thereby rendering his noise exasperating, besides exposing his fat person to the risk of being trod upon. Zackey was therefore told off as a detachment to keep this enemy in check, a duty which he performed n.o.bly, until his worthy father was comfortably put to bed, after which the friends retired, and left the smith to the tender care of his own family.

"He has done good service anyhow," observed Mr Donnithorne to his nephew, as he parted from him that evening; "for he has cleared the mine of water that it would have cost hundreds of pounds and many months to pump out."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

SHOWS THAT MUSIC HATH CHARMS, AND ALSO THAT IT SOMETIMES HAS DISADVANTAGES.

One morning, not long after his arrival at St. Just, the young doctor went out to make a round of professional visits. He had on his way to pa.s.s the cottage of his uncle, which stood a little apart from the chief square or triangle of the town, and had a small piece of ground in front. Here Rose was wont to cultivate her namesakes, and other flowers, with her own fair hands, and here Mr Thomas Donnithorne refreshed himself each evening with a pipe of tobacco, the flavour of which was inexpressibly enhanced to him by the knowledge that it had been smuggled.

He was in the habit of washing the taste of the same away each night, before retiring to rest, with a gla.s.s of brandy and water, hot, which was likewise improved in flavour by the same interesting a.s.sociation.

The windows of the cottage were wide open, for no Atlantic fog dimmed the glory of the summer sun that morning, and the light air that came up from the mighty sea was fresh and agreeably cool.

As Oliver approached the end of the cottage he observed that Rose was not at her accustomed work in the garden, and he was about to pa.s.s the door when the tones of a guitar struck his ear and arrested his step.

He was surprised, for at that period the instrument was not much used, and the out-of-the-way town of St. Just was naturally the last place in the land where he would have expected to meet with one. No air was played--only a few chords were lightly touched by fingers which were evidently expert. Presently a female voice was heard to sing in rich contralto tones. The air was extremely simple, and very beautiful--at least, so thought Oliver, as he leaned against a wall and listened to the words. These, also, were simple enough, but sounded both sweet and sensible to the listener, coming as they did from a woman's lips so tunefully, and sounding the praises of the sea, of which he was pa.s.sionately fond:--

SONG.

"I love the land where acres broad Are clothed in yellow grain; Where cot of thrall and lordly hall Lie scattered o'er the plain.

Oh! I have trod the velvet sod Beneath the beechwood tree; And roamed the brake by stream and lake Where peace and plenty be.

But more than plain, Or rich domain, I love the bright blue sea!

"I love the land where bracken grows And heath-clad mountains rise; Where peaks still fringed with winter snows Tower in the summer skies.

Oh! I have seen the red and green Of fir and rowan tree, And heard the din of flooded linn, With bleating on the lea.

But better still Than heath-clad hill I love the stormy sea!"

The air ceased, and Oliver, stepping in at the open door, found Rose Ellis with a Spanish guitar resting on her knee. She neither blushed nor started up nor looked confused--which was, of course, very strange of her in the circ.u.mstances, seeing that she is the heroine of this tale--but, rising with a smile on her pretty mouth, shook hands with the youth.

"Why, cousin," said Oliver, "I had no idea you could sing so charmingly."

"I am fond of singing," said Rose.

"So am I, especially when I hear such singing as yours; and the song, too--I like it much, for it praises the sea. Where did you pick it up?"

"I got it from the composer, a young midshipman," said Rose sadly; at the same time a slight blush tinged her brow.

Oliver felt a peculiar sensation which he could not account for, and was about to make further inquiries into the authorship of the song, when it occurred to him that this would be impolite, and might be awkward, so he asked instead how she had become possessed of so fine a guitar. Before she could reply Mr Donnithorne entered.

"How d'ee do, Oliver lad; going your rounds--eh?--Come, Rose, let's have breakfast, la.s.s, you were not wont to be behind with it. I'll be bound this gay gallant--this hedge-jumper with his eyes shut--has been praising your voice and puffing up your heart, but don't believe him, Rose; it's the fashion of these fellows to tell lies on such matters."

"You do me injustice, uncle," said Oliver with a laugh; "but even if it were true that I am addicted to falsehood in praising women, it were impossible, in the present instance, to give way to my propensity, for Truth herself would find it difficult to select an expression sufficiently appropriate to apply to the beautiful voice of Rose Ellis!"

"Hey-day, young man," exclaimed Mr Donnithorne, as he carefully filled his pipe with precious weed, "your oratorical powers are uncommon!

Surely thy talents had been better bestowed in the Church or at the Bar than in the sickroom or the hospital. Demosthenes himself would have paled before thee, lad--though, if truth must be told, there is a dash more sound than sense in thine eloquence."

"Sense, uncle! Surely your own good sense must compel you to admit that Rose sings splendidly?"

"Well, I won't gainsay it," replied Mr Donnithorne, "now that Rose has left the room, for I don't much care to bespatter folk with too much praise to their faces. The child has indeed a sweet pipe of her own.

By the way, you were asking about her guitar when I came in; I'll tell you about that.

"Its history is somewhat curious," said Mr Donnithorne, pa.s.sing his fingers through the bunch of gay ribbons that hung from the head of the instrument. "You have heard, I dare say, of the burning of Penzance by the Spaniards more than two hundred years ago; in the year 1595, I think it was?"

"I have," answered Oliver, "but I know nothing beyond the fact that such an event took place. I should like to hear the details of it exceedingly."

"Well," continued the old gentleman, "our country was, as you know, at war with Spain at the time; but it no more entered into the heads of Cornishmen that the Spaniards would dare to land on our sh.o.r.es than that the giants would rise from their graves. There was, indeed, an old prediction that such an event would happen, but the prediction was either forgotten or not believed, so that when several Spanish galleys suddenly made their appearance in Mounts Bay, and landed about two hundred men near Mousehole, the inhabitants were taken by surprise.

Before they could arm and defend themselves, the Spaniards effected a landing, began to devastate the country, and set fire to the adjacent houses.

"It is false," continued the old man sternly, "to say, as has been said by some, that the men of Mousehole were seized with panic, and that those of Newlyn and Penzance deserted their houses terror-stricken. The truth is, that the suddenness of the attack, and their unprepared condition to repel it, threw the people into temporary confusion, and forced them to retreat, as, all history shows us, the best and bravest will do at times. In Mousehole, the princ.i.p.al inhabitant was killed by a cannon-ball, so that, deprived of their leading spirit at the critical moment when a leader was necessary, it is no wonder that at _first_ the fishermen were driven back by well-armed men trained to act in concert.

To fire the houses was the work of a few minutes. The Spaniards then rushed on to Newlyn and Penzance, and fired these places also, after which they returned to their ships, intending to land the next day and renew their work of destruction.