In Tresco’s Cave.

Tresco stood in his dark, dank cavern, and meditated upon the loneliness of life.

He was naturally a sociable man, and loved the company of his fellows, but here he was living a hermit’s existence, shut up in the bowels of the earth, with no better associates than the clammy stalactites which constantly dripped water upon the white, calcareous floors.

The atmosphere was so cold that it chilled the marrow of the goldsmith’s bones, and to render habitable the inner recess where he lived he was forced to keep a fire perpetually burning. To do this it was necessary for him to sally into the daylight, in order that he might collect firewood, of which there was in the neighbourhood of the cave an abundant supply.

Groping his way slowly through the winding passage, every twist and turn of which he knew in the dark, Benjamin passed into the lofty cavern which he had named the Cathedral, where the stalactites and stalagmites, meeting, had formed huge columns, which seemed to support the great domed roof overhead. This was a place which Tresco was never tired of admiring. “A temple built without hands,” he said, as he held aloft his candle, and viewed the snow-white pillars which stood on either side of what he named the Nave.

“What a place to preach in.” He who has no companions must needs talk to himself if he would hear the human voice. “Here, now, a man could expatiate on the work of the Creator, but his sermon would have to be within the fifteen minutes’ limit, or his congregation would catch their death of cold. ‘Dearly beloved brethren, the words of my text are illustrated by the house in which we are assembled.’” His voice filled the Nave, and reverberated down the aisles. “‘Here you have the real thing, built by the Master Builder, Nature, for the use of the Cave Man, and preserved for all time. How wonderful are the works of Creation, how exquisite the details. You have heard of the Doric, the Ionic, and the Corinthian columns, and of the beauties of Greek architecture, but compare these white, symmetrical piers, raised in one solid piece, without join or crevice. Observe yonder alabaster gallery where the organ swells its harmonious tones; observe the vestry, where the preacher dons his sacerdotal garb—they are perfect. But did I hear a lady sneeze? Alas! Nature forgot the hot-air pipes; the Cathedral, I admit, strikes a little chilly. Therefore I dismiss you, my brethren, lest you should catch pleurisy, or go into galloping consumption.’”

He finished with a laugh, and then passed into the small entrance-cave, which he denominated facetiously the Church Porch. Here he blew out his candle, which he placed on a rock, and emerged from his hiding-place.

He had burst from the restful, if cold, comfort of his cave upon the warring elements. Peal after peal of thunder rolled along the wooded slopes of the rugged range; fierce flashes of lightning pierced the gloom of the dark valley below, and from the black thunder-cloud overhead there poured a torrent of rain which made the goldsmith think of the Deluge.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, as he stood in the entrance of his damp den, “there are worse places than my cave after all. But what I want is firewood. Lord! that flash almost blinded me. Rumble—grumble—tumble—crash—bang! Go it; never mind me. You aren’t frightening me worth tuppence. I rather like a little electricity and aqua pura.” In answer there was a dazzling flash, followed by a terrific clap of thunder which seemed to burst almost above Benjamin’s head. “All right, if you insist—I’ll go. Sorry I obtruded ... Good afternoon.”

He retreated into the cave, took up his candle, which he relighted, saying to himself, “I’ll go and explore that passage behind the Organ Loft, and see if it leads to the outer world. In case I get shut in here, like a rat in a hole, it’s just as well for me to know my burrow thoroughly.”

Groping his way up a slippery ascent where his feet continually stumbled over the uneven surface of the encrusted floor, he climbed to the Organ Loft, where, screened behind a delicate, white tracery which hung from roof to floor of the gallery and assumed the shape of an organ, pipes and panels complete, he could see his candle’s flame shoot long fingers of light into the vast Nave below.

However, he spent but little time in contemplation of the weird scene, but turning sharply to the right he followed a narrow, winding passage which led into the heart of the limestone mountain. His progress was both slow and difficult, for the encrusting carbonate had, in many places, all but filled up the passage, and, in many others, the floor was so broken as to make it almost impossible for him to press onwards. Now he would squeeze himself between the converging sides of the passage, now he would crawl on hands and knees through a hole which would barely receive his shoulders; and thus, sweating, panting, bruised, and even bleeding where his hands and arms had been grazed by rasping and projecting rocks, he at length sat down to rest in a place where the tunnel broadened into a small chamber. How far he had pushed his way into the bowels of the earth he could not tell, neither was he thoughtful of the distance. What he was looking and hoping for, was a gleam of light ahead, but whenever he blew out his candle the inky blackness was so intense as to be painful to his eyes.

“My God! Supposing a man got in here, and couldn’t get back? Suppose I got stuck between two rocks?—I’d have to stop here till I grew thin enough to squeeze out.”

Quickly he re-lit his candle.

“That’s better,” he exclaimed. “There is after all some company in a lighted candle. We’ll now go on; we’ll press forward; we’ll see whither this intricate path leadeth. ‘Vorwarts’ is the word: no turning back till the goal is reached.”

He crept through a low aperture, and with difficulty he rose to his feet; a few steps further on he stumbled; the candle fell from his hand, and dropped, and dropped, and dropped, in fact he never heard it reach the bottom.

Feeling in his pocket for his matches as he lay prone, he struck a light, and held the burning taper beyond him as far as he could reach. All that he saw was a dark and horrible abyss. He struck another match with the same result. He seized a piece of loose rock, rolled it over the edge, and waited for the sound of its lodgment at the bottom. He heard it bumping as it fell, but its falling seemed interminable, till at length the sound of its passage to the nether regions died away in sheer depth.

Tresco drew a long breath.

“Never,” he said, “never, in the course of his two score years and ten has Benjamin been so near Hades. The best thing he can do is to ‘git,’ deliberately and with circumspection. And the candle has gone: happy candle to preserve the life of such a man as B.T.”

Slowly and with the utmost caution he crept backwards from the horrible pit. But his supply of matches was scanty, and often he bumped his head against the ceiling, and often he tripped and fell, till before long there was not a part of his portly person that was free from pain. Yet still he struggled on, for he realised that his life depended on his extricating himself from the terrible labyrinth in which he was entangled. He struck match after match, till his stock was expended, and then, panting, weary, and sore, he clenched his teeth and battled onward. It seemed miles to the end of the passage. He imagined that he had got into some new tunnel, the opening of which he had passed unwittingly when he crept into the trap; and to the natural dread of his situation was added the horrible fear that he was lost in the bowels of the earth.

And then, when his strength and nerve had all but given out, came deliverance. Before him he saw a faint glimmer of light, which grew brighter and brighter as he pressed painfully forward, and ere he knew that he was safe he found himself in the gallery behind the organ loft.

But what was the brilliant light that filled the nave of the Cathedral? What was the sound he heard? It was the sound of men’s voices.

Sitting round a fire, whose red flames illumined the white walls of the grotto, were four men, who talked loudly as they dried their wet garments before the blaze.

Tresco crept to the trellis-work of the gallery, and peered down upon the scene. In the shifting light which the unsteady flames threw across the great cave below he could hardly distinguish one man from another, except where facing the ruddy light the features of this intruder or of that reflected the fierce glow.

“I had to chiv the fat bloke, an’ he squealed like a pig when I jabbed ’im.” The speaker was sitting cross-legged with his back towards Tresco, and was wiping the blade of a big butcher’s knife.

“My man died coughing,” said another. “’E coughed as ’e sat like a trussed fowl, an’ when I ‘squeezed’ ’im, ’e just give one larst little cough an’ pegged out quite pleasant, like droppin’ orf to sleep.”

“It’s been a bloody mess,” remarked a third speaker. “There’s Garstang there, a mass of blood all over his shirt, and there’s the two men that was shot; any’ow you like to look at it, it’s an unworkmanlike job. All four of ’em should ha’ been ‘squeezed’—bullets make reports and blood’s messy.”

“Garn! Whatyer givin’ us, Dolly?” said the youngest member of the gang. “Didn’t you shoot your own man—an’ on the track, too? I don’t see what you’ve got to growl at. We’ve got the gold—what more do you want?”

“I shot the unfortunate man, your Honour, firstly because he was a constable, and secondly because he was givin’ trouble, your Honour. But I prefer to do these things professionally.” Dolphin’s mock seriousness tickled his hearers, and they laughed. “But, joking apart,” he said, “after all the experience we’ve had, to go and turn that mountain-side into a butcher’s shambles is nothin’ short of disgraceful. They all ought to’ve been ‘squeezed,’ an’ have died as quiet as mice, without a drop of blood on ’em.”

“All food for worms; all lying in the howling wilderness, where they’ll stop till kingdom come. What’s the use of worrying? Hand over that bag of gold, Garstang, an’ let’s have a look. I’ve got an awful weakness for nuggets.”

A blanket was spread on the floor of the cavern, and upon this were heaped bank-notes and sovereigns and silver that glittered in the fire-light.

The four men gathered round, and the leader of the gang divided the money into four lots.

“Here’s some of the gold.” The shrill-voiced young man handed a small but heavy bag to Dolphin. “There’s stacks more.”

“One thing at a time, William,” said the leader. “First, we’ll divide the money, then the gold, which won’t be so easy, as we’ve got no scales. Here, take your cash, and count it. I make it £157 7s. apiece.” From a heap of bundles which lay a few yards off he drew forward a tent-fly, and then he carried into the light of the fire a number of small but heavy bags, one by one, and placed them on the canvas.

“My lot’s only £147 7s.,” said a deep and husky voice.

“You must ha’ made a mistake, Garstang,” said Dolphin. “Count it again.”

While the hulking, wry-faced robber bent to the task, the leader began to empty the contents of the bags upon the tent-fly.

Peering through the tracery of the Organ Gallery, Tresco looked down upon the scene with wonder and something akin to envy. There, on the white piece of folded canvas, he could see dull yellow heaps, which, even in the uncertain light of the fire, he recognised as gold.

At first, half-stunned by the presence of the strangers, he was at a loss to determine their character, but from their conversation and the display of such ill-gotten riches, he quickly grasped the fact that they were greater criminals than himself. He saw their firearms lying about; he heard their disjointed talk, interlarded with hilarious oaths; he saw them stooping over the heaps of gold, and to his astonished senses it was plain that a robbery on a gigantic scale had been committed.

On one side of the fire the wet and steaming garments of the murderers were hung on convenient stalagmites to dry; upon the other side of the red blaze the four men, dressed in strange motley, gleaned from their “swags,” wrangled over the division of the plunder.

“There’s only a hundred-an’-forty-seven quid in my lot, I tell yer!” Garstang’s rasping voice could be plainly heard above the others. “Count it yerself.”

“Count it, Dolly, an’ shut his crooked mouth.”

“I’ll take his word for it,” said the leader. “We can make it good to you, Garstang, when we get to town and sell some gold. Now listen, all of you. I’m going to divide the biggest haul we’ve ever made, or are likely to make.”

“Listen, blokes,” interrupted Sweet William, with an oath. “Give the boss your attention, if you please.”

Tresco glued his eye tighter to the aperture through which he peered. There lay the dull, yellow gold—if only he could but scare the robbers away, the prize would be his own. He rose on one knee to get a better view, but as he did so his toe dislodged a loose piece of stone, which tumbled noisily down the gallery steps, the sound of its falling re-echoing through the spacious cavern.

In a moment the robbers were thrown into a state of perturbation. Seizing their arms, they glanced wildly around, and stood on their defence.

But all was hushed and still.

“Go forward, Garstang, and search the cave,” ordered the leader in a voice of authority.

With a firebrand in one hand and a revolver in the other, the big, burly man crept forward; his mates alert to fire over him at any object he might discover. His search was haphazard, and his feet were naturally uncertain among the debris which had accumulated on the floor of the cavern.

Skirting the grotto’s edge, he examined the inky shadows that lay behind pillar and projection, till he came to the stairs which led to the Organ Gallery.

Tresco, filled with an unspeakable dread, contemplated a retreat down the passage he had lately explored, where he might be driven by the murderers over the abyssmal depth which he had failed to fathom, when suddenly the man with the torch tripped, fell, and the flame of his firebrand disappeared in a shower of sparks. With an oath the prostrate man gathered up his bruised limbs, and by the aid of the flickering fire-light he groped his way back to his fellows, but not before he had placed his ear to the damp floor and had listened for the sound of intruders.

“There’s nobody,” he said, when he reached his mates. “The row was only a blanky spike that fell from the roof an’ broke itself. The ground’s covered with ’em.”

“Come on, then,” said Sweet William; “let’s finish our business.”

They gathered again round the treasure.

“You see, I have arranged it in two heaps,” said Dolphin—“nuggets in one, gold-dust in the other. I propose to measure out the dust first.”

Each man had provided himself with one of the leather bags which had originally held the gold, and their leader filled a pint pannikin with gold-dust. “That’s one,” he said, lifting it heavily. “That’s for you, old crooked chops.” And he emptied the measure into Garstang’s bag.

“Two.” He emptied a pannikinful of gold into Carnac’s bag.

“Three.” Sweet William received a like measure.

“Four.” Dolphin helped himself.

“That makes four pints of gold,” he said. “What d’you say, mates, will she go round another turn?”

“No,” said Carnac, “try a half-pint all round.”

Dolphin fetched a smaller pannikin from the swags, and the division of the gold continued.

To share the nuggets equally was a difficult matter, and a good deal of wrangling took place in consequence. This, however, was quieted by the simple expedient of tossing a coin for disputed pieces of gold. The biggest nuggets being thus disposed of, the smaller ones were measured in the half-pint pot, till at length the envious eyes of the goldsmith saw the last measureful disappear into its owner’s bag.

This exceedingly delicate matter being settled, the bushrangers sat round the fire, drank tea which they brewed in a black “billy,” lit their pipes, and—as is invariably the case with a gang of thieves—enacted again the awful drama in which they had lately played their horrible parts.

Shivering on the damp floor of the dripping gallery, Tresco strained his ears to hear every diabolical detail of the conversation.

“Garstang, old man, Dolly’s right; you’d better see to that shirt of yours. It looks as if you’d killed a pig in it.”

“The chap I chiv’d was as fat as a pig, anyway,” said the crooked-mouthed murderer, as he attempted to rub out the guilty stains with a dirty piece of rag. “The blood spurted all over me as soon as I pulled out the knife.”

“Take it off, man; it looks as bad as a slaughterman’s,” said the leader of the gang. “Throw it in the fire.”

“I consider I did my man beautifully,” said Carnac. “I told him to say his prayers, and while he knelt I just shot him behind the ear. Now, I call that a very pretty method of dying—no struggling, no fuss, no argument, simply a quick departure in an odour of sanctity.” And the gentlemanly murderer laughed quietly and contentedly.

“The blanky banker went ratty when he saw my gun,” said Sweet William. “I had to fair yank ’im through the supple-jacks an’ lawyers. It was something horrid—it made my arm ache. At larst I says, ‘Look ’ere, are you goin’ to walk, or am I to shoot you?’ An’ he kept on sayin’, ‘All the gold is on the horse; don’t take it all, please,’ till I felt sick. ‘Up you git,’ I says, an’ I dragged ’im through the bush, and then bli’me if ’e didn’t sit down an’ cough an’ cry. Such dam’ foolishness made me lose patience. I just ‘squeezed’ ’im where he sat.”

“My bloke was the devil to die,” said Garstang. “First I shot him one way, then I shot him another; an’ at larst I had to chiv ’im with the knife, though it was the larst thing I wanted to do.”

“They should all have been ‘squeezed,’” said Dolphin, “and nothing’s easier if you’ve got the knack—noiseless, bloodless, traceless, the only scientific way of doin’ the work.”

“All of which you’ve said before, Dolly.” Sweet William rose and groped his way to the mouth of the cave.

“It’s the blamed horses that bother me,” said Carnac. “We left their carcases too near the track. We should have taken them a mile or more along, and have shoved them over a precipice, down which they might have fallen by accident in the storm. As it is, they’ll be putrid in a fortnight, and make the track impassable.”

“By which time,” said Dolphin, “we shall be out of reach.”

“What about the Bank?” Garstang asked the question almost insolently. “I thought you ’ad such wonderful plans of yer own.”

“The thing’s easy enough,” retorted Dolphin, “but the question is whether it’s worth while. We’ve made a haul to be proud of; never did men have a better streak o’ luck. We’ve taken hundreds of ounces from a strong escort, which we stopped at the right place, just in the right way, so that they couldn’t so much as fire a shot. It would be a crying shame to spoil such a job by bein’ trapped over a paltry wooden Bank.”

“Trapped be sugared!” said Garstang.

“The inference ’ll be”—Sweet William had returned from the cave’s mouth, and took up the conversation where he left it—“everybody with any sense’ll say the escort an’ the banker made orf with the gold—nothin’ but blood’ounds could ever find their bodies.”

“It’s bin a wonderful time,” said Dolphin, “but we can’t expect such luck to foller us around like a poodle-dog.”

“I’m for havin’ a slap at the Bank, anyway,” growled Garstang.

“Imagine the effect upon the public mind—the robbery of an escort and a bank, both in one week!” This was how the gentlemanly Carnac regarded the question. “It’d be a record. We’d make a name that wouldn’t easily be forgotten. I’m for trying.”

“Well, it’s stopped raining, blokes,” said Sweet William, “but outside it’s dark enough to please an owl. If we want to get into Timber Town without bein’ seen, now’s the time to start.” So saying, he picked up his “swag,” which he hitched upon his back.

The other men rose, one by one, and shouldered their packs, in which each man carried his gold.

With much lumbering, stumbling, and swearing, the murderers slowly departed, groping their way to the mouth of the cave by the light of the fire, which they left burning.

Tresco waited till the last sound of their voices had died away, then he stretched his cramped, benumbed limbs, heaved a deep sigh of relief, and rose to his feet.

“My God, what monsters!” He spoke under his breath, for fear that even the walls should hear him. “If they had found me they’d have thought as little of cutting my throat as of killing a mosquito. If ever I thanked God in my life—well, well—every nerve of me is trembling. That’s the reaction. I must warm myself, and have a bite of food.”

After carefully scattering the murderers’ fire, he groped his way to his inner cell, and there he made his best endeavours to restore his equanimity with warmth, food, and drink.