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Sappers and Miners; The Flood beneath the Sea, a novel by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 30. In Darkness |
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_ CHAPTER THIRTY. IN DARKNESS Gwyn Pendarve opened his eyes, feeling sore and in grievous pain. A sharp point seemed to be running into his side, and he was hurting his neck, while one shoulder felt as if it had become set, so that, though it ached terribly, he could not move. He did not know how it was or why it was, for all was confused and strange; and he lay trying to puzzle out clearly why Caer Point light should be revolving so quickly, now flashing up brightly, and now sinking again till all was nearly dark. It seemed very strange, for he had often looked out to sea on dark nights, over to where the great lighthouse stood up on the Jagger Rock ten miles away, seeing the light increase till it seemed like a comet, whose long, well-defined tail slowly swept round over the sea till it was hidden by the back of the lanthorn, and he waited till it flashed out again; but it had never given him pains in the body before, neither could he recall that it smelt so nasty, just like burnt mutton-chops. That was the strangest part of it, for he remembered when the fishermen sailed over there with them so that they could have some conger fishing off the rocks, the light keepers took them round, and among other things showed them the store-room in the lower part of the building, where the great drums of crystal oil for trimming the lamps were lifted into the tank. Yes, of course they burned paraffin oil in the great optical lanthorn; but though it was tremendously hot there, when the light was in full play, there was scarcely any odour, while now it smelt of burnt mutton fat. Gwyn could not make it out. There, in the far distance, was the light, now flashing out brightly, now dying; out into darkness, smelling horribly, making him very hot, and giving him all those aching pains from which he was suffering. There was another problem, too, that he had to solve; why was it that a lighthouse lanthorn ten miles away on a dark night should make him so hot that the perspiration stood out all over his face, and the collar of his shirt was soaked? Why was it?--why was it? He puzzled and puzzled in a muddled way, but seemed to get no nearer the solution. There was the light still coming and going and smelling badly, and making him so hot that he felt as if he could not breathe. Then the solution came like a flash, which lit up his mind just as all was black darkness; and in spite of the agony he felt as soon as he moved, he started up into a sitting posture, and then made for the light. For he knew now that it was not the lighthouse lanthorn on Jagger Rock ten miles away, but the common lanthorn he had brought down into the mine some time before, and set about ten feet off, where it could not be kicked over when they turned over in their sleep--the sleep into which he had plunged at once as if into a stupor. It was from this stupor that he had now awakened to turn from the sultry heat of the mine, chilled to the heart with horror, for the fresh candle he had lit had burned down into the socket, and was giving the final flickers before going out, and they had not a match to strike and light another. Stretching out his trembling hands, he felt in the black darkness for the lanthorn, touched it after two or three ineffectual trials, and snatched it back, feeling his fingers burnt, just as the light gave a final flare, the jar of his touch upon the lanthorn being sufficient to quench the tiny flame. In the horror of the moment Gwyn uttered a loud cry, and the result was a quick movement close at hand, followed by a voice saying,-- "Yes, father, all right. I'll get up and fetch it. Is the pain so bad?" Gwyn tried to speak, but no words came. "Did you call, father?" There was perfect silence in the stifling place, and Joe Jollivet spoke again, drowsily now. "Must have dreamt it. But--hallo--Oh, my back! What ever's the matter with it, and--here! hallo! What does it all mean? I must have been walking in my sleep." "Oh, Joe, Joe!" cried his companion. "Ydoll! You there? I say--what--what--where are we?" "Don't you understand?--where we lay down when we could get no farther." There was the sound of some one drawing a long gasping breath, and then silence again, till Joe spoke in a piteous voice. "I was dreaming that father was taken ill in the night, and he called me. Oh, Ydoll, old chap, my head feels so queer. Then we haven't found them? I don't feel as if I could recollect anything. It's all black like. We came down to find them, didn't we?" "Yes," said Gwyn, "and walked till you stumbled and fell." "I did? Yes, I recollect now. I was regularly beaten. We came such a long way for hours and hours. Then we've both been to sleep?" "I suppose so." "But why is it so dark?" "The candle I set up burned out." "Well, light another. You have some more." "What am I to light one with?" groaned Gwyn. "Oh! I'd forgotten," cried Joe, piteously, "you've no matches." "No, I've no matches." "But you had some, I know--you had a box; feel in your pockets again." There was a faint rustling sound as in obedience to his companion's imperative words, Gwyn felt in each pocket vainly, and then uttered a sigh like a groan. "No, no, no!" he cried, "there is a hole in my pocket, and the box must have gone through." "Oh," cried Joe, angrily; "how could I be such a fool as to trust you to carry them?" "You mean how could you be such a fool as to come without a box yourself," said Gwyn, bitterly. "Yes, that's it, I suppose. Here, I know--we must strike a light from the rock with the backs of our knives." "What for?" said Gwyn, bitterly. "Where are the tinder and matches?" Joe uttered a sigh, and they both relapsed into silence once more. "What are we to do?" said Joe, at last. "It is horrible, horrible to be in this black darkness. Say something, Ydoll--we can't lie down here and die." "We can't go on in the black darkness," said Gwyn, bitterly. "We must feel our way." "And suppose we come to some hole and go down?" Joe drew his breath sharply through his teeth as he winced at the horrible idea. "Better lie down again and go to sleep," said Gwyn, despondently. "We can do no more." "Lie down till they come with lights and find us?" "Yes," said Gwyn, who gathered courage from these words of hope. "It's of no use to give up. Father must have found his way out by this time. Sam Hardock knows so much about mines; he is sure not to be lost for long." "But if they don't find us? I'm so faint and hungry now I don't know what to do." "Yes, I suppose what I feel is being hungry," sighed Gwyn, "but we mustn't think about it. I say, how far do you think we wandered about yesterday?" "Miles and miles and miles," said Joe, dismally; "and for nothing at all but to lose ourselves. But I say, Ydoll, it wasn't yesterday. We couldn't have slept long." "I felt as if I slept all night." "But we couldn't; because we only slept as long as our candle burned." "Of course not. How stupid! But I'm so done up that my head doesn't seem as if it would go; let's lie down and go to sleep till they find us." "And perhaps that will be never. Someone will find our bones, perhaps." "Ha, ha!" cried Gwyn, bursting into a mocking laugh. "We're a nice pair of miserable cowards! I did think you had more pluck in you, Joe." "That's what I thought about you, Ydoll." "So did I," said Gwyn, frankly; "and all the time I'm as great a coward as you are. I say, though, doesn't it show a fellow up when he gets into trouble? Can't show me up in the dark, though, can it?" "Oh, I don't know; I only know I feel horribly miserable. Let's go to sleep and forget it all." "Sha'n't," shouted Gwyn, making an effort over himself. "I won't be such a jolly miserable coward, and you sha'n't neither. We'll do something." "Ay, it's all very well to talk, but what can we do?--cooey?" "No good, or I'd cooey loud enough to bring some of the stones down. I say, though, isn't it wonderful how solid it all is--no stones falling from the roof." "How could they fall when there are none to fall? Isn't it all cut through the solid rock?" "Humph! yes, I suppose so; but we have found scarcely anything to fall over." "No," said Joe, sarcastically, "it's a lovely place. I wish the beastly old mine had been burnt before we had anything to do with it." "Oh, I say, what a plucked 'un you are, Joey. Breaking down over a bit of trouble. I feel ever so much better now, for I'm sure the dad has found his way out." "I was thinking about my father." "Well, so was I. My father wouldn't go out without yours. They're too good old chums to forsake one another; and you see if before long they don't both come with a lot of men carrying baskets--cold roast chicken, slices of ham, bread and butter, and a kettle and wood to light the fire and make some tea." "I say! don't, don't, don't," cried Joe. "I was bad enough before, now you're making me feel savagely hungry. But I say, Ydoll, do you really think they've got out?" "I'm sure of it." "And not lost themselves so that they won't be found till it's too late?" "Get out! Too late? They'll be all right, and so shall we; we're only lost for a bit in the dark, and we don't mind a bit. I don't now. I feel as plucky as a gamecock. And I say, Joe." "Well?" "Tom Dinass?" "What about him?--a beast!" "What we're going to do when we see the sneak again. I say, it won't be the first time we've had a set-to with him." "Oh, I should like to--" "Ah!" Gwyn uttered a wild cry, as if something from out of the darkness had seized him; and as the cry went echoing down the long zigzag passage in which they were, Joe uttered a gasp, and in spite of his desire to stand by his friend, dashed off from the unknown danger by which they were beset. _ |
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