Colonel Quaritch, V.C.: Chapter 40

Chapter 40

BUT NOT TO BED

Harold glanced at the clock; it was nearly one in the morning, time to
go to bed if he was going. But he did not feel inclined to go to bed.
If he did, with this great discovery on his mind he should not sleep.
There was another thing; it was Christmas Eve, or rather Christmas
Day, the day of Ida's answer. If any succour was to be given at all,
it must be given at once, before the fortress had capitulated. Once
let the engagement be renewed, and even if the money should
subsequently be forthcoming, the difficulties would be doubled. But he
was building his hopes upon sand, and he knew it. Even supposing that
he held in his hand the key to the hiding place of the long-lost
treasure, who knew whether it would still be there, or whether rumour
had not enormously added to its proportions? He was allowing his
imagination to carry him away.

Still he could not sleep, and he had a mind to see if anything could
be made of it. Going to the gun-room he put on a pair of shooting-
boots, an old coat, and an ulster. Next he provided himself with a
dark lantern and the key of the summer-house at the top of Dead Man's
Mount, and silently unlocking the back door started out into the
garden. The night was very rough, for the great gale was now rising
fast, and bitterly cold, so cold that he hesitated for a moment before
making up his mind to go on. However, he did go on, and in another two
minutes was climbing the steep sides of the tumulus. There was a wan
moon in the cold sky--the wind whistled most drearily through the
naked boughs of the great oaks, which groaned in answer like things in
pain. Harold was not a nervous or impressionable man, but the place
had a spectral look about it, and he could not help thinking of the
evil reputation it had borne for all those ages. There was scarcely a
man in Honham, or in Boisingham either, who could have been persuaded
to stay half an hour by himself on Dead Man's Mount after the sun was
well down. Harold had at different times asked one or two of them what
they saw to be afraid of, and they had answered that it was not what
they saw so much as what they felt. He had laughed at the time, but
now he admitted to himself that he was anything but comfortable,
though if he had been obliged to put his feelings into words he could
probably not have described them better than by saying that he had a
general impression of somebody being behind him.

However, he was not going to be frightened by this nonsense, so
consigning all superstitions to their father the Devil, he marched on
boldly and unlocked the summer-house door. Now, though this curious
edifice had been designed for a summer-house, and for that purpose
lined throughout with encaustic tiles, nobody as a matter of fact had
ever dreamed of using it to sit in. To begin with, it roofed over a
great depression some thirty feet or more in diameter, for the top of
the mount was hollowed out like one of those wooden cups in which
jugglers catch balls. But notwithstanding all the encaustic tiles in
the world, damp will gather in a hollow like this, and the damp alone
was an objection. The real fact was, however, that the spot had an
evil reputation, and even those who were sufficiently well educated to
know the folly of this sort of thing would not willingly have gone
there for purposes of enjoyment. So it had suffered the general fate
of disused places, having fallen more or less out of repair and become
a receptacle for garden tools, broken cucumber frames and lumber of
various sorts.

Harold pushed the door open and entered, shutting it behind him. It
was, if anything, more disagreeable in the empty silence of the wide
place than it had been outside, for the space roofed over was
considerable, and the question at once arose in his mind, what was he
to do now that he had got there? If the treasure was there at all,
probably it was deep down in the bowels of the great mound. Well, as
he was on the spot, he thought that he might as well try to dig,
though probably nothing would come of it. In the corner were a pickaxe
and some spades and shovels. Harold got them, advanced to the centre
of the space and, half laughing at his own folly, set to work. First,
having lit another lantern which was kept there, he removed with the
sharp end of the pickaxe a large patch of the encaustic tiles exactly
in the centre of the depression. Then having loosened the soil beneath
with the pick he took off his ulster and fell to digging with a will.
The soil proved to be very sandy and easy to work. Indeed, from its
appearance, he soon came to the conclusion that it was not virgin
earth, but worked soil which had been thrown there.

Presently his spade struck against something hard; he picked it up and
held it to the lantern. It proved to be an ancient spear-head, and
near it were some bones, though whether or no they were human he could
not at the time determine. This was very interesting, but it was
scarcely what he wanted, so he dug on manfully until he found himself
chest deep in a kind of grave. He had been digging for an hour now,
and was getting very tired. Cold as it was the perspiration poured
from him. As he paused for breath he heard the church clock strike
two, and very solemnly it sounded down the wild ways of the wind-torn
winter night. He dug on a little more, and then seriously thought of
giving up what he was somewhat ashamed of having undertaken. How was
he to account for this great hole to his gardener on the following
morning? Then and there he made up his mind that he would not account
for it. The gardener, in common with the rest of the village, believed
that the place was haunted. Let him set down the hole to the "spooks"
and their spiritual activity.

Still he dug on at the grave for a little longer. It was by now
becoming a matter of exceeding labour to throw the shovelfuls of soil
clear of the hole. Then he determined to stop, and with this view
scrambled, not without difficulty, out of the amateur tomb. Once out,
his eyes fell on a stout iron crowbar which was standing among the
other tools, such an implement as is used to make holes in the earth
wherein to set hurdles and stakes. It occurred to him that it would
not be a bad idea to drive this crowbar into the bottom of the grave
which he had dug, in order to ascertain if there was anything within
its reach. So he once more descended into the hole and began to work
with the iron crow, driving it down with all his strength. When he had
got it almost as deep as it would go, that is about two feet, it
struck something--something hard--there was no doubt of it. He worked
away in great excitement, widening the hole as much as he could.

Yes, it was masonry, or if it was not masonry it was something
uncommonly like it. He drew the crow out of the hole, and, seizing the
shovel, commenced to dig again with renewed vigour. As he could no
longer conveniently throw the earth from the hole he took a "skep" or
leaf basket, which lay handy, and, placing it beside him, put as much
of the sandy soil as he could carry into it, and then lifting shot it
on the edge of the pit. For three-quarters of an hour he laboured thus
most manfully, till at last he came down on the stonework. He cleared
a patch of it and examined it attentively, by the light of the dark
lantern. It appeared to be rubble work built in the form of an arch.
He struck it with the iron crow and it gave back a hollow sound. There
was a cavity of some sort underneath.

His excitement and curiosity redoubled. By great efforts he widened
the spot of stonework already laid bare. Luckily the soil, or rather
sand, was so friable that there was very little exertion required to
loosen it. This done he took the iron crow, and inserting it beneath a
loose flat stone levered it up. Here was a beginning, and having got
rid of the large flat stone he struck down again and again with all
his strength, driving the sharp point of the heavy crow into the
rubble work beneath. It began to give, he could hear bits of it
falling into the cavity below. There! it went with a crash, more than
a square foot of it.

He leant over the hole at his feet, devoutly hoping that the ground on
which he was standing would not give way also, and tried to look down.
Next second he threw his head back coughing and gasping. The foul air
rushing up from the cavity or chamber, or whatever it was, had half
poisoned him. Then not without difficulty he climbed out of the grave
and sat down on the pile of sand he had thrown up. Clearly he must
allow the air in the place to sweeten a little. Clearly also he must
have assistance if he was to descend into the great hole. He could not
undertake this by himself.

He sat upon the edge of the pit wondering who there was that he might
trust. Not his own gardener. To begin with he would never come near
the place at night, and besides such people talk. The Squire? No, he
could not rouse him at this hour, and also, for obvious reasons, they
had not met lately. Ah, he had it. George was the man! To begin with
he could be relied upon to hold his tongue. The episode of the
production of the real Mrs. Quest had taught him that George was a
person of no common powers. He could think and he could act also.

Harold threw on his coat, extinguished the large stable lantern, and
passing out, locked the door of the summer-house and started down the
mount at a trot. The wind had risen steadily during his hours of work,
and was now blowing a furious gale. It was about a quarter to four in
the morning and the stars shone brightly in the hard clean-blown sky.
By their light and that of the waning moon he struggled on in the
teeth of the raging tempest. As he passed under one of the oaks he
heard a mighty crack overhead, and guessing what it was ran like a
hare. He was none too soon. A circular gust of more than usual
fierceness had twisted the top right out of the great tree, and down
it came upon the turf with a rending crashing sound that made his
blood turn cold. After this escape he avoided the neighbourhood of the
groaning trees.

George lived in a neat little farmhouse about a quarter of a mile
away. There was a shot cut to it across the fields, and this he took,
breathlessly fighting his way against the gale, which roared and
howled in its splendid might as it swept across the ocean from its
birthplace in the distances of air. Even the stiff hawthorn fences
bowed before its breath, and the tall poplars on the skyline bent like
a rod beneath the first rush of a salmon.

Excited as he was, the immensity and grandeur of the sight and sounds
struck upon him with a strange force. Never before had he felt so far
apart from man and so near to that dread Spirit round Whose feet
thousands of rolling worlds rush on, at Whose word they are, endure,
and are not.

He struggled forward until at last he reached the house. It was quite
silent, but in one of the windows a light was burning. No doubt its
occupants found it impossible to sleep in that wild gale. The next
thing to consider was how to make himself heard. To knock at the door
would be useless in that turmoil. There was only one thing to be done
--throw stones at the window. He found a good-sized pebble, and
standing underneath, threw it with such goodwill that it went right
through the glass. It lit, as he afterwards heard, full upon the
sleeping Mrs. George's nose, and nearly frightened that good woman,
whose nerves were already shaken by the gale, into a fit. Next minute
a red nightcap appeared at the window.

"George!" roared the Colonel, in a lull of the gale.

"Who's there?" came the faint answer.

"I--Colonel Quaritch. Come down. I want to speak to you."

The head was withdrawn and a couple of minutes afterwards Harold saw
the front door begin to open slowly. He waited till there was space
enough, and then slipped in, and together they forced it to.

"Stop a bit, sir," said George; "I'll light the lamp;" and he did.

Next minute he stepped back in amazement.

"Why, what on arth hev you bin after, Colonel?" he said, contemplating
Harold's filth-begrimed face, and hands, and clothes. "Is anything
wrong up at the Castle, or is the cottage blown down?"

"No, no," said Harold; "listen. You've heard tell of the treasure that
old Sir James de la Molle buried in the time of the Roundheads?"

"Yes, yes. I've heard tell of that. Hev the gale blown it up?"

"No, but by heaven I believe that I am in a fair way to find it."

George took another step back, remembering the tales that Mrs. Jobson
had told, and not being by any means sure but that the Colonel was in
a dangerous condition of lunacy.

"Give me a glass of something to drink, water or milk, and I'll tell
you. I've been digging all night, and my throat's like a limeskin."

"Digging, why where?"

"Where? In Dead Man's Mount!"

"In Dead Man's Mount?" said George. "Well, blow me, if that ain't a
funny place to dig at on a night like this," and, too amazed to say
anything more, he went off to get the milk.

Harold drank three glasses of milk, and then sat down to tell as much
of his moving tale as he thought desirable.

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