Dead Mans Rock | Page 8

I drew back the bolt--that surely, for all my care, never
creaked so loudly before or since--and stepped out into the cool air. The
fresh breeze that smote my cheeks as I sat down outside to put on my
boots brought me back to the everyday world--a world that seemed to
make the events of the night unreal and baseless, so that I had, with
boyish elasticity of temper, almost forgotten all fear as I began to
descend the cliff towards Ready-Money Cove.
Before I go any further, it will be necessary to describe in a few words
that part of the coast which is the scene of my story. Lantrig, as I have
said, looks down upon Ready-Money Cove from the summit of
Pedn-glas, its northern arm. The cove itself is narrow, running in
between two scarred and rugged walls of serpentine, and terminating in
a little beach of whitest sand beneath a frowning and precipitous cliff. It
is easy to see its value in the eyes of smugglers, for not only is the cove
difficult of observation from the sea, by reason of its straitness and the

protection of its projecting arms, but the height and abruptness of its
cliffs also give it seclusion from the land side. For Pedn-glas on the
north rises sheer from the sea, sloping downwards a little as it runs in to
join the mainland, but only enough to admit of a rough and winding
path at its inmost point, while to the south the cove is guarded by a
strange mass of rock that demands a somewhat longer description.
For some distance the cliff ran out as on the north side, but, suddenly
breaking off as if cleft by some gigantic stroke, left a gloomy column
of rock, attached to it only by an isthmus that stood some six or seven
feet above high-water mark. This separate mass went by the name of
Dead Man's Rock--a name dark and dreadful enough, but in its
derivation innocent, having been but Dodmen, or "the stony headland,"
until common speech perverted it. For this reason I suppose I ought not
to call it Dead Man's Rock, the "Rock" being superfluous, but I give it
the name by which it has always been known, being to a certain extent
suspicious of those antiquarian gentlemen that sometimes, in their
eagerness to restore a name, would deface a tradition.
Let me return to the rock. Under the neck that joins it to the main cliff
there runs a natural tunnel, which at low water leads to the long
expanse of Polkimbra Beach, with the village itself lying snugly at its
further end; so that, standing at the entrance of this curious arch, one
may see the little town, with the purple cliffs behind framed between
walls of glistening serpentine. The rock is always washed by the sea,
except at low water during the spring tides, though not reaching out so
far as Pedn-glas. In colour it is mainly black as night, but is streaked
with red stains that bear an awful likeness to blood; and, though it may
be climbed--and I myself have done it more than once in search of
eggs--it has no scrap of vegetation save where, upon its summit, the
gulls build their nests on a scanty patch of grass and wild asparagus.
By the time I had crossed the cove, the western sky was brilliant with
the reflected dawn. Above the cliffs behind, morning had edged the
flying wrack of indigo clouds with a glittering line of gold, while the
sea in front still heaved beneath the pale yellow light, as a child sobs at
intervals after the first gust of passion is over-past. The tide was at the

ebb, and the fresh breeze dropped as I got under the shadow of Dead
Man's Rock and looked through the archway on to Polkimbra Sands.
Not a soul was to be seen. The long stretch of beach had scarcely yet
caught the distinctness of day, but was already beginning to glisten
with the gathering light, and, as far as I could see, was desolate. I
passed through and clambered out towards the south side of the rock to
watch the sea, if perchance some bit of floating wreckage might explain
the mystery of last night. I could see nothing.
Stay! What was that on the ledge below me, lying on the brink just
above the receding wave? A sailor's cap! Somehow, the sight made me
sick with horror. It must have been a full minute before I dared to open
my eyes and look again. Yes, it was there! The cry of last night rang
again in my ears with all its supreme agony as I stood in the presence
of this silent witness of the dead--this