we slipped and tripped
our way towards the shack, grabbing at the creeper on the cliff to
support ourselves. Who but the worst misanthrope could want to live
somewhere so inaccessible - and if he were such a misanthrope, should
we really be risking our lives to meet him? And then there was the
building itself." barely four feet long, and projecting some
distance above the ground, it would barely serve for a privy in any
normal house. Yet its dimensions were not constant, I noticed, when
an unusually benign stretch of ground gave me the chance to take my
eyes off my footing. It bent inwards, not skewed by bad construction,
as I had thought before, but by design, almost like the curves on a
ship's stern.
At
that thought I paused, for I suddenly saw how close to the truth my
fancy had been. The hut was not shaped like a ship's stern, it was a
ship's stern, the rear end of some fishing smack that looked for all
the world as if it had been run at the cliff with such force that the
greater part of its hull had buried itself in the chalk, to such a
depth that only the aft section still protruded. It seemed
impossible, yet the nearer we came the more it appeared that the
structure was not propped against the cliff, as reason told me it
surely must be, but was indeed sunk into the rock. Now we were close
enough to see the rotting hull, complete with barnacles still
encrusted on the bottom, and there was no doubt that it must extend
well into the cliff wall.
A
new mystery presented itself: where was the entrance? I thought I
could make out a scar in the timbers where a door had been cut
through, but it was above our heads, and there were no stairs. I
looked to the cliff, but did not care to risk my life on its
slippery, crumbling surface.
'John?'
I shouted, raising my voice over the crashing surf. And then, feeling
somewhat presumptuous, I essayed the alternative.
'Mr
John?'
One
of the salutations must have sufficed, for without preamble the door
I had seen swung open. I could discern nothing within, but a second
later a rope ladder came tumbling out, almost striking my head.
Choosing to read nothing malicious into that, I grasped the rungs
firmly and hoisted myself up.
The
memory of Dover gaol swamped me as I entered the gloom, and had my
body not already cleared the threshold I might well have fallen back
onto the rocks below. The darkness, save for a small area by the
door, was complete, the stench, though this time of fish, equally
overpowering. Somewhere, further in, I could hear a scraping and
rattling, and with mounting apprehension I remembered nay misgivings
about the sort of man who would live in a place like this.
A
spark flashed, and the light of an oil lamp flared before settling at
a more moderated pitch. Its yellow light illuminated an extraordinary
room, long and thin, extending many feet into the cliff, with the
bowed walls of the vessel it had once been. It was packed with all
manner of queer things, many of them the ordinary tackle of a
fisherman, but many others that could only have been scavenged from
the beach: an empty birdcage, several china dogs, and what appeared
to be a small swivel cannon.
'Is
it too bright for ye?' asked an unexpectedly soft voice.
I
took my eyes from the surroundings to focus on the figure who sat at
the table in the centre of the room, twisting carefully at the knob
on the lamp. His hair was unkempt, matted into grey curls and a long
tangled beard, and his blue eyes stared with a wide intensity, but
there was no threat in his open face. He wore a faded woolen jersey,
so holed it seemed the mice must be eating it off his body, but
despite the lack of a fire - there was no chimney - he did not seem
unduly cold.
'I
usually keeps it off,' he explained, still fiddling at the lamp, 'to
save the waste of oil.'
I
realized I had yet to introduce myself. 'Lieutenant Martin Jerrold,'
I said awkwardly. 'This is Mr Ducker.' I gestured to where the
quartermaster had scrambled in behind
our way towards the shack, grabbing at the creeper on the cliff to
support ourselves. Who but the worst misanthrope could want to live
somewhere so inaccessible - and if he were such a misanthrope, should
we really be risking our lives to meet him? And then there was the
building itself." barely four feet long, and projecting some
distance above the ground, it would barely serve for a privy in any
normal house. Yet its dimensions were not constant, I noticed, when
an unusually benign stretch of ground gave me the chance to take my
eyes off my footing. It bent inwards, not skewed by bad construction,
as I had thought before, but by design, almost like the curves on a
ship's stern.
At
that thought I paused, for I suddenly saw how close to the truth my
fancy had been. The hut was not shaped like a ship's stern, it was a
ship's stern, the rear end of some fishing smack that looked for all
the world as if it had been run at the cliff with such force that the
greater part of its hull had buried itself in the chalk, to such a
depth that only the aft section still protruded. It seemed
impossible, yet the nearer we came the more it appeared that the
structure was not propped against the cliff, as reason told me it
surely must be, but was indeed sunk into the rock. Now we were close
enough to see the rotting hull, complete with barnacles still
encrusted on the bottom, and there was no doubt that it must extend
well into the cliff wall.
A
new mystery presented itself: where was the entrance? I thought I
could make out a scar in the timbers where a door had been cut
through, but it was above our heads, and there were no stairs. I
looked to the cliff, but did not care to risk my life on its
slippery, crumbling surface.
'John?'
I shouted, raising my voice over the crashing surf. And then, feeling
somewhat presumptuous, I essayed the alternative.
'Mr
John?'
One
of the salutations must have sufficed, for without preamble the door
I had seen swung open. I could discern nothing within, but a second
later a rope ladder came tumbling out, almost striking my head.
Choosing to read nothing malicious into that, I grasped the rungs
firmly and hoisted myself up.
The
memory of Dover gaol swamped me as I entered the gloom, and had my
body not already cleared the threshold I might well have fallen back
onto the rocks below. The darkness, save for a small area by the
door, was complete, the stench, though this time of fish, equally
overpowering. Somewhere, further in, I could hear a scraping and
rattling, and with mounting apprehension I remembered nay misgivings
about the sort of man who would live in a place like this.
A
spark flashed, and the light of an oil lamp flared before settling at
a more moderated pitch. Its yellow light illuminated an extraordinary
room, long and thin, extending many feet into the cliff, with the
bowed walls of the vessel it had once been. It was packed with all
manner of queer things, many of them the ordinary tackle of a
fisherman, but many others that could only have been scavenged from
the beach: an empty birdcage, several china dogs, and what appeared
to be a small swivel cannon.
'Is
it too bright for ye?' asked an unexpectedly soft voice.
I
took my eyes from the surroundings to focus on the figure who sat at
the table in the centre of the room, twisting carefully at the knob
on the lamp. His hair was unkempt, matted into grey curls and a long
tangled beard, and his blue eyes stared with a wide intensity, but
there was no threat in his open face. He wore a faded woolen jersey,
so holed it seemed the mice must be eating it off his body, but
despite the lack of a fire - there was no chimney - he did not seem
unduly cold.
'I
usually keeps it off,' he explained, still fiddling at the lamp, 'to
save the waste of oil.'
I
realized I had yet to introduce myself. 'Lieutenant Martin Jerrold,'
I said awkwardly. 'This is Mr Ducker.' I gestured to where the
quartermaster had scrambled in behind
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