A Bottomless Grave

by A Bottomless Grave

  ‘Yes,’ I exclaimed, ‘man’s passage through this world is only a time of testing. Injustice, greed, the most deadly passions dominate the heart of man. The weak are crushed by the strong. The poor by the rich. Virtue is but a word on earth. But everything returns to order after death. God sees the injustice of which I am a victim, he will take into account the sufferings that I endure. He will pardon me my immoderate appetites, my excessive love of good living. Before admitting me into his breast he wanted to purify me by rigorous fasting. I offer my sufferings to the Lord.’

  However, I must admit to you that in spite of my profound contrition, the longing for the inn and my merry friends, for this good existence which flowed out in the midst of the singing and the excellent wine, made me utter many sighs. I could hear the bubbling of the bottles, the clinking of the glasses and my stomach would groan like a living person. It formed as it were an extra being inside of me, which protested against the philosophical arguments of Hâsenkopf.

  The worst of my sufferings was thirst. It was unbearable at this point; so much so that I sucked the saltpetre on the wall to refresh myself.

  When daylight appeared in the vent, vague, uncertain, I suddenly had an extraordinary fit of rage.

  ‘The rogue is there,’ I said to myself. ‘He has bread, a jug of water, he is drinking ... !’

  Then I imagined him raising to his lips his large jug. I seemed to see torrents of water trickling down his throat. It was a delicious river flowing, flowing endlessly. I could see the wretch’s throat swell up with pleasure, rise up, descend voluptuously, his stomach fill up. Anger, despair, indignation took possession of me and I started to stammer, running around the pit. ‘Water ... water ... water ...’ And the old woman, coming to life again, repeated behind me like a mad thing, ‘Water... water... water...’ She followed me, crawling about, her rags flapping. Hell has nothing more terrible.

  In the middle of this scene the pale face of Wolfgang appeared for the third time at the vent. It was about eight o’clock. Stopping, I said to him:

  ‘Wolfgang! Listen, let me drink just a mouthful from your jug and I shall allow you to let me die of hunger! I I shan’t reproach you!’ And I cried. ‘What you are doing to me,’ I resumed, ‘is too barbarous. Your immortal soul will answer before God for it. Still, for this old woman, as you so disconcertingly said, it is experimentation on a worthless being. But me, I have studied, and I find your system very good. I am worthy of understanding you. I admire you. Let me just have water. What does it matter to you? One has never come across a conception as sublime as yours. It is certain that the three souls exist! Yes! I want to make it known. I shall be your strongest supporter. Won’t you let me have just one mouthful of water?’

  Without a reply he withdrew.

  My exasperation then knew no limits. I threw myself against the wall hard enough to break my bones. I cursed the wretch in the harshest terms.

  In the midst of this fury I suddenly noticed that the old woman had collapsed, and I conceived the idea of drinking her blood. Extreme necessity carries man to excesses that would make one shudder. It is then that the wild beast is aroused in us and all sentiment of justice, of good-will fades before the instinct of self-preservation.

  ‘What need does she have of blood?’ I asked myself. ‘Will she not die soon? If I delay all her blood will be dried up!’

  A red mist passed before my eyes. Fortunately as I was stooping toward the old woman, my strength left me and I fell beside her, my face in her rags, in a faint.

  How long did this absence of feeling last. I do not know, but I was drawn from it by an odd incident, the memory of which will always remain imprinted on my mind. I was drawn from it by the plaintive howling of a dog. This howling, so weak, so piteous, so poignant; cries more moving even than the crying of a man, and which one cannot hear without suffering. I got up, my face bathed in tears, not knowing from where came these cries, so consistent with my own suffering. I listened. Judge my amazement when I realised that it was me who was howling like this.

  From then on all sorts of memory fades from my mind. What is certain is that I stayed another two days in the pit, under the maniac’s eye, whose enthusiasm on seeing his theory proved was such that he didn’t hesitate to summon several of our philosophers to delight in their admiration.

  Six weeks later I awoke in a small room in the Rue Plat d’Etain, surrounded by my friends, who congratulated me on having escaped from this lesson in transcendental philosophy.

  It was a pathetic moment when Ludwig Bremer brought me the mirror, and, when seeing myself more emaciated than Lazarus as he came out of the tomb, I could not help shedding tears.

  Poor Catherine Wogel had given up the ghost.

  I cannot even say that justice dealt with this scoundrel Wolfgang. Instead of hanging him, according to his just deserts, after proceedings of six months it was established that this abominable being fell into the category of mystic madman, the most dangerous of all. Consequently he was consigned to a cell in a lunatic asylum where visitors can still hear him hold forth in a curt peremptory voice on the three souls.

  He accuses humanity of ingratitude and claims that it should, in all fairness, erect statues to him for his magnificent discovery.

  A Strange Goldfield

  by GUY BOOTHBY

  Australia is a very rare source of Victorian tales of terror, both in location and author nationality. There were one or two writers who achieved fame with their Australian tales, among them Rolf Boldrewood, J. A. Barry and Andrew Robertson, but probably the most famous (and he had to come to England to achieve that fame) was Guy Boothby (1867—1905).

  Boothby was born in Adelaide, and at one time before he came to Britain in 1894, he was private secretary to the mayor of that city. Boothby’s main claim to literary fame was his sinister creation Dr Nikola, who chased the secret of eternal life through five enthralling novels. Nikola was Boothby’s finest work and, despite many other novels equally full of incident and excitement, such as The Curse of The Snake (1902), it is for Nikola that Boothby is now remembered.

  But Guy Boothby also wrote several books of short stories, among them Bushigrams (1897), Uncle Joe’s Legacy (1902) and The Lady Of The Island (1904). ‘A Strange Goldfield’ comes from the last-named work and, although it didn’t appear in print until after the Victorian era, I have included it in this Victorian volume as it was obviously written at that time. In this one story at least, Boothby returns to his native Australia to tell one of the few ghost stories set in that continent that appeared in the Victorian era. And it’s not a bad one, either.

  Of course nine out of every ten intelligent persons will refuse to believe that there could be a grain of truth in the story I am now going to tell you. The tenth may have some small faith in my veracity, but what I think of his intelligence I am going to keep to myself.

  In a certain portion of a certain Australian Colony two miners, when out prospecting in what was then, as now, one of the dreariest parts of the Island Continent, chanced upon a rich find. They applied to Government for the usual reward, and in less than a month three thousand people were settled on the Field. What privations they had to go through to get there, and the miseries they had to endure when the did reach their journey’s end, have only a remote bearing on this story, but they would make a big book.

  I should explain that between Railhead and the Field was a stretch of country some three hundred miles in extent. It was badly watered, vilely grassed, and execrably timbered. What was even worse, a considerable portion of it was made up of red sand, and everybody who has been compelled to travel over that knows what it means. Yet these enthusiastic seekers after wealth pushed on, some on horsa-back, some in bullock waggons, but the majority travelled on foot; the graves, and the skeletons of cattle belonging to those who had preceded them punctuating the route, and telling them what they might expect as they advanced.

  That the Field did not prove a success is now a matter of history, but that s
ame history, if you read between the lines, gives one some notion of what the life must have been like while it lasted. The water supply was entirely insufficient, provisions were bad and ruinously expensive; the men themselves were, as a rule, the roughest of the rough, while the less said about the majority of the women the better. Then typhoid stepped in and stalked like the Destroying Angel through the camp. Its inhabitants went down like sheep in a drought, and for the most part rose no more. Where there had been a lust of gold there was now panic, terror—every man feared that he might be the next to be attacked, and it was only the knowledge of those terrible three hundred miles that separated them from civilisation that kept many of them on the Field. The most thickly populated part was now the cemetery. Drink was the only solace, and under its influence such scenes were enacted as I dare not describe. As they heard of fresh deaths, men shook their fists at Heaven, and cursed the day when they first saw pick or shovel. Some, bolder than the rest, cleared out just as they stood; a few eventually reached civilisation, others perished in the desert. At last the Field was declared abandoned, and the dead were left to take their last long sleep, undisturbed by the clank of windlass or the blow of pick.

  It would take too long to tell all the different reasons that combined to draw me out into that ‘most distressful country’. Let it suffice that our party consisted of a young Englishman named Spicer, a wily old Australian bushman named Matthews, and myself. We were better off than the unfortunate miners, inasmuch as we were travelling with camels, and our outfits were as perfect as money and experience could make them. The man who travels in any other fashion in that country is neither more nor less than a madman. For a month past we had been having a fairly rough time of it, and were then on our way south, where we had reason to believe rain had fallen, and, in consequence, grass was plentiful. It was towards evening when we came out of a gully in the ranges and had our first view of the deserted camp. We had no idea of its existence, and for this reason we pulled up our animals and stared at it in complete surprise. Then we pushed on again, wondering what on earth place we had chanced upon.

  ‘This is all right,’ said Spicer, with a chuckle. ‘We’re in luck. Grog shanties and stores, a bath, and perhaps girls.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I can’t make it out,’ I said. ‘What’s it doing out here?’

  Matthews was looking at it under his hand, and, as I knew that he had been out in this direction on a previous occasion, I asked his opinion.

  ‘It beats me,’ he replied; ‘but if you ask me what I think I should say it’s Gurunya, the Field that was deserted some four or five years back.’

  ‘Look here,’ cried Spicer, who was riding a bit on our left, ‘what are all these things—graves, as I’m a living man. Here, let’s get out of this. There are hundreds of them and before I know where I am old Polyphemus here will be on his nose.’

  What he said was correct—the ground over which we were riding was literally bestrewn with graves, some of which had rough, tumble-down head boards, others being destitute of all adornment. We turned away and moved on over safer ground in the direction of the Field itself. Such a pitiful sight I never want to see again. The tents and huts, in numerous cases, were still standing, while the claims gaped at us on every side like new-made graves. A bullock dray, weather-worn but still in excellent condition, stood in the main street outside a grog shanty whose sign-board, strange incongruity, bore the name of ‘The Killarney Hotel’. Nothing would suit Spicer but that he must dismount and go in to explore. He was not long away, and when he returned it was with a face as white as a sheet of paper.

  ‘You never saw such a place,’ he almost whispered. ‘All I want to do is to get out of it. There’s a skeleton on the floor in the back room with an empty rum bottle alongside it.’

  He mounted, and, when his beast was on its feet once more, we went on our way. Not one of us was sorry when we had left the last claim behind us.

  Half a mile or so from the Field the country begins to rise again. There is also a curious cliff away to the left, and, as it looked like being a likely place to find water, we resolved to camp there. We were within a hundred yards or so of this cliff when an exclamation from Spicer attracted my attention.

  ‘Look!’ he cried. ‘What’s that?’

  I followed the direction in which he was pointing, and, to my surprise, saw the figure of a man running as if for his life among the rocks. I have said the figure of a man, but, as a matter of fact, had there been baboons in the Australian bush, I should have been inclined to have taken him for one.

  ) ‘This is a day of surprises,’ I said. ‘Who can the fellow be? And what makes him act like that?’

  We still continued to watch him as he proceeded on his erratic course along the base of the cliff—then he suddenly disappeared.

  ‘Let’s get on to camp,’ I said, ‘and then we’ll go after him and endeavour to settle matters a bit.’

  Having selected a place we offsaddled and prepared our camp. By this time it was nearly dark, and it was very evident that, if we wanted to discover the man we had seen, it would be wise not to postpone the search too long. We accordingly strolled off in the direction he had taken, keeping a sharp look-out for any sign of him. Our search, however, was not successful. The fellow had disappeared without leaving a trace of his whereabouts behind him, and yet we were all certain that we had seen him. At length we returned to our camp for supper, completely mystified. As we ate our meal we discussed the problem and vowed that, on the morrow, we would renew the search. Then the full moon rose over the cliff, and the plain immediately became well–nigh as bright as day. I had lit my pipe and was stretching myself out upon my blankets when something induced me to look across at a big rock, some half-dozen paces from the fire. Peering round it, and evidently taking an absorbing interest in our doings, was the most extraordinary figure I have ever beheld. Shouting something to my companions, I sprang to my feet and dashed across at him. He saw me and fled. Old as he apparently was, he could run like a jack-rabbit, and, though I have the reputation of being fairly quick on my feet, I found that I had all my work cut out to catch him. Indeed, I am rather doubtful as to whether I should have done so at all had he not tripped and measured his length on the ground. Before he could get up I was on him.

  ‘I’ve got you at last, my friend,’ I said. ‘Now you just come along back to the camp, and let us have a look at you.’

  In reply he snarled like a dog and I believe would have bitten me had I not held him off. My word, he was a creature, more animal than man, and the reek of him was worse than that of our camels. From what I could tell he must have been about sixty years of age—was below the middle height, had white eyebrows, white hair and a white beard. He was dressed partly in rags and partly in skins, and went barefooted like a black fellow. While I was overhauling him the others came up—whereupon we escorted him back to the camp.

  ‘What wouldn’t Barnum give for him?’ said Spicer. ‘You’re a beauty, my friend, and no mistake. What’s your name?’

  The fellow only grunted in reply—then, seeing the pipes in our mouths, a curious change came over him, and he muttered something that resembled ‘Give me.’

  ‘Wants a smoke,’ interrupted Matthews. ‘Poor beggar’s been without for a long time, I reckon. Well, I’ve got an old pipe, so he can have a draw.’

  He procured one from his pack saddle, filled it and handed it to the man, who snatched it greedily and began to puff away at it.

  ‘How long have you been out here?’ I asked, when he had squatted himself down alongside the fire.

  ‘Don’t know,’ he answered, this time plainly enough.

  ‘Can’t you get back?’ continued Matthews, who knew the nature of the country on the other side.

  ‘Don’t want to,’ was the other’s laconic reply. ‘Stay here.’

  . I heard Spicer mutter, ‘Mad—mad as a March hare.’

  We then tried to get out of him where he hailed from,
but he had either forgotten or did not understand. Next we inquired how he managed to live. To this he answered readily enough, ‘Carnies.’

  Now the carny is a lizard of the iguana type, and eaten raw would be by no means an appetizing dish. Then came the question that gives me my reason for telling this story. It was Spicer who put it.

  ‘You must have a lonely time of it out here,’ said the latter. ‘How do you manage for company?’

  ‘There is the Field,’ he said, ‘as sociable a Field as you’d find.’

  ‘But the Field’s deserted, man,’ I put in. ‘And has been for years.’

  The old fellow shook his head.

  ‘As sociable a Field as ever you saw,’ he repeated. ‘There’s Sailor Dick and ’Frisco, Dick Johnson, Cockney Jim, and half a hundred of them. They’re taking it out powerful rich on the Golden South, so I heard when I was down at “The Killarney”, a while back.’

  It was plain to us all that the old man was, as Spicer had said, as mad as a hatter. For some minutes he rambled on about the Field, talking rationally enough, I must confess—that is to say, it would have seemed rational enough if we hadn’t known the true facts of the case. At last he got on to his feet, saying, ‘Well, I must be going—they’ll be expecting me. It’s my shift on with Cockney Jim.’

  ‘But you don’t work at night,’ growled Matthews, from the other side of the fire.

  ‘We work always,’ the other replied. ‘If you don’t believe me, come and see for yourselves.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go back to that place for anything,’ said Spicer.

  But I must confess that my curiosity had been aroused, and I determined to go, if only to see what this strange creature did when he got there. Matthews decided to accompany me, and, not wishing to be left alone, Spicer at length agreed to do the same. Without looking round, the old fellow led the way across the plain towards the Field. Of all the nocturnal excursions I have made in my life, that was certainly the most uncanny. Not once did our guide turn his head, but pushed on at a pace that gave us some trouble to keep up with him. It was only when we came to the first claim that he paused.