by Andrew Garve
“I can think of worse camping spots. I told you about that time I spent a week underground—well, we had a couple of tents then, pitched on a ledge nearly a thousand feet below the surface. We fastened the guy ropes to boulders, you know, and had sleeping bags and all the rest of it. Not bad at all.”
“H’m. I think the darkness would get me down in time—and that eternal trickle of water. By the way, have you any theories about where our stream runs to?”
Anstey shrugged. “What does the poem say? ‘Even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea.’ If we have any difficulty we’ll throw some colouring matter into the water and see if we can find the exit that way. I thought at first that it might join the river Blea at the bottom of the hill, but we were actually too low for that. The limestone obviously dips below the coastal sandstone, so it’s quite possible that our stream keeps underground until it’s forced up into the sea below low water-mark.”
“I didn’t know that could happen,”
“Oh, yes, there are several precedents. Fresh water from Mendip comes up in the Bristol Channel, and several rivers emerge in Galway Bay after disappearing on land.”
“We live and learn.” Quilter stretched and got up. “Ah, well, we’d better get some sleep if we’re going to have a big day to-morrow. You know your room, don’t you? Good-night, Anstey.”
“Good-night, sir.”
For once, Quilter was not troubled by the insomnia of which he so often complained. He was asleep in a matter of seconds, clubbed by fatigue, and knew nothing more until morning. He awoke refreshed and pleasurably expectant. It was good to have plans, and a companion as congenial as Anstey. They should have a splendid day again.
He found Anstey already up, sitting at the kitchen table in his shirt-sleeves working on a new plan of the pothole from his survey data. Judging by the progress he had made he had been at it some time. He had also washed up the considerable accumulation of used crockery which Quilter had piled into the sink.
“My old naval training,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not in the least. There’ll be less for me to do on the last day!” He glanced over Anstey’s shoulder. “I say, that’s a very professional-looking job.”
Anstey regarded his work with some pride. “Not bad—better than the original, anyway. I’m afraid your greatgrandfather telescoped some of those tunnels quite a bit.”
Quilter smiled. “You know, I had that feeling when we were walking along them.” He bent over the new plan. “What scale are you using?”
“Six inches to the mile. It makes it a bit unwieldy, but it does mean I’ll be able to superimpose it on the ordnance sheet. Do you happen to have one?”
“I think so, somewhere.”
“Good. Then to-night we’ll be able to see exactly where we’ve been. I’ll be through in another fifteen minutes.”
“You go ahead,” said Quilter. “I’ll get breakfast. Sleep all right?”
Anstey grinned. “Can’t say I remember.”
Quilter boiled some eggs and made coffee while Anstey went on with his methodical measuring and calculating. Presently the postman arrived with the usual heavy mail. Quilter put it all aside except for a letter from Julie and he only skimmed through that. She seemed to be having a good time and she sounded quite cheerful.
The telephone started ringing again soon after breakfast and it was nearly eleven o’clock before they got away. Quilter managed to find a pickaxe and shovel in the barn, as well as the crowbar he had used as a lever the day he’d discovered the hole. The rest of the gear now went comfortably into one sack. With a feeling of escape, Quilter threw the stuff into the station wagon and a few minutes later they were back at the Pikes. The air was even closer than it had been the night before, and a bank of storm cloud was gathering in the west. This time, Quilter slipped into the hole without any regrets.
Familiarity with the place had bred confidence, and although Anstey set a fast pace Quilter had no difficulty in keeping close behind him. The fact that the ladders were already in position made an enormous difference to their progress and by twelve-thirty they had reached the choke. Anstey arranged two or three torches in suitable places and they were ready to begin.
“The thing to watch here,” said Anstey, “is that you don’t get buried by a fresh fall. Slow and steady’s the motto.” He picked up the crowbar and started to loosen the small stones. Quilter wielded the shovel. There was no particular difficulty—all that was needed was patience. Little by little, a mound of debris was piled up on the floor of the cavern until it was almost as high as they were. Much of it was soft cave earth. By one-thirty, when Anstey called a halt for lunch, they had succeeded in laying bare the entrance to the passage and had even advanced a little way into it. It seemed to be about five feet high and six wide, and it fell away in a fairly steep gradient.
After a short break, they continued their navvy’s work. Anstey had the more exhausting task, for he was working farther in and he had to hack and prod while bending low under the roof. He was still going at it, though, as if there were someone to be rescued on the other side. By now, both men were filthy. Their boots had become soggy from standing in the stream and they were sweating profusely under their boiler suits. Quilter’s hands-were beginning to blister.
“Some people,” he said, scrambling out of the passage for a short rest, “would think we were crazy to be doing this for fun. How much longer, do you suppose?”
Anstey heaved at a piece of rock and jerked back quickly as there came an ominous slither of debris ahead of him. Then he gave a shout of excitement. “I believe we’re almost through—there’s a gap just under the roof.”
They both set to work with new vigour and very soon only a pyramid of loose stones lay between them and the continuation of the passage. Another half-hour’s back-breaking labour and the last of the block was cleared.
Quilter dropped his shovel and sank back against the pile of debris, pretty well all in. Even Anstey looked as though he’d had about enough. “Well, we’ve done it,” he said a little breathlessly. “At least we’ll get as far as your greatgrandfather did.”
Quilter wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “We ought to have brought a camera. A few pictures of myself with a shovel would have been worth votes!”
They had some more coffee and a cigarette and then Anstey became restless again and began nosing about in the entrance to the passage. Quilter, who had become very lethargic, watched him without enthusiasm.
“Look, Anstey,” he said, “I’ve done all the exploring I can take for the moment. You go ahead if you want to. I’ll be glad of the rest.”
“Really? Sure you don’t mind?”
“Not a bit. I shan’t even mind if you decide to name the place Anstey’s Burrow! It’s all yours.”
“Right you are,” said Anstey with a laugh. “I’ll just take a peep. See you later.”
Quilter nodded. “So long—and good luck!” He watched Anstey bend and disappear into the tunnel and then he settled himself comfortably against the mound, working his shoulders until he had made himself a nice soft back-rest. He was still pleasantly warm after his exertions and rather drowsy. The gentle murmur of the stream was like a lullaby. He switched off his torch and closed his eyes and almost at once he was sound asleep.
He woke in what seemed total darkness and it was a moment or two before he could remember just where he was. Then he sat up with a jerk of alarm. His headlamp battery was almost flat and the bulb barely glowed, so Anstey must have been away some time. He groped around for his torch and his fingers closed over it thankfully. The strong beam was reassuring. He looked at his watch and saw that he had been asleep for more than an hour.
Then he became aware of a subtle change in the cave. It seemed noisier. He scrambled to his feet and flashed his torch on the stream. There was no doubt about it—the flow had increased. Instead of running quietly in its channel it was rushing and gurgling over the caver
n floor and pouring in a small cataract down the passage which Anstey was exploring. Even as Quilter stood and watched it its volume seemed to grow. He needed no one to tell him what had happened. The weather must have broken, as it had been threatening to do, and the storm waters were pouring into the pothole. He and Anstey ought to get out quickly—who could tell what might be happening up there? What the devil could Anstey be up to? Surely he must have noticed the change in the stream?
Grasping his torch, Quilter peered down into the passage. “Anstey!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Anstey!” The echoes mocked him. He ventured in a few steps, bending to clear the low roof. The floor shelved rapidly and the water swirled noisily past his feet. There seemed to be a twist in the passage ahead and he clambered down to it, his heart hammering. Round the corner the tunnel flattened out and seemed to run straight for as far as he could see. The water here was almost up to his knees, but he no longer had the impression that it was flowing.
Suddenly terror smote him—not in any metaphorical way but as a flash of fight and pain in the head and an unbearable constriction of the chest and throat. The place was filling up like a bath! The water couldn’t get out quickly enough and was flowing back and soon the tunnel would be full! At that moment a light winked somewhere ahead. “Anstey!” he yelled. “Come on out, quick! Quick, man.” He splashed forward a step or two and stopped.
There was an answering shout now, an encouraging shout, and the fight grew bigger. Quilter felt a surge of relief—he was coming, it was all right. There had been nothing to worry about really—Anstey was too old a hand to be caught like that. He’d noticed, of course. But why the hell didn’t he hurry? The water was almost half way up the wall. What was he waiting for, the fool?
A moment later Anstey’s whistle shrilled along the passage, urgent, insistent. The light had stopped moving.
“Help!” The cry came echoing over the water. “Quilter! Help!”
“Come out!” yelled Quilter, rooted by leaden feet. “Come out, you bloody fool!” He could feel the slap of the icy water against his thighs, the tug of fear at his heart, and scarcely knew what he was saying.
“I’m stuck!” came the voice—more like a cry of despair now. “Quilter! For God’s sake, hurry!”
Quilter began to whimper. Crouching as he was, the water was surging round his chest, only a few inches from his face. He couldn’t go through that—he couldn’t. He’d be drowned like a rat. In a few moments now the tunnel would be full to the roof. Blind panic seized him. Suddenly he turned and started to fight his way back through the water, sobbing, oblivious to everything but the need to escape. He reached the bend and struggled up the slope, crashing his head against the roof, gashing his clothes. He felt the water against his skin, cold as death.
As he scrambled out of the passage he had only one thought—to get out of this ghastly trap while there was still time. Abject terror filled his mind. In the long stretch of high straight tunnel, he ran. He was still running when he reached the Cascade Chamber, now a bedlam of noise. His breath came in great choking gasps and the blood pounded in his ears. The ladder!—once he was up that ladder he would be safe. He lurched and plunged across the uneven floor of the chamber. Suddenly he slipped on a bed of wet clay and lost his balance. The torch fell from his grasp as he tried in vain to save himself; then a bunch of stalagmite came up at him and he went out like a lamp.
Chapter Six
He returned slowly and reluctantly to consciousness through a curtain of pain. His head felt as though it had been split down the middle and every muscle in his body ached. His clothes were soaked through and he was stiff and cold. With a groan he managed to struggle into a sitting position. The darkness was impenetrable. He knew he was in the Cascade Chamber because of the noise, but he didn’t know exactly where. He felt a fresh pang of fear as he realised that he’d lost his torch. He fumbled for it like a blind man and knew joy when his fingers touched it, but it failed to light up when he switched on. For a moment he thought the battery had gone dead and remembered with horror that the spares were in the sack and the sack was down there beside the mound of debris. Then he discovered that the glass and bulb were smashed. Somewhere, he had a spare bulb. His fingers were so numb that it took him ages to find and fit it. At last, though, he had a light.
He looked at his watch, but that, too, had been broken by his fall and one of the hands was missing. He had no idea how long he had been lying there. He touched a throbbing centre of pain above his right ear and found that his face and neck were wet with blood. His helmet had rolled away and it was as much as he could do to retrieve it. Even with the torch he could barely see, and suddenly he realised that he’d lost his glasses. He found those, too, at last, half buried in the soft clay and miraculously unbroken. He cleaned them as well as he could with a damp handkerchief and then nausea overcame him and he had to rest.
After a while he felt strong enough to crawl over the stalagmite to one of the dammed-up pools and bathe his face and head. The cut seemed superficial, but there was a swelling around it as big as an egg. The water was deliciously cool and after he had soaked his head he drank deeply, his hands cupped.
Deliberately, he closed his mind against all thoughts of Anstey—no point in worrying about that when he himself might soon be dead. It would be a miracle if he ever got out of this fearful pit. He felt languid from loss of blood. If only he had had the sense to bring the sack, with the food and the coffee!
He sat still for a while, considering his desperate situation. If he tackled the ladder now, it was ten to one that he wouldn’t reach the top. But if he waited, he might grow weaker, not stronger. The throbbing in his head made it difficult to think clearly, difficult to decide. Perhaps he’d better wait for a while.
He tried to relax, but his body was too cold for rest. A fit of shivering warned him that he must move. Waiting, in any case, was unendurable—it would be better to take a chance. He staggered to his feet and slowly made his way to the foot of the ladder. It hung motionless and infinitely inviting, a stairway to heaven if he could climb it. He thought of warm scented air and stars, of hot food and drink, of bed and sleep. He grasped the ladder and drew himself up on to the lowest rung. His head buzzed so much that the noise behind his eyes drowned the din of the cascade and he hung there unable to move. But presently the dizziness passed and he started to climb. Not having Anstey to hold the ladder made things far more difficult. It began to gyrate in the air, winding itself round the rope that still hung beside it, so that his feet became entangled. It even developed a sickening pendulum motion. The dizziness came back and he wound his arms over one of the rungs, on the verge of unconsciousness. Again the nausea passed and he straggled on. He lost all count of the distance he’d covered or the time he’d taken. He knew only that it seemed like eternity, and that will-power alone kept him from falling back into the pit. He could hardly believe it when at last his feebly groping fingers found flat rock and with a final effort he was able to pull himself up on to the ledge.
For a while he-felt too exhausted to move, but hope had begun to flow back and the climb had warmed him. He’d survived the worst bit—there was no reason now why he shouldn’t manage the rest. He tried not to think of the obstacles still ahead. One bit at a time, that was the way. Presently he left the ledge and struggled slowly up the steep slope where Anstey had fixed the rope.
At the foot of the second ladder he rested again. Another seventy feet, he told himself—that was all. One more climb and then safety. One final effort! He gathered up all his reserves and attacked the ladder almost as though he were fresh, going up steadily rung after rung with his teeth gritted and his mind blank. Even so, he nearly failed at the post, for where the ladder hugged the bulging nose of rock he missed a foothold and hung for a moment by his hands alone. Then his scrabbling boot found a rung and he had reached the top and was lying in the last short passage. From weakness or relief, he buried his face in his arms and cried like a child.
He almost fell into the station wagon and drove down the track mechanically, his eyes half-closed. He left the car standing by the cottage door and staggered into the house, blind with exhaustion. Somehow he found milk and aspirin, and took six tablets and crawled upstairs. A moment later he had flung off his clothes and tumbled into bed and was asleep.
When he awoke the room was filled with sunshine. His idea of the time was now hazier than ever, but if the unfamiliar angle of the light were anything to go by it must be past noon and that meant that he had slept for fifteen hours or more. Still he had no great desire to stir. The pain in his head had quietened to a dull ache but when he tried to raise it he felt sick. His shoulders and the calves of his legs were so stiff that it hurt to move them. His mouth felt as though he had been chewing sawdust. For a while he lay still, putting off the moment of action.
In the end, thirst drove him out of bed and once he was out he stayed out. He looked in the mirror and was appalled by his appearance. His face was yellow under its grime and his eyes were sunk in shadow. Dried blood crusted his cheeks and hands. Over his ear there was a great purpling bruise around a cut that still oozed blood. He looked as though he had been beaten up, and he felt like it.
He ran a bath and soaked himself; and then he tended the cut and shaved and changed into fresh clothes. After that he felt sufficiently restored to make coffee and cook himself breakfast. In spite of his fatigue, his hunger was fierce, and he made a good meal.