The Smugglers' Mine

by Chris Mould

  “I’ll head this way,” he said, pointing straight on. “You two take these.” He indicated identical tunnels that ran along either side. “We’ll meet up at the far end, and if anybody gets hold o’ that little …”

  “MAC!” said Daisy firmly. “If we do find him, we must be careful. He has just discovered the greatest secret this island has, but he’s a little kid! Take it easy on him.”

  “Aye, lass. Yer right.” He clomped off through the darkness, his head banging on the tunnel as he went and his huge feet lolloping over the stones. “Ouch, ow, ouch!”

  The three headed into the darkness alone. The deeper they went, the colder and darker it became. Daisy had suggested that as they went along, they should leave large drips of candle wax at shoulder height along the rock. That way, they could always trace their way back.

  Stanley’s eyes opened wide. He held the meager light from his candle up to the walls and stared at the glittering gold that went on forever. The whole island was one great big chunk of pirate treasure. He stopped and looked in detail at the bits of skull and bone that lay embedded in the rock.

  Every one of those skeletal pirates had a ghastly tale to tell, no doubt. Hundreds of years ago they must have sailed a thousand miles just to get here and dig in the mines. Many a buccaneer’s battle had been fought down here, and even now, in their death, they still held on to each other’s filthy stinking bones in a brave attempt to win the treasure.

  In the lowest points, the air was cooler still and the walls still wet. The odd crab scuttled out of the light as the candle passed by, and in the narrowest passages harsh barnacles scraped on Stanley’s arms.

  Stanley had to pinch himself: he had become so carried away with what he was seeing that he had forgotten his task. He was searching for Berkeley, and time was of the essence. Right now, one of the Darklings might venture into the cellar and uncover the raised flagstone.

  Up ahead, Daisy could hear something. A chinking sound, almost as if someone was tapping away at the rock that surrounded them. It echoed through the tunnel, which made it seem louder. Daisy held up her candle and squinted into the distance to sharpen her view. Nothing. She moved a little farther on.

  Every now and then the tunnels spilled out into big hollows with high ceilings. They formed little caves and then farther on, the way ahead disappeared into more small passageways.

  Daisy wandered into one such cave, and there in the distance, silhouetted by his candlelight, was Berkeley’s unmistakable stubby frame.

  She stood still and watched him. He was holding a small hammer and chisel and bashing away at the rock. Every now and then a small piece fell onto the floor, and he shoved it into a small cloth bag. He had stuck his candle onto a blob of wax on the wall so that his hands were free.

  “The little—” began Daisy, but she was stopped short when her own candle suddenly blew out in a draft.

  The draft was caused by Stanley racing up behind her as the ceiling opened out. He lifted his candle up to hers, and light returned.

  MacDowell had lost his along the way. He came crawling out on hands and knees farther ahead in the cave, and his sudden appearance startled Berkeley.

  “Wallopin’ whalebones, if it ain’t the littlest pirate I ever saw, pinchin’ the gold from old Davy Jones’s locker. Come ’ere, yer little rat!” shouted MacDowell. Despite Daisy’s good advice, he couldn’t help himself and had blown his lid.

  He scrambled to his feet and lunged at the small figure, but Berkeley was way too spry for old MacDowell and disappeared into the honeycombed trails ahead, without his candle.

  “He won’t get far without a light,” Daisy gasped, as they joined the race. But Stanley knew that the Darklings were used to the poor light that came with nocturnal living, and if anyone could manage down here in the black, it was Berkeley.

  The young Darkling whizzed through the tunnels, eager to escape. MacDowell was up front, and held up Daisy and Stanley. He had to stoop his long thin frame to stop himself from banging his head, and his eyes were not as good as they used to be. Even though he didn’t have a light, Berkeley was far quicker.

  They reached a small cave and Stanley pushed past MacDowell, with Daisy hot on his heels.

  But it was too late. As soon they’d discovered Berkeley, they’d lost him again.

  And now, to make things worse, they had lost their way. Rushing on, they hadn’t taken the time to mark their route with the candle wax as Daisy had suggested.

  The three of them stopped in their tracks. They listened carefully; Berkeley’s little footsteps were still trotting through the tunnels at an alarming rate. They couldn’t tell quite where the noise came from. It seemed to echo all around them.

  They had no choice; they had to find him. They had already been down here for a good while, but now they decided to stick together. If only one of them became lost, it would hold them all up. They took fresh candles from their pockets.

  Outside, the waves were returning across the sand, lapping at the dusty golden-yellow and washing right over it until it became a deep brown. The sea came closer, and quickly, and before long a crashing wave of white foam filtered into a small crevice in the rock. Crabs and small creatures came with it, and climbed through the narrow rocky opening.

  There were other slim openings in the rock, and the water washed inside until the deepest part of the smugglers’ mine was already welcoming the return of the warm afternoon sea.

  9

  Desperation

  The three friends had been in the mine so long that the light was starting to drop outside. But they didn’t know that. They still envisaged the afternoon sun, with the villagers on the beach and the tide back. But the beach was gone now, out of sight until tomorrow.

  Mrs. Carelli looked out across the harbor from the gateway to the Hall. Where were they now? Food was ready and laid out upon the table. She looked out at the purple-pale dusk that was awakening on the horizon and gently smothering the fading light.

  Down underground, the searchers carried on. At times it seemed hopeless … but Stanley had found a small clue: freshly dug chunks of gold, dropped from Berkeley’s cloth bag and giving away his trail. The candlelight picked out their presence as twinkles bounced back at them from the floor.

  They followed the gold-chunk route, but it was working its way deeper and that was just what they didn’t want.

  There Berkeley was again, disappearing into the distance, looking over his shoulder as he went. But now water was washing around their feet, and they knew what that meant. Time was running out fast. Who knew how far they had traveled, or how deep they were? They certainly didn’t.

  They tried shouting out to him.

  “Berkeley, stop! Berkeley, it’s all right. You’re not in trouble, but we don’t have long. The tide’s coming in!” At first they thought he was taking no notice, but with some distance between them he stopped up ahead and looked back at them.

  “What do you mean, the tide’s coming in?” his voice echoed back to them. He had a cross face and his hands dug into his pockets.

  “Look, Berkeley, you’re not in trouble! We need to get out of here. The tide will fill these tunnels with water before long, and we have to find the way back,” cried Daisy.

  “You’re lying. You just want my gold!” he sneered.

  “Berkeley, we’re not lying!” urged Stanley. “We don’t want your gold. If we don’t find our way back, we’ll all drown when the tide comes in.”

  “Oh!” said Berkeley.

  “Yes, OH! indeed, yer little bilge rat,” grumbled MacDowell. Stanley dug an elbow into his ribs to shut him up. “Ooof, Stanley. That ’urt,” he complained.

  “Good,” Stanley hissed. “Now let’s stick to the plan, please, Mac.”

  “Berkeley, why don’t you join us and we can find the way together. I bet you’d be really good at showing us the way,” tried Daisy in her most gentle tone.

  “Don’t want to. I like it down here.” Berkeley said.

>   MacDowell was biting his lip in frustration. He was ready to grab Berkeley by the throat and drag him feet first through the mines.

  Berkeley turned and ran again into the darkness. Or at least, he tried to. He had gone a very short distance when he suddenly found himself up to his waist in water. He cried out, and the other three ran to his aid.

  MacDowell’s long spindly arms hoisted him up out of the foamy water.

  “I’ve dropped my bag. I’ve lost my gold!” Berkeley cried.

  “Never mind,” laughed MacDowell. “Yer look like a drowned rat.” Berkeley’s legs kicked out at him.

  “Calm down, young ’un, or I’ll put yer back in the wet, head first.”

  Berkeley stopped immediately. He hated the water, Stanley knew that—he’d seen him run screaming at bath times when the family had stayed at Candlestick.

  “There’s a good lad,” said MacDowell, placing Berkeley gently on a rock and holding a candle up to his face. “Now listen.”

  “Er … I’ll do the talking, Mac,” insisted Stanley. He began his explanation of why they couldn’t take any gold, because of what it would mean to the island. Berkeley just looked at him with a face as cross as he could possibly make it. But under the circumstances, Stanley thought he had handled the news quite well. Maybe in the back of his mind, Berkeley knew he could return at any time without them knowing. Or so he thought. Stanley was already plotting to seal up the entrance hole from the Darkling cellar.

  But only if they got out of there alive in the first place.

  Both Mr. and Mrs. Carelli were out searching now. The light was fading fast, and there weren’t many places left to look. They had been down to the candle shop, and had searched the village. They knew for sure that the Hall was empty, and at this hour there was no way that they or anyone else was going to venture onto the moor, not with the return of you-know-what.

  A fisherman made an early arrival at the lookout post on the harbor, and reminded Mrs. Carelli that there was only an hour or so left before complete darkness.

  She was furious.

  Berkeley’s recollection of his route was superbly accurate. Without even seeming to think, he turned left and right, up and down. Like a soaking-wet sewer rat he trotted along, retracing his tracks.

  Then suddenly he stopped and turned around.

  “Stanley, I’ll only show you the rest of the way if you promise to play with me when we get back,” he grinned.

  “Berkeley, I’ll play with you for the whole day tomorrow if you get us out of here. We’ll take Steadman for a walk, we’ll run on the beach, we’ll go fishing, but please, pretty please, get us out of here fast. The water is coming up higher and we’re still a long way from home.”

  “You’ll really play for the whole day?” he said, with a smile that ran from ear to ear.

  “Yes, really,” said Stanley, and he meant it. The thought of a normal day with a walk along the beach and a fishing trip and other such pleasures seemed like such a dream right now, even if he was to spend it with Berkeley.

  They could hardly see as one by one their candles died and there were barely any stumps left to light. Stanley’s stomach rumbled and he knew that a serious amount of time had now passed.

  “Come on then,” said Berkeley, and he started to crawl through a tiny gap. Daisy and Stanley looked at each other, not believing that any of the rest of them would get through it. Only Berkeley had passed through this particular tunnel; everyone else had gone a different way. But they knew they had to stick to his route.

  When Berkeley was through, Daisy went next, but she only just got through. Stanley was taller, but his wiry body was as thin as Berkeley’s and out he popped.

  Then came old MacDowell, huffing and puffing. He was built like a street lamp, but his pot belly got him into trouble.

  The children pulled on his arms but he was well and truly stuck.

  “Berkeley, where’s your little stone chisel?” pleaded Stanley.

  “Here,” Berkeley said, taking it and the hammer from his pocket.

  Stanley set about chiseling away around MacDowell. The water was crashing in now, and really making a noise behind them.

  “’Urry up!” cried MacDowell. “It’s up to me feet!”

  “Don’t worry,” Stanley replied through his teeth. “Nearly there.”

  But he couldn’t help giggling at the spectacle of MacDowell stuck by his belly, and soon they all started. In fits of laughter they pointed at MacDowell and their cackling echoed around the tunnels.

  “Shall we leave him there?” said Stanley.

  “Yes, leave him!” grinned Berkeley, jumping up and down.

  “Just you wait till I get me ’ands on yer, yer skinny little—”

  CRASH. A huge wave came rushing up behind MacDowell and loosened the crumbling rock around his belly. He came heaving down on the children, and they were soaked in seawater. Only Daisy managed to keep her candle aloft, and now a single light was all they had to help them.

  They jumped up quickly and pushed on.

  Finally, they were in familiar territory. Stanley noticed the blobs of wax along the wall where they had started to leave their trace. But the water was up to their knees, and growing deeper.

  But as they came to the last part of their journey, a dreadful realization dawned. The remaining network of tunnels was now completely submerged in water. And in the dark, it was impossible to find their way without drowning first.

  Stanley turned around. The water that was up to his knees was almost up to Berkeley’s chest.

  But the young Darkling didn’t panic. In a moment he was climbing higher into a new passage, leading upward.

  “This way,” he called, and disappeared.

  “Berkeley, wait … we don’t even know if we can get out that way,” cried Stanley.

  But Berkeley was right: there was no other choice. They couldn’t venture through a mine of tunnels submerged in water. And as the water rose beneath them, the only way was up. Up into the unknown. And so they followed.

  They ventured this way and that, and though Berkeley had not been this way before he clearly had a sense of where he was. But as they moved upwards, so too did the water. It was as if they never made any progress. The water was always just beneath them.

  They had gone a long way along a single tunnel when it led to a dead end.

  “I guess that was going to happen eventually,” said Daisy.

  “What?” asked Stanley.

  “That we’d head the wrong way.”

  “It’s not the wrong way,” insisted Berkeley. “It’s just … it’s just that there isn’t a hole at the end to get out.”

  “Oh, well, that’s all right then,” muttered MacDowell, holding his head in his hands.

  Just then a trickle of water ran along the passage and circled around them as they sat hunched in the hole.

  “It’s here!” cried Berkeley. “Now what?”

  There was a stir of panic. Until now they’d had a feeling that Berkeley knew where he was going. But the water was quick to swell around them, and in moments it already had an uncomfortable depth to it.

  Swiftly they tried retracing their steps, but the route back was already filled with water.

  This was it. The very last moment of their lives. MacDowell began to cry, and the children comforted him.

  “Sufferin’ sea shells, I never thought I’d live me last moments under the drink,” he whimpered.

  But Stanley looked at Daisy, and through the last fading moments of candlelight their eyes met. Without even speaking, they had agreed not to give up the fight.

  Stanley still had the hammer and chisel in his hands. It was worth a try. He raised them above him and started to take small chunks of rock out of the ceiling of the tunnel. To start with, it was a losing battle. As Stanley chipped away, loose pieces dropped into the water, raising its level—but, bit by bit, the space above them grew bigger.

  “And what if we’re still a mile below the surface?
” panicked MacDowell. “The water’s getting higher.”

  It was up to Berkeley’s neck, and he was standing on his tiptoes.

  “Hurry up, Stanley Buggles,” he cried, and a tear ran down his cheek. “I don’t like the water.”

  Daisy hugged him tightly. “Hang in there, Berkeley Darkling.” She too had a tear rolling down her cheek.

  Stanley said nothing, concentrating all his efforts on the task at hand. He was sure he had heard the gulls harking above him. Perhaps they were closer to the surface than MacDowell had thought.

  More clumps of rock fell down into the water. Stanley’s arms ached.

  “’Ere, lad, give us a try,” said MacDowell, but he was so long and wiry he couldn’t lever his arms back to hit the hammer inside the small space.

  Then Daisy tried. Chink, chink, chink. Little taps brought more small pieces down, but it seemed a hopeless task. MacDowell used the bits of rock to try and build up a dam against the water, but it poured through the tiniest gap.

  Berkeley was still crying, with his head tilted back so that the water didn’t run into his mouth.

  “Stop blubbering,” said MacDowell. “You’re making more water.”

  Stanley thought that was the most ridiculous and unhelpful thing anyone had ever said, but he ignored it and held on to Berkeley to reassure him.

  Just then, a breakthrough.

  “Look!” Stanley yelped.

  “What is it?” they all cried in unison.

  He pointed to a tiny thread of something hanging from the ceiling.

  “Stop, Daisy, stop,” he urged.

  He yanked it free and held it up to them.

  “It’s a root, the end of a root, from a plant! Here, Daisy, take a rest,” he insisted, and began to bang away with renewed vigor.

  “Hurry,” gasped Berkeley. “Go faster.”