The Ghost of Smugglers Run

by Robert Sullivan

voice, before George could retaliate. “Charlie might have something here. There might be a connection. We have the Kaurhole on the Navy map, while on Rohan’s map we have the Princess Cave, but no mention of the Kaurhole. And in both Leslie’s and Rohan’s journals they refer to Jawali Kaur as a Princess. That’s a lot of coincidence and maybe it means something. Everything points to a cave, possibly connected to the sea, with its underwater entrance visible from Wilson’s Bluff. And see how the factory is connected to the cave and Smugglers Cove by the Run.

  Dad was quiet for a few moments, while Barney puffed ferociously on ‘Me Comfort’. George looked like a brewing storm. Dad tapped the admiralty map with his finger. “Ok. I’m drawing a very long bow here, but I’m guessing that the Run is an underground tunnel. I know, I know. Crazy! But bear with me. I’ll bet there’s a cave, the Princess Cave or Kaur Cave if you like, a name that has morphed into the Kaurhole over the past two hundred and fifty years, and that the cave is connected to the sea and accessible from the old powder mill. If I’m correct, it means that the Navy map, for some inexplicable reason, is wrong. Amazing, but that error might be the main reason why no one has ever found the gold. This could be our big chance. We may have stumbled on some clues that no one else has ever seen. I think our starting point has to be the factory.”

  Dad gave a nod to Charlie. “Well done Charlie” he said. “I think you might just have saved our bacon.” Charlie grinned and turned bright red. Even George agreed.

  “I been there many a time.” Barney chimed in as we all crowded closer to peer at the maps. “Bain’t never seen nuthin’ that looked like a tunnel. Jest be a big pile o’ bricks and all, covered in grass and trees. And the pigeons and gulls be makin’ it home too. Right messy it is. And we be searchin’ up there, same as on the beaches. Bain’t nuthin’ there though. No one never mentioned no passage. We be lookin’ fer the pathway but we didna find it. No one never found nuthin’. And the Kaurhole? It always be there and always be called the Kaurhole. I din’t be knowin’ about there bein’ a Princess and all.”

  The Powder Mill

  We met at Barney’s dock early the next morning. The clouds were so low we couldn’t see the cliff tops, and the rain came in bursts, like a dash of spray on our faces. It wasn’t comfortable and we scurried over to Barney’s boat to get ready.

  Barney kitted everyone up in wet weather gear, sou’wester, gumboots and long raincoat. No oilskin pants this time. They were much too heavy for walking. Barney and Dad both carried packs with small picks and extra batteries plus water and chocolate. Barney handed each of us a heavy, rubber encased torch and a shoulder bag. Barney also looped a long piece of rope around his shoulders, and he carried half a dozen karabiners on his belt. In his waistband he clipped a packet of sharp, silver spikes with a hole in the end. “These here be pitons, just rightly. Ye never know what ye be needin’” he said.

  We hiked up to the car park above Polperro. No walk along the cliffs today. We were going to the old powder mill in Barney’s truck. This would take us up along the Killigarth road until we reached the turn off to the old factory and, if the old road was passable, we could drive right up to the factory itself.

  Polperro was silent and closed up against the rain as we trudged through the cobbled streets. Water sluiced over the cobbles and sloshed and splashed in the gutters on the way to the harbour. It was so gloomy that the streetlights were on, each one surrounded by a glittering halo of raindrops and mist. Even the gulls and gannets were inside today. When we arrived at the car park Barney stopped and pointed, beaming, at a funny little contraption parked in one corner. “There she be” he said.

  “No kidding! It’s a motor bike” exclaimed George.

  Barney beamed at us. “This be me old Fiat. Fiat Piaggio just rightly. Been ridin’ in her this past twenty year. And there be naught complaint in all that time. Why, she hardly be usin’ any o’ the petrol or the oils ye know.” The Fiat was tiny. It had three wheels, one at the front of the small cab, and two at the rear, where they supported an equally small tray. It would be lucky to haul Barney, let alone all of us. I thought it looked like a bug with pop eyes. George said she was flabbergasted.

  “I’m afraid to ask if we’re insured” whispered Dad as we clambered aboard. We fitted everyone in, but only just. Dad and Barney and their packs squeezed into the cab while we all climbed into the tray, Max and I sitting at the rear, George and Charlie wedged up in the front of the tray, hanging on tight to the roll bar that stretched across the top of the cab. Barney fired up and, with a squealing sound like Mum’s old sewing machine, we puttered out of the car park and turned onto the main road. The rain kept pouring down, getting even heavier. Every now and then there was a rattle of hail on the metal of the Piaggio. The light was dim but we could still see the ocean, churning and grey where it crashed onto the rocks, the waves tipped with yellow foam. Barney flicked on the single headlight and, even though it wasn’t really dark, it just seemed to get a little gloomier. Then we were in the clouds.

  We popped and squealed up along the road, the beam of the Piaggio’s headlight turning the cloud into a white fog. We couldn’t see a thing and every now and then the Fiat would slide on the wet road, bringing a shriek from the tray. We could hear Barney laughing but not a peep from Dad. It didn’t take us long to get to the turnoff to the mill and Barney immediately pulled over to the side of the road. He and Dad hopped out and began inspecting the old road. They walked down the hill for about a hundred metres, inspecting the road and sloshing through deep puddles and sticky black mud. As Barney had explained earlier, it was better for us to come by road, because it was much quicker than walking. And the packs were heavy, what with ropes and karabiners and pitons. But in our short trip in the Fiat we had climbed up high above the old factory, and now had to follow the old road back down the hill. The old road was never used much any more, and Dad and Barney were worried that it might be too steep and slippery and dangerous because of the rain.

  After an inspection they decided it was too slippery. The mud was inches thick and some of the holes were really deep. “Why the poor Fiat be likely te flop right over on this road” said Barney. So we would have to go the remainder of the distance on foot. “It not be far though” said Barney. “But take care with ye feet, fer the ground be treacherous and all.” With that Dad and Barney shouldered the packs, we made sure our torches were secure in our shoulder bags, and we set off.

  Barney wasn’t kidding. The track was really rough. It was an old gravel road, with rocks marking and supporting the edges, but the years and the weather had taken their toll. We splashed through large pools where parts of the road had caved in and slipped down the hill. In a couple of places saltbush and small trees almost covered the track. And it was steep. Much steeper than it looked from the new road, and much steeper than we could have imagined. The road wound back and forth on itself as we followed it down the slope to the factory. How on earth did they ever get anything out of here? And how did they get all the stuff here to build the factory in the first place?

  The old factory site was a mess. After two hundred years only a few parts of the old stone walls were still standing, some with ragged pieces of timber jutting out at odd angles. Vines and saltbush, small trees and unkempt grasses clothed the site and festooned the ruins. The ground underfoot was treacherous, sometimes grass, sometimes deep mud, sometimes old paving stones covered in slippery moss. And everywhere we were ankle deep in water!

  Off to one side, about a hundred yards from the factory, was a row of what appeared to be large cottages. Each one was about thirty feet high with a sloped roof and a chimney at the peak. All had large metal doors or openings at the front and all were falling into ruin and, now, mostly covered in vines and grass.

  “Who are the houses for?” asked Charlie. “Is that where the people lived?”

  “They bain’t be houses, me lass” said Barney. “They be the coke ovens. Ye be seein’ the grates at the front? They be bringin’ in t
he Polperro coal by wagon and burnin’ it here. Then they be crushin’ it in the mill fer te make the powder.” We paused and looked at the ovens, then back up at the road, and at the track that we had, literally, climbed down. They brought wagons of coal down that road I asked myself? The poor horses!

  The rain still poured down, turning the surrounding landscape into a drenched, dripping greyness. We had walked in at the north end of the old factory and we looked around to get our bearings. Dad had Rohan’s map with him, now encased in clear plastic. I bet Mrs. Mahoney didn’t know.

  We all crowded close together while Dad and Barney peered at the map. “If there’s a tunnel, it will be at the south end, closer to the cliff top” said Dad. “We need to make our way down to that end. Single file, guys. I’ll lead. And everyone be careful. There’s water everywhere and this rock could be like cheese. No busted ankles, please.”

  We filed off, following Dad into the overgrown ruin, with Barney at the rear. It was hard going. We could see the remains of the long eastern wall, most of it broken down except for one section where a piece of slate roof still hung. “Amazin’, ain’t it?”