Beatrice | Page 5

projecting their weed-wreathed heads through the wash
of the shore-bound waves. In certain sets of the wind and tide this is a
terrible and most dangerous spot in rough weather, as more than one
vessel have learnt to their cost. So long ago as 1780 a three-decker
man-of-war went ashore there in a furious winter gale, and, with one
exception, every living soul on board of her, to the number of seven
hundred, was drowned. The one exception was a man in irons, who
came safely and serenely ashore seated upon a piece of wreckage.
Nobody ever knew how the shipwreck happened, least of all the
survivor in irons, but the tradition of the terror of the scene yet lives in

the district, and the spot where the bones of the drowned men still peep
grimly through the sand is not unnaturally supposed to be haunted.
Ever since this catastrophe a large bell (it was originally the bell of the
ill-fated vessel itself, and still bears her name, "H.M.S. Thunder,"
stamped upon its metal) has been fixed upon the highest rock, and in
times of storm and at high tide sends its solemn note of warning
booming across the deep.
But the bell was quiet now, and just beneath it, in the shadow of the
rock whereon it was placed, a man half hidden in seaweed, with which
he appeared to have purposely covered himself, was seated upon a
piece of wreck. In appearance he was a very fine man, big-shouldered
and broad limbed, and his age might have been thirty-five or a little
more. Of his frame, however, what between the mist and the
unpleasantly damp seaweed with which he was wreathed, not much
was to be seen. But such light as there was fell upon his face as he
peered eagerly over and round the rock, and glinted down the barrels of
the double ten-bore gun which he held across his knee. It was a striking
countenance, with its brownish eyes, dark peaked beard and strong
features, very powerful and very able. And yet there was a certain
softness in the face, which hovered round the region of the mouth like
light at the edge of a dark cloud, hinting at gentle sunshine. But little of
this was visible now. Geoffrey Bingham, barrister-at-law of the Inner
Temple, M.A., was engaged with a very serious occupation. He was
trying to shoot curlew as they passed over his hiding-place on their way
to the mud banks where they feed further along the coast.
Now if there is a thing in the world which calls for the exercise of
man's every faculty it is curlew shooting in a mist. Perhaps he may wait
for an hour or even two hours and see nothing, not even an
oyster-catcher. Then at last from miles away comes the faint wild call
of curlew on the wing. He strains his eyes, the call comes nearer, but
nothing can he see. At last, seventy yards or more to the right, he
catches sight of the flicker of beating wings, and, like a flash, they are
gone. Again a call--the curlew are flighting. He looks and looks, in his
excitement struggling to his feet and raising his head incautiously far
above the sheltering rock. There they come, a great flock of thirty or

more, bearing straight down on him, a hundred yards
off--eighty--sixty--now. Up goes the gun, but alas and alas! they catch a
glimpse of the light glinting on the barrels, and perhaps of the head
behind them, and in another second they have broken and scattered this
way and that way, twisting off like a wisp of gigantic snipe, to vanish
with melancholy cries into the depth of mist.
This is bad, but the ardent sportsman sits down with a groan and waits,
listening to the soft lap of the tide. And then at last virtue is rewarded.
First of all two wild duck come over, cleaving the air like arrows. The
mallard is missed, but the left barrel reaches the duck, and down it
comes with a full and satisfying thud. Hardly have the cartridges been
replaced when the wild cry of the curlew is once more heard--quite
close this time. There they are, looming large against the fog. Bang!
down goes the first and lies flapping among the rocks. Like a flash the
second is away to the left. Bang! after him, and caught him too! Hark to
the splash as he falls into the deep water fifty yards away. And then the
mist closes in so densely that shooting is done with for the day. Well,
that right and left has been worth three hours' wait in the wet seaweed
and the violent cold that may follow--that is, to any man who has a