Chapter IV · THE TERRIBLE DOOM.

During the progress of the inquiry into the circumstances connected with the wreck, every effort was made by the authorities to discover the whereabouts of those who were believed to be engaged in the affair; but those inquiries were, unfortunately, unattended with success. The usual haunts of the wreckers were repeatedly searched, their dwellings were watched, and even guarded night and day. The villages and the neighbouring hamlets were visited on several consecutive days, yet they failed to find a single individual able to afford any intelligence or information as to the hiding-place of the desperadoes. The non-success of these inquiries was considered as most singular, no less than inexplicable. On the morning following the sad occurrence, several of the wreckers, including Mac the Devil, had been seen on the beach below Dunraven Castle, but it appeared that no sooner had they completed the packing and loading of the treasures collected, than they all disappeared in a most sudden manner from view, and that disappearance was effected in a most unaccountable way. Whither they went, or how they left the beach, no one could tell. They were distinctly seen, and in a moment afterwards they were lost to view, as if the earth had opened and swallowed them up.

Owing to their non-discovery, speculation was rife as to their probable hiding-place. Some thought it most likely that they were hidden in the cellars under Dunraven Castle; others contended that Mr. Vaughan was too shrewd a man to place them there, especially as he himself was suspected of participating in the battle, and that that suspicion might lead to an inquiry which might be followed up by a personal search. Others concluded that they had quitted the neighbourhood, and were hiding in the woods about Margam, or up the Ogmore Valley. There was one old gentleman who treated all these opinions with contempt. Every village and parish has its wise man, to whom, in an emergency, an appeal is made, and the old gentleman alluded to was the then wise man of Southerndown, as Hopkin Llewelyn is in our day. He gave it as his opinion, that the wreckers were neither in the woods of Ogmore Valley nor Margam, nor would they be found in the Dunraven cellars, but were still in the neighbourhood, and within the sound of their voices; in short, that they were hid in some subterraneous cavern in the bay, which had hitherto remained undiscovered, and hence was known only to the wreckers. He further predicted that as soon as the storm should blow over, by the departure of the commissioners, and the usual quietude of the locality assume its general aspect, the wreckers would again return to their old haunts, having Mac at their head; and would be then found wandering from point to point, having no special occupation, nor ostensible means of livelihood. The prediction of the village seer was verified to the letter. No sooner had the commissioners left than the wreckers did return, and they appeared at their place of rendezvous, the Cups, as if nothing had happened. Here they spent the morning of each day in drinking beer and whisky; and here they spent their money with as much prodigality as if they were the owners of gold mines. The landlord of the Cups received their money without even asking whether they came to it by honest or lawless means. When asked how he could be so lost to every sense of right as to accept money from men who certainly had earned it by being engaged in a nefarious calling, he replied that he was perfectly indifferent, and that it was no concern of his how they came by their silver and gold, so long as they paid him for what they drank. In this reply we recognise the true philosophy of the trade. Landlords, as a rule, care but little for the sorrows, the poverty, and the wants of their drinking clients and their families. They want to sell drink, and hence never for a moment reflect whether or not their customers can afford to spend a shilling, or as to the manner by means of which it was earned. He, of the Cups, was, in money matters, true to his calling; but we cannot commend the wisdom, or rather unwisdom, of the wreckers in spending their money at the old house, when the children of some of them wanted bread.

On the morning following one of these carouses, Mac paid a visit to the tower to see his cousin Duncan. Though they had met several times since the day on which they came from their hiding-places, yet they had not been fortunate enough to secure an uninterrupted and unobserved conversation. To this both had anxiously looked forward. Fortunately, when Mac entered, ho found his cousin in the observatory alone. Placing his books and instruments on the table, Duncan turned his chair to the fire, and requested his visitor to be seated on the opposite side of the fire. As the kettle was boiling on the hob, the host prepared two pints of excellent whisky toddy, one of which he handed Mac, who, on sipping the mixture remarked that it was “capital stuff,” and moreover inquired of Duncan where he obtained it.

“It came, Mac, from the old country; imported direct from the distiller. This is just the beverage for a stormy night, is it not, Mac?”

“On that night I’d have given a pound for a pint of toddy like this.”

“By the bye, Mac,” said Duncan, “you did the thing very neatly that night.”

“I’m obliged to you, cousin, for your good opinion. What did Mr. Vaughan say about our doings? He saw the whole scene.”

“My lord said to me, that unless you had been present, all would have been lost, as the sailors up to the time you came up had the best of the battle.”

“Mr. Vaughan was right there, Duncan. Had I not come up at the moment I did, every wrecker would have been a dead man.”

“So my lord, who was on the rock above you, said.”

“Oh, Duncan, it was a sad sight! I hope, cousin, I shall never be compelled to witness a similar scene.

“It is a sickening and a degrading calling, this of ours, in which victory has no honour, and triumph no glory. While it is a merry life and profitable to those engaged in it, it is surrounded with scenes which are shocking to behold.”

“As our master has such a large estate, Duncan, why does he carry on so hazardous and so dangerous a calling?”

“The secret is this, he loves gold, and his heart is set on attaining riches; and to secure them he’ll take away any man’s life if it stands between him and the prize he covets.”

“I should think he shook in his shoes when those men were down here. Was he not alarmed, Duncan?”

“Our master was, Mac, certainly alarmed; but, take my word, he’ll go on just in the same way. He is just like the little animal which, when once it tastes the blood of its victim, never gives up pursuit until it has secured the prey. The lord of Dunraven will, in my opinion, continue wrecking until some great calamity befalls his house or his family.”

The subsequent doings of Mr. Vaughan fully established the opinion of Duncan. Although he had been in imminent danger of having his crime discovered, yet, when those who conducted the inquiry had left the vicinity, the lord of Dunraven, with renewed energy and more resolute determination, carried on his nefarious calling. In each succeeding winter, vessels were wrecked in Dunraven Bay which had been decoyed thither by the false lights he had caused to be placed in the tower. From these wrecks he realized large sums. Had he been permitted to pursue his satanic designs for a few years longer, he would have become the richest man in the vale of Glamorgan.

In consequence of the great losses ship-owners had sustained by reason of these wrecks, and the terror which the scenes of Dunraven had inspired, both owners and masters of vessels trading up and down the Bristol Channel were alarmed, and were in constant apprehensions lest they should experience the same disaster which had unhappily befallen so many of their brethren. Captain ap William, however, was not deterred from pursuing his seafaring calling by these disasters, though his wife, previously to his starting on every voyage, warned him of the danger of following so hazardous a pursuit. Yet, in spite of those warnings, and the urgent solicitations of his wife to remain at home, he continued going to sea.

It was after one of these wrecks, when more than ordinary violence had been used by the men of Dunraven, that the captain and his wife were walking from St. Bride’s along the carriage way to Dunraven. This was their favourite walk, and it was, moreover, associated with many a happy scene in days of yore. After pursuing their walk for some time in silence, Mrs. ap William began to weep.

“Why those tears, Myfanwy?” asked her husband.

“I weep, John,” she replied, “in thought of the prospect of our separation. Oh, you will not leave me again, will you?”

“Indeed, wife, I must.”

“But where is the necessity for you to risk your life again? We have enough to keep us in independence and comfort.”

“I have promised my employers to go on this one voyage.”

“Can’t they get another captain to take charge of the ship?”

“Doubtless they could, but they won’t trust every man with my vessel.”

“Oh, I wish you would stay at home! Indeed, indeed, I fear, if you leave me, I shall never see you again. Last night I dreamt, and in my dream I fancied I saw your body being taken from the sea, your hair clotted, and your face covered with blood. Oh, I do fear, if you again leave me, I shall never see you alive!”

“Do not be alarmed for my safety, Myfanwy. Life is as safe on the ocean as on the land. The same Providence watches over the seaman as the landsman. He being at the helm, He controlling and guiding the destiny of us all, will be my friend, even should danger threaten me. So cheer up, thou treasure of my heart, and since you are so urgent that I should give up my calling, I now promise that on my return from this one voyage I will remain at home.”

“I can urge you no further, John. During your absence I’ll pray for your safe return.”

The following morning Captain John ap William took his departure. He joined his ship at Bristol, and from that port he sailed for the city of Lisbon with a cargo of West of England goods. From thence he sailed to London, thence to Hamburg, and after several voyages between the two last-mentioned cities, chartered his ship to the Mediterranean, and took a valuable cargo at Marseilles for Bristol.

During her husband’s absence, Myfanwy felt constant anxiety on his behalf, an anxiety intensified owing to the sad havoc among shipping at Dunraven Bay. As it was now winter, her feeling of apprehension increased in intensity, as she daily expected his return. October had come and gone, but he had not returned, nor had she received, for several weeks, a letter from him. November had come in more than usually stormy. All over the country trees had been uprooted, houses were blown down, and on the rocks above Dunraven Bay, and below Southerndown, the winds were so terrible that persons were in the imminent risk of being blown over if they went within even fifty yards of the precipice. On Friday morning the hurricane increased in its fury. As the evening approached, the storm became fearful, while the tumultuous waves increased in violence, foaming, then wildly raving, then receding in circling eddies for awhile, into their gloomy bosom; then, again, returning with renewed force and augmented fury. Upon their tumultuous and angry surges a large vessel, heavily laden, was being driven towards the bay of Dunraven by the fierce tempest. If that fine ship, which bore on her bosom the rich merchandise of continental skill and industry, be dashed against the desperate assemblage of rocks, crags, and shoals surrounding the bay—imagination with its utmost stretch could form but a very imperfect idea of so direful and so appalling a spectacle. As the villagers gazed upon the tumultuous billows, they saw the ship, which had battled many a stormy breeze, uplifted on the briny surge, then plunging headlong down the repelling rock. In that terrible collision, a hole nearly three feet square, was made in the bottom, through which the sea rushed in with terrible force, on which she began to sink. When this was discovered, the crew, in wild despair, called to the men on the beach to come and help them. They, however, moved not, but waited the issue with the most stolid indifference. Amid that cry of despairing anguish the sea rolled in with increased violence and fury, the waves dashing over the fast-sinking ship, and carrying along with them the unfortunate crew. Presently there was seen clinging to a frail board a young man, comely in form and handsomely dressed. Having fastened himself to this, the wreckers heard him beseeching them, in most piteous cries to come and help him. However, to that cry no attention was paid. Seeing this, he, with a voice which moved even the hard hearts of the wreckers, called out, “Oh, my father, my father! if you love your son, who has been a dutiful and a faithful son to you—if there be in your bosom any affection for him who has only lived to promote your welfare and interest; who, in your declining years, has laboured and striven, and thereby has succeeded in redeeming the manor of Dunraven from its heavy incumbrance—send the men to save me from a watery grave!” That cry the lord of Dunraven heard. It pierced his very soul. His countenance was marked with anguish, blended with despair. All he could say was, “It is my own son Walter, and I have caused his death!” He then fell down in a fit. When the wreckers heard their master’s exclamation they, as one man, took to the sea. Towards the drowning man they pressed forward with great energy, and at last succeeded in touching the frail board. At that moment there was a terrible sea, which, in receding, carried away the young lord of Dunraven and the whole of the wreckers, except Mac the Devil, who succeeded in gaining the shore. The Lord of Dunraven, when he recovered from the swoon, learned all that had happened, even of his son’s death. From that night Mr. Vaughan was never seen at Dunraven Castle. He went forth, bowed down with age and with sin, a wandering ghost, seeking rest but finding none. No one ever heard that he was sorry on account of the crimes he had committed against heaven and earth. In a few years afterwards news came to Wales that in an encounter with a highwayman, in the North of England, the once great lord of Dunraven was slain, and his body was thrown over the rocks into the sea. In his pockets were found papers which led to his identification. As his money had been taken by the robber, he was buried at the expense of the parish in which his body was found. Such was the life and such the end of a man who sought riches by robbery, and gold by the sacrifice of human life. Indeed, he lived a miserable life, and died a miserable death.

As regards the other persons of this history but little remains to be told. Mac, on that night, disappeared from the scene. But every nook and corner of the coast was watched and carefully guarded night and day. The people of the neighbourhood expressed their confidence that Mac was still in the locality, in his old hiding-place. After watching for a fortnight, during which there were no signs of his appearance, they were almost persuaded to give up the affair. However, they resolved still to continue guarding the coast for another week. The day before that week expired, one of the watchers saw in the sea, coming out from between two rocks, a man diving. Evidently he had come from some subterranean cavern, with an outlet under the water. This man was Mac the Devil. He was there and then taken, and lodged in gaol. At the following assizes he was found guilty of murder and was condemned to die. Before his death he confessed all, and left behind him a record of his exploits, and a detailed account of his connection with the lord of Dunraven. Before that record was read, Mr. Vaughan had breathed his last.

But what became of Captain John? It was his vessel that went down, and it was young Vaughan’s cargo with which she was laden. On the morning subsequent to the wreck he was found on the seashore in Dunraven Bay, with his body much bruised, and his face covered with blood. He was, however, still alive, and thanks to the careful nursing of his wife and medical skill, he soon recovered, and gave up going to sea. Ever afterwards he lived at home. He became an excellent farmer, and saved money. He lived to a good old age, and left behind a numerous family, who were as distinguished for their virtue as they were for their industry. In this world he moreover lived as he wished to die, leaving behind him a pattern of religiousness which his children, and their children after them, followed. Thus, while the end of the good captain was happy and peaceful, that of the lord of Dunraven was full of anguish, while he met with a doom which it is terrible to contemplate.