John Herring: A West of England Romance. Volume 3 (of 3) — John Shaqi
John Herring: A West of England Romance. Volume 3 (of 3)Baring-Gould, S. (Sabine)
General
John Herring: A West of England Romance. Volume 3 (of 3)
Baring-Gould, S. (Sabine)
West Country (England) -- Fiction
The snow had ceased to fall, and the air was clear of everything save
spray which was driven over the land in scuds. The headland shook under
the blows of the ocean. On the left hand was that awful gulf,
Blackapit, an almost circular well with sheer cliffs descending three
hundred feet into the boiling foam and fury. He approached it; there
was no rail, nothing to prevent any one from falling over. On a dark
night, when no snow covered the ground, any one stepping astray would,
in a moment, plunge into that horrible abyss never penetrated by the
sun. At low water there was an inky tarn below, but now, through the
narrow entrance, mountains of water beat their way, and when within tore
themselves to froth in their agony to escape, and rolled back to the
entrance, there to clash against another intruding billow. Then there
rushed up into the air a white pillar of whirling foam that fell back
again upon the contending surf below, unable to escape upwards. The
roar of the raging water in this abyss was as the roar from the mouth of
hell. There came upon Herring the thought of himself falling down that
chasm, the hands extended, clutching at the rocks, and the nails torn to
the quick in frantic effort to cling; kittiwakes, gulls, and skuas
shrieking and dashing about him as he went down into that raging,
ravening, thundering void. Rest there!—there—there! in that frantic
turmoil, the very thought of which made a whirlpool in the brain!
Herring sprang back with convulsive shrinking before such an end. No,
he could not plunge down Blackapit!
He returned to his wooden house. It was warm and bright, and the sight
of the fire and of the candle composed his nerves after that horrible
dream of Blackapit. Over the fireplace was his gun—he had shot gulls
with it from his window. On a summer day he had taken a boat and rowed
about Blackapit and Welltown cove, and with a bullet killed porpoises.
There were seals also in these bays. How horrible was the head of a
seal, so human, rising straight out of the waves. He had never been
able to kill one, the human eyes had unnerved him when he took aim.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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