Daphne du Maurier - Hungry Hill

"There's a glow in the sky to the eastward, Mr.

John," he shouted.

"It's my belief the miners are not coming this way at all tonight, but have set fire to the mine."

The other men were stumbling now down the hill, all of them calling and gesticulating, and John could see an angry tongue of flame leap into the sky from beneath the shoulder of the farther hill.

"He's right, Master John," cried the agent, "there'll be no crawling In the burrows this night, but whatever mischief goes on will be above ground, and in the sheds and buildings. May God curse the creatures for their treachery and devilry."

"Why, look yonder," called one of the tenants; "here's someone coming this way with a donkey and cart.

Watch how the cart rocks in the heather-he'll be over for sure."

"You'd say the animal knows every inch of the ground, or the driver has him bewitched," said another.

"He's down-no, he's not- he has him guided in the little bit of track, and he's driving the brute with a stick like a madman."

The donkey and cart advanced towards the party, rocking and lurching over the rough ground in wild, crazy fashion, and the man who was seated in the cart waved his whip at the party in derision, shouting and laughing, while his great black cloak bellied about him in the wind, making him a giant fantastic figure.

"It's the devil himself," cried someone, "it's the devil come out of hell to destroy us," and for a moment the party hesitated, uncertain whether to fly or to fling themselves upon their faces and ask for mercy. And then one of the men, less superstitious than his fellows, gave a shout of recognition, and turned to his companions.

"It's Morty Donovan," he cried.

"Look at his face, look at his eyes! Mr.

John, it's my belief he has gone stark staring mad."

The old man was balancing on the side of the cart, his bad leg propped up in front of him; in one hand he held the reins that guided the donkey, and in the other his whip, which he flourished round his head. As he drew near to the party he pulled the donkey to a standstill, and peering down through the darkness, he recognised John, and once more fell to laughing and shouting, shaking from side to side in a wild extravagance of mirth.

"So you thought to entrap them, did you," he cried, "and bind them here on the hillside, and bear them away to prison? Well, I can tell you that you're wasting your time, every one of you. The boys have a big fire lit at your father's mine, Mr.

John, and not a stick or stone of it will be left by morning. So go join him and your brother, and roast yourselves to cinders, and be damned to the lot of you. I say."

Once more the old man cracked his whip, cursing the donkey to go forward.

"Stop him," shouted someone, "stop him; get hold of the animal; he'll do himself some damage."

One of the men hurled himself at the donkey's head, which, bewildered and frightened, stumbled in the heather, causing the man to fall, while John, climbing on to the step of the cart, endeavoured to wrench the whip from Morty Donovan's hand. The old man was too quick for him. He turned with an oath, and cut the boy over the head with a stinging lash, blinding him for the instant, while a torrent of curses poured from his lips, the wild, extravagant laughter turning in a moment to senseless rage.

"I have cursed your father tonight, and your brother, and now I curse you, John Brodrick," he cried, "and not only you, but your sons after you, and your grandsons, and may your wealth bring them nothing but despair and desolation and evil, until the last of them stands humble and ashamed amongst the ruins of it, with the Donovans back again in Clonmere on the land that belongs to them."

John reeled back from the cart, his face cut and bleeding from the whip, and his senses dazed from the force of the blow, while the group of men, shocked and frightened momentarily by the old man's passion, stood aside from the track. Only Ned Brodrick, with a shaky smile and outstretched hand, seemed undismayed.

"Come now, Mr. Donovan," he said; "why now, not a man here, not Master John himself, wishes you any harm, and that's God's truth. I will see Mr. Brodrick myself and ask him as a personal matter to give his true impartial judgement…"

But Morty Donovan cut him short, laughing scornfully.

"Will you shut your mouth, you fool," he said, "and go and hide your face amongst the petticoats?

Haven't you the same tainted blood in your veins?

Let me go, blast ye!"

Once more the donkey stumbled forward as Morty Donovan cracked his whip, and the little cart, swaying from side to side, travelled onward into the darkness, until it was lost to sight round the bend of the hill.

"Are you much hurt, Master John?" asked his uncle, peering into the young man's face. "Should you not go home and let the women bathe it? I think we have done all we can for this night."

"All right, Ned, it will soon mend; and as for going home, that is out of the question. You heard what that old lunatic said? The fellows have set the place on fire. We must get the shortest way to the mine, there's nothing else for it."

The blood was running freely down his face, and his head throbbed painfully, and somehow the exultation of the evening was no more, but turning once more into the wind and the rain, that was coming now faster than before, John led the way across the hill in the direction of the mine. In some twenty minutes the party found their way through the darkness to the track leading to the mine, and at the far end of it they could see the tall chimney, lit up by the glow of the fire, and could hear the roar of voices, shouting and calling directions. The scene was one of incredible confusion, men dashing against one another in the darkness, some calling orders, some jeering, the whole body of men so mingled together that no one knew for certain who was friend or foe.

"It's the huts of the Cornishmen that are alight," said a man of John's party. "Look, sir, down the road there; they have every one of them in flames."

Such proved to be the case, the wooden buildings lending themselves only too readily to fire, and in the little strips of gardens that they had cultivated for themselves stood the women with their children, dismayed and terrified and weeping, while their men-folk endeavoured to quench the fires with buckets of water passed from one to the other.

No part of the mine proper had yet been touched, and this was because John Brodrick and his party, with the aid of Captain Nicholson, had so stationed themselves before the sheds and buildings that the rebel miners dared not advance without fighting, which they were by no means fully prepared to do. They contented themselves, therefore, with destroying the little dwellings of the Cornishmen, pilfering what they could find, and terrorising the women and children. When John and his party arrived on the scene, some half-dozen of the miners, the leaders amongst them, had succeeded in penetrating into the cleansing-shed, and, encouraged by their more timid companions, were engaged in overturning the trolleys and scattering the contents through the open doors, with whoops of triumph and satisfaction.

Suddenly John's arm was seized by Henry, who darted forward from the doorway of the counting-house and dragged him under cover of the building.

"Keep still-lie down," whispered his brother; "father is going to give these fellows the shock of their lives."

He was trembling with excitement, and pointed to two figures- that of his father and Captain Nicholson-who were standing slightly apart from the building, holding something in their hands. Copper John was hatless, and his coat too had been thrown aside, showing his square, powerful frame, while his thick grey hair was tossed and matted from the wind. He glanced up and saw his second son, and grinned, pointing to the instrument in Captain Nicholson's hands.