The wildest of British wild sports is the pursuit of the seal in the almost inaccessible cliff-caves to which it at times resorts. Of its haunts along the north coast of Cornwall—it is but rarely seen on the south—from the Land’s End to Tintagel, the caverns of Hell’s Bay are perhaps those which it most frequents. More secluded or safer fastnesses it would be difficult to imagine, yet in these it may be surprised by those who do not shrink from the peril the pursuit involves. The nearest homestead to the Black Cliffs, as those skirting Hell’s Bay are named, is Reskageage; and to its occupant, Mr N., who has led many expeditions against the seals, I owed the opportunity of sharing a bit of sport the wildness of which it is beyond my power to declare.

He had promised to send me word when circumstances seemed favourable to our purpose, and one morning towards the end of September 189-, whilst staying at St Ives, I received the following message from him:—“Come if possible to-morrow (Thursday) afternoon. I have just seen three seals under the cliffs, and the chances are we shall find some in the caves, as they have not been disturbed for a long time. One of the light-keepers of Godrevy tells me that he has not seen so many playing about the reef for years. If you sail across the bay and the water is smooth, land on the north side of the Red River.”

A Street at St Ives.              

After sending a wire that I should come without fail, I made arrangements with a boatman to take me across the bay. It was close on three o’clock the following afternoon when we rounded the pier head and set the bow of our little craft for Gwithian beach. A fair wind filled the brown sail and drove us at a merry pace over the waves of this loveliest of bays, where the Cornish sea displays its vividest hues in a setting of silver sand. Landing was practicable, and the boat was beached near where my friend was awaiting me on the shore.

“You’re rather late,” said he, as we shook hands.

“Well now, you had better go and have a good look at the cliffs whilst it’s light. You’ll see where I’ve been whitewashing the rocks. Get the twists and turns of the way down fixed in your mind: that will be helpful later on. In the meanwhile I’m going to overhaul the whole of the gear.”

I took the direction he indicated and, stepping out briskly across the intervening neck of rising ground between the two bays, soon reached the dizzy edge of the cliffs. A little on my left hand, zigzagging down the steep descent and almost to the edge of the foam, lay a white dotted line that was to guide us in the darkness. The mouths of the caves—there are four—frequented by the seals were some two or three hundred feet below me, but I could not see them.

Bleak and lone are these Gwithian cliffs, merciless the winds that sweep them. Not a tree or a bush is to be seen, and even the heather is stunted. No note of songbird meets the ear, nor scream of seafowl, only the sullen boom of the Atlantic groundswell in the caves so far below. Along the coast towards Newquay sunlit headlands stretched out into the ocean; and the low promontory of Trevose, dim and unsubstantial-looking, lay on the far horizon. The mellow rays of the sun now and again caught the snow-white plumage of some bird along the coast, and lit up the surf at the foot of the distant cliffs.

Not a gull floated over the bay below me; but a string of cormorants, with black flight, skimmed the heaving surface just beyond the dark shadow of the coastline, and disappeared round a jagged point.

I was following the last of these birds with my eyes, when my gaze was arrested by the appearance of a seal below me, and as far as I could judge, not twenty yards from the mouth of one of the caves. It carried its head, which looked as black as jet, clear of the surface, and betrayed not the least sign of alarm. After about a minute it sank—it did not dive—out of sight. I remained watching, in the hope that the quaint-looking creature would show itself again; but, as it gave no sign and the sun was nearing the horizon, I left the cliff and made my way across the heather and stubble to Reskageage.

I found my friend in the barn. The light of a candle stuck against the wall fell on the sun-browned faces of the farmhands, who watched him as he overhauled the equipment for our expedition. The various details were displayed on the lid of a big wooden chest that had once held the tin-ore between “ticketing” days at Wheal Margy. There lay some dozen torches, consisting of small branches of elm, about three feet in length, with pieces of white rag wound round one end and secured by bits of string; three small bottles containing oil, a rather heavy hammer with a new haft about three and a half feet long, a powerful gaff, a long-bladed knife, a revolver and cartridges. Near a big coil of rope was a sack of very bulky appearance, which somewhat excited my curiosity. Undoing the string round the neck of it, my friend drew out a rope-ladder ten inches in width and between fifty and sixty feet long. The rungs were of iron, about three-eighths of an inch in diameter, and perhaps fourteen inches apart. The strength of the ladder had previously been tried by the tug-of-war test, but now my host carefully examined the rope where it passed through eyes in the rungs, to make sure that it had not been weakened by friction or by rust. No defects being found, the free ends of the ropes were tied together, forming a triangle with the top rung; and the ladder was again stowed away in the sack. The big coil of rope was next overhauled. It was knotted at intervals of about three feet.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

“We keep that up in the adit, in case anything goes wrong with the ladder.”

“And the knots?”

“They make swarming up easier.”

A vague idea of the mode of approach and of egress from the cave began to dawn upon me. “There’s only one way out?” I inquired.

“By the adit is the only way, unless you swim for it before the tide covers the mouth of the cave.”

“There’s some ledge out of reach of the tide, where you can wait till it falls?”

“No, there’s scarcely foothold for a shag or a cliff-owl on the walls of the big cave.”

I confess to feeling slightly unnerved at the prospect, the perilous character of which was now evident. However, I meant going through with the business, which was of my own inviting; but though I had the utmost confidence in my friend, it seemed to me it would be safer, in the event of accidents, that three rather than two should descend into the “big cave,” as he had called it. It is trying enough to a novice to be let down over a cliff in broad daylight to reach a peregrine’s or raven’s nest, but I could see that was nothing in comparison with the night expedition before me. In the circumstances, it is natural that the idea of sending for the Earthstopper should have occurred to me. Not only was he accustomed to the cliffs at night, but he was of firm nerve and of ready resource. I lost no time in suggesting it; already I feared it was too late.

“Very well,” replied my friend, “in case of accident—not that I expect any, mind you—we couldn’t have a better man. Fill in a form—you will find some on my table—and Tom there shall take it at once. There isn’t a moment to lose.”

A few minutes later the lad was cantering down the lane between the sand-dunes with this message: “Be here by midnight. Ride or drive. Seal hunt between twelve and one. T——, Reskageage, Gwithian.”

My friend was extinguishing one of the torches as I re-entered the barn. Evidently he was not content until he had tested everything, even the oil. I could not but remark to him on the extreme care of his preparations.

“I like to see to every detail myself in a ticklish job of this sort,” he said, as he laid the torch down by the side of the gaff: “a weak spot in the rope, a flaw in the haft of the hammer, bad cartridges or wet matches, may mean more than spoiled sport.”

Leaving the barn, we made our way across the rickyard to the house.

A cold wind was rustling the leaves of the wind-clipt elm that had supplied handles for our torches; and, as the air was chilly, I was glad to get indoors. After supper we withdrew into my friend’s sanctum and pulled our chairs up to the furze fire which blazed on the wide hearth. Cases of rare birds and curious relics hung against the walls, and the floor was covered with sealskins.

In reply to some questions about the seals, my host told me it was an old man that spent most of his time about the cliffs, egg-collecting, and looking for things cast up by the sea, who had first called his attention to them. This had led to his finding a way to the caves—for the secret had died with the smugglers who used them—and eventually to the animals themselves. The greatest number of seals he had killed at one time was seven, he said, and the heaviest carcase would weigh five or six hundredweight. His opinion was that at least some of the seals remain on the coast all the year round, and that they do not go far out to sea to fish. They fed chiefly on the herring, but he had seen one rise in Hell’s Bay with a big flat-fish of some sort, probably a turbot, writhing in its mouth. Then, suddenly jumping up in the middle of an explanation why the eye of the seal is big and the otter’s small—“He’s coming,” said he.

We went to the garden gate and looked down the road and, sure enough, a light was coming towards us.

“How on earth did you know he was close at hand?” I asked in surprise. “You didn’t hear anything, did you?”

“No, I did not hear the horse neigh nor the sound of its hoofs, for they fell and are still falling on sand; but the dog must have heard, for I noticed him prick his ears and listen. You see, Andrew’s time was all but up; and, putting the two together, I didn’t hesitate to say he was coming.”

More and more distinct grew the light; then we heard the thud of hoofs where the track is clear of sand; and at last Andrew, seated on a rough pony, and holding the lantern in his left hand, emerged from the darkness.

“Good evening, gentlemen. I was afeerd I was too late, though I’ve shogged on as fast as I could.”

The old shepherd having taken charge of the steaming pony, we soon had the Earthstopper before the furze fire.

“That looks cheerful after the black night, tho’ et do make ee blink like a cat at fust.”

“You’ve had a lonely ride, Andrew?”

“No, sir, I’m never lonely, unless maybe when stopping the Land’s End cliffs on a wild night. Why, Lelant flats was all alive with curleys and seabirds as I crossed the Caunsway. Niver heerd such whistlin’ in all my born days. Et must be gettin’ on for low water.”

“Well now, drink up that glass of toddy and we’ll be on the move. It’s half an hour to low water, and it’s time we were on our way.”

Whilst my friend was saying this, I looked at the hands of the clock in the corner. It was seven minutes past twelve. Our equipment having been divided among us, we set out across the fields for the cliffs.

“We’ve forgotten the sack,” I said, as we crossed the stubble.

“That’s all right,” replied my friend.

It was indeed a black night, as the Earthstopper had remarked. A great bank ............