Chapter 2

At the bottom of the ravine into which I had now fallen, I found myself again involved in snow drifts, and had still more difficulty than before in getting out of them. I had tumbled into a very soft one far over my head, and had to fight, and scratch, and burrow for a long time before I could extricate myself, and became more exhausted than at any other time during the night. I only ventured to take my brandy very sparingly, wishing to husband it as much as possible, and there was but a very tiny drop left. My hands, as I have said, were so numbed with cold as to be nearly useless. I had the greatest difficulty in holding the flask, or in eating snow for refreshment, and could hardly get my hands to my mouth for the masses of ice which had formed upon my whiskers, and which were gradually developed into a long crystal beard, hanging half way to my waist. Icicles likewise had formed about my eyes and eyebrows, which I frequently had to break off, and my hair had frozen into a solid block of ice. After the loss of my hat, my hair must, I suppose, have become filled with snow, while I was overhead in the drifts. Probably this was partially melted by the warmth of my head, and subsequently converted into ice by the intense frost. Large balls of ice also formed upon my cuffs, and underneath my knees, which encumbered me very much in walking, and I had continually to break them off. I tried to supply the place of my hat by tying my handkerchief over my head, but found that by no possible effort could I make a knot, and that I could only keep it on my head by holding the corners between my teeth. It was equally impossible to refasten my overcoat, only a thin tweed (for I had dressed lightly, in expectation of hard exercise), which had become unbuttoned in my last fall. It may seem absurd to mention it, but the cravings of hunger grew so keen, stimulated as they were by the cold and the great exertion, that it actually occurred to me whether I could eat one of my old dogskin gloves. I was, however, deterred from making the attempt, partly by the prospect of its toughness, and partly by the fear of greater injury to my hands from frost bite, if they were deprived of their last covering. My exhaustion was so great that I fell down every two or three steps, and the temptation to give in and lie down in the snow became almost irresistible, and had to be struggled against with every power of mind and body. I endeavoured to keep constantly before me the certain fact, that if sleep once overcame me I should never wake again in this life. The night seemed interminably long. Again and again I tried to calculate the time, but always came to the same conclusion, that many hours must elapse before the return of daylight. The wind had gone down, and the stillness became so oppressive, that I often spoke aloud for the sake of hearing my own voice, and to ascertain that the cold, which was intense, had not deprived me of the power of speech. The hares still sported and burrowed on the hill sides, but excepting these there were no signs of life whatever.

Never did shipwrecked mariner watch for the morning more anxiously than did I through that weary, endless night, for I knew that a glimpse of the distance in any one direction would enable me to steer my course homewards. Day dawned at last, but hope and patience were to be yet further tried, for a dense fog clung to the face of the hill, obscuring everything but the objects close at hand. Furthermore, I discovered that I was rapidly becoming snow blind. My eyes, which had been considerably injured already by the sharp sleet of the evening before, were further affected by the glare of the snow, and I was fast losing all distinctness of vision. I first learned the extent of this new calamity when endeavouring, with the earliest light, to look at my watch. It was a work of great difficulty to get it out of my pocket; and when this was done, I found that I could not tell the face from the back. The whole thing was hazy and indistinct, and I can only describe it as looking like an orange seen through a mist. Such sight as remained rapidly became all confusion as regarded the form, colour, and proportion of objects. Again and again I thought I saw before me trees and enclosures, but these, when I came up to them, invariably turned out to be only portions of gorse bushes projecting through the snow. My optical delusions as to _colour_ were perhaps the most remarkable; the protruding rocks invariably appeared of a strange orange yellow, with black lines along them, producing a short of tortoise-shell effect. I took these mysterious appearances at first for dead animals, ponies or sheep, and touched them to try to ascertain the fact. My hands, however, were so utterly devoid of sensation, that they were of no more use than my eyes in identifying objects. I was therefore quite in the dark as to their nature, till experience proved them to be rocks with tufts of heather on them. Owing to my failing eyesight, my falls became very frequent, and several of them were from heights so great that it would scarcely be believed were I to attempt to describe them. I may, however, say, that they were such as perfectly to appal those who, a few days afterwards, visited the spots where they occurred, and saw the deep impressions in the snow where I had plunged into it from the rocks above. One fall especially I well remember. I had just crossed the ridge of a hill, and saw, as I imagined, close below me a pool covered with ice, which seemed free from snow. I thought I would walk across this, and, accordingly, made a slight jump from the rock on which I stood in order to reach it. In a moment, however, I discovered that, instead of on to a pool, I had jumped into empty space. I must have fallen on this occasion a considerable distance, but I was caught in a deep snow-drift, so that, although considerably shaken and bewildered for the moment by what had happened, I was not seriously hurt.

I have been enabled by various circumstances, and by the help of those who followed my tracks before the snow melted, to make out with tolerable accuracy the course of my wanderings. Those who tracked me say that, "If there was one part of the hill more difficult and dangerous than another, that is the line which Mr. Carr took." When the morning light first dawned, I could see that I was walking along the side of a ravine of great depth, and more than usually perpendicular sides; it was so steep that I could not climb to the top of the ridge and get out of it, and the snow was in such a very loose, soft state, that I expected every moment it would give way beneath me, and I should be precipitated into the depths below. I had to walk with the greatest care to prevent this; and I believe that this was a very good thing for me, as it gave my mind complete occupation, and kept me from flagging. I could only go straight on, as I could not ascend, and was afraid to descend. My method of progression was more crawling than walking, as I had to drive my hands deep into the snow, and clutch at tufts of grass or heather, or any thing I could find beneath it, to hold on by. I must have gone forward in this way for an hour or two, when I found the ravine becoming less steep, and I heard the sound of running water very distinctly. Accordingly I thought I would descend and try once more whether I could walk down the stream, as this by its sound seemed a larger one, and I thought it might have cut a way through the drifts. I reached the bottom of the valley safely. It appears to have been the valley immediately above the Light Spout waterfall, and, trying to walk by the stream, I tumbled over the first upper fall. Hearing a noise of falling water, and seeing dimly rocks all round me, I found it would not do to go forward in this direction, so, having unconsciously gone to the very edge of the lower cascade, where I must in all probability have been killed had I fallen over, I turned sharply up the hill again, going over the rocks above, and coming down again by a very steep place. Round and round this waterfall I seemed to have climbed in every possible direction. A man who had tracked me, and with whom I visited the place a few weeks ago, said, "You seem to have had a deal o' work to do here, Sir," pointing to a small rocky space at the bottom of the fall. I had imagined, while thus going round and round as if on a tread mill, that I was walking straight forward down the stream, and I suppose my efforts to keep near the sound of the water misled me. Though perfectly familiar with this part of the Long Mynd, I was so blind at this time, and everything looked so strange, that I did not in the least recognise my position. Finding I did not get on very well, I determined now to try whether I could walk or crawl down the actual stream itself where it had hollowed its way underneath the drifts which overhung it, making a sort of low-arched tunnel, which I thought worth trying. I soon found, however, that this was quite impracticable, and that if I went on I should either be suffocated or hopelessly imbedded in the snow, and that then my utmost efforts would fail to extricate me. It also occurred to me somewhat painfully, that if I lost my life, as I thought I inevitably must do now, my body would not be found for days, or it might be weeks, if it were buried deep in the mountain of snow at the bottom of that valley; and I was anxious that what remained of me might be found soon, and that the dreadful suspense, which is worse than the most fearful certainty, might thus be spared to all those who cared about my fate.

I was not, however, quite beat yet; so, retracing my steps, I determined once more to leave the stream and make for the higher ground. But a new misfortune now befell me: I lost my boots. They were strong laced boots, without elastic sides, or any such weak points about them. I had observed before that one was getting loose, but was unable to do anything to it from the numbness of my hands; and after struggling out of a deep drift previous to reascending the hill, I found that I had left this boot behind. There was nothing for it but to go on without, and as my feet were perfectly numbed from the cold, and devoid of feeling, I did not experience any difficulty or pain on this account. That boot was afterwards found on a ledge of rock near the waterfall. I soon after lost the other one, or rather, I should say, it came off, and I could not get it on again, so I carried it in my hand some time, but lost it in one of my many severe falls. The fact of the loss of my boots has astonished all those who have heard of it, and I believe has excited more comment than any other part of my adventure. I have even heard of its being a matter of fierce dispute, on more than one occasion, whether laced boots _could_ come off in this way. They do not seem to have become unlaced, as the laces were firmly knotted, but had burst in the middle, and the whole front of the boot had been stretched out of shape from the strain put upon it whilst laboriously dragging my feet out of deep drifts for so many hours together, which I can only describe as acting upon the boots like a steam-power boot-jack.

And so for hours I walked on in my stockings without inconvenience. Even when I trod upon gorse bushes, I did not feel it, as my feet had become as insensible as my hands. It had occurred to me now that I might be in the Carding Mill valley, and that I would steer my course on that supposition. It was fortunate that I did so, for I was beginning to think that I could not now hold out much longer, and was struggling in a part where the drifts were up nearly to my neck, when I heard what I had thought never to hear again--the blessed sound of human voices, children's voices, talking and laughing, and apparently sliding not very far off. I called to them with all my might, but judge of my dismay when sudden and total silence took the place of the merry voices I had so lately heard! I shouted again and again, and said that I was lost, but there was no reply. It was a bitter disappointment, something like that of the sailor shipwrecked on a desert island, who sees a sail approaching and thinks that he is saved, when as he gazes the vessel shifts her course and disappears on the horizon, dashing his hopes to the ground. It appeared, as I learned afterwards, that these children saw _me_, though I could not see them, and ran away terrified at my unearthly aspect. Doubtless the head of a man protruding from a deep snow drift, crowned and bearded with ice like a ghastly emblem of winter, was a sight to cause a panic among children, and one cannot wonder that they ran off to communicate the news that "there was the bogie in the snow." Happily, however, for the bogie, he had noticed the direction from which these voices came, and struggling forward again, I soon found myself sufficiently near to the Carding Mill to recognise the place, blind as I was. A little girl now ventured to approach me, as, true to the instincts of her nature, the idea dawned upon her that I was no goblin of the mountains, no disagreeable thing from a world beneath popped up through the snow, but a real fellow-creature in distress. I spoke to her and told her that I was the clergyman of Ratlinghope, and had been lost in the snow on the hill all night. As she did not answer at once, I suppose she was taking a careful observation of me, for after a few moments she said, "Why, you look like Mr. Carr of Wolstaston." "I am Mr. Carr," I replied; whereupon the boys, who had previously run away, and, as I imagine, taken refuge behind the girl, came forward and helped me on to the little hamlet, only a few yards distant, where some half dozen cottages are clustered together round the Carding Mill.

I was saved, at any rate, from immediate peril, though I fully expected that serious illness must follow from my violent exertions and long exposure. I was saved at all events from the death of lonely horror against which I had wrestled so many hours in mortal conflict, and scarcely knew how to believe that I was once more among my fellow-men, under a kindly, hospitable roof. God's hand had led me thither. No wisdom or power of my own could have availed for my deliverance, when once my sight was so much gone. The Good Shepherd had literally, in very deed, led the blind by a way that he knew not to a refuge of safety and peace.

The good kind people at the Carding Mill, you may be sure, soon gathered round me in sympathising wonder, and I was quickly supplied with such comforts as they could give. I told them that I had had scarcely anything to eat since breakfast the day before (as I had been too much hurried to eat my luncheon before starting to Ratlinghope), and so tea and bread and butter were at once provided. The former was very grateful, but I could hardly eat the latter, as all feeling of hunger had left me. The good people were much shocked to find that I could not pick up a piece of bread and butter for myself, as I could neither feel it nor see it; I believe they thought my sight was hopelessly gone. I was, however, under no uneasiness myself on this score, as I was perfectly familiar with snow blindness, having seen cases of it in Switzerland, and knew that in all probability my eyes would get quite right again in a week's time, as it turned out that they did. They also discovered that the middle finger of my right hand was terribly lacerated, and that the skin was completely stripped off the back of it. This I knew to be a much more serious affair, as the frost had evidently got fast hold of it, and I thought it very likely that I should lose it. This, however, seemed a very trifling matter to me then. Had it been my right arm I should have thought nothing of it, after so marvellous an escape. I was provided at the Carding Mill with a hat, boots, and dry stockings; and having rested about a quarter of an hour, set out again to Church Stretton, about a mile distant. A man from the cottage came with me, and gave me his arm, and with this assistance I accomplished the walk with comparative ease. I was so anxious to get home, that I almost felt as if I could have walked the whole way, though I do not suppose that I could really have done so, my home being rather more than five miles off. Arrived at the town, I sent my companion for medical assistance, and myself made my way to the Crown Inn. I could discern large objects sufficiently to find my way along the street, though all was blurred and indistinct, and the admission of light to my eyes was beginning to cause me extreme pain. I ordered a fly immediately to take me as far as possible on my road home. No vehicle of any description had been along the turnpike road that day, and it was very doubtful how far a fly could go, so it was arranged that we should be accompanied by a man on a saddle horse, that I might ride when the fly could go no further, as I knew that, under the most favourable circumstances, the last mile and a half of the road to Wolstaston would be inaccessible to wheels.

Of course my adventure excited great interest at the Crown Hotel, when it was fully understood what had happened to me. It was just two o'clock in the afternoon when I reached that place, and as I had left Ratlinghope at four o'clock on the previous afternoon, I had been walking uninterruptedly for twenty-two hours, excepting the quarter of an hour I had rested at the Carding Mill. My good friends at the hotel discovered that my clothes were very wet, for they had been frozen before and were now thawed, so I was dressed up in the landlord's garments. The effect must have been very ludicrous, for he was a much stouter man than I was at any time, and now I had shrunk away to nothing. It will not therefore be wondered at that people when they saw me declared they should not have known who I was.

The surgeon having come and dressed my finger, and warned me to keep away from the fire and hot water, and having prescribed some hot brandy and water, I started in my fly on my homeward journey. Very slow was our progress. We had taken spades with us, and many times the driver and the man who accompanied him had to dig a way for the fly to get through. Most trying was the long delay thus caused to a man who knew that in his own home he must probably be reckoned among the dead; but there was no help for it, and at last Leebotwood was reached, the place where the lane to Wolstaston turned off from the main road, and where I was to leave the fly, and, as I hoped, ride home.

The Post Office is at Leebotwood, and having given orders there that any letters coming from my house should be stopped, I was helped on my horse, and, accompanied by the man, began to ascend the hill. I had not gone a hundred yards, when it became evident that it would be impossible to ride far, and that I should be obliged to walk again, so the horse was sent back to Leebotwood by a man whom we met, and I started again on my own feet. Just at this time we met another man coming down over the fields from Wolstaston. He had letters with him to post; those letters were from my home. They were to say that I had been lost in the snow storm, that every effort had been made to find me, that they had proved fruitless, and that there was no hope left. I sent this messenger back again pretty quickly, and told him to go home as fast as he could and say I was coming. This news reached the village about half an hour before I could get up there myself, and as may be supposed there was great rejoicing. So completely had all hope of my safety been given up, that to my people it seemed almost like a resurrection from the dead.

They had made the greatest efforts to find me. Twice a party had gone up the hill on the Sunday night to the limit of the enclosed ground, and stayed there calling and shouting, till, as one of them said to me, they felt that if they had stayed there another ten minutes, they would have been frozen to death. The second time they went up that night, they actually got on to the open moorland some two or three hundred yards, but here they were in imminent danger of being lost themselves. One of them indeed declared that he could not return, and would have been lost had not his companions insisted on his struggling back with them. Human effort could do no more, and they made their toilsome way home prostrated with fatigue.

It was a fearful moment, they tell me, when the Rectory house was closed up for the night, the shutters fastened, and curtains drawn, with the fate of its master unknown. The helpless watchers could only wait and count the weary hours, keeping food hot for the wanderer, who they feared would never return, and unable till the morning to plan any further efforts for his rescue. The awful wind raged on, sometimes assuming to the ears of the excited listeners the sound of rolling wheels and horses' feet, startling them into expectation, though they knew that the tramp of an army would have fallen noiseless on that depth of snow. Then again, it rose like shrieks and wild calls of distress, and every now and then would smite the house with a buffet, as though it would level it with the ground.

The storm lulled at length, as the hours went slowly by. Morning came and the men prepared to resume their almost hopeless search once more. They started, about twenty strong, armed with spades and shovels, and determined first of all to cut their way to Ratlinghope, thinking that perhaps I had remained there all night. They worked with all their might, but the snow was deeper than ever, and their progress was laborious and very slow. Though they had started as soon as it was light in the morning, they did not reach Ratlinghope till noon, and then their last hope was dashed to the ground, for they heard that I _had_ started the previous afternoon, though pressed to remain in the village for the night. Great was the consternation of the Ratlinghope people when they heard the news. They knew the hill well, and said with one consent, "If Mr. Carr was on the Long Mynd last night, he is a dead man." This conviction too was strengthened by the sad fact, that that very morning the dead body of a man, whom we all knew well, had been found in the road frozen to death, not more than one hundred and fifty yards from a small hamlet in the parish of Ratlinghope, known as "The Bridges." Poor Easthope, for such was his name, was a journeyman shoemaker by trade. He owned a few ponies which were on the hill, and he had been looking after these on the Sunday. I suppose he was much exhausted by this, but he had safely reached his daughter's house in the evening, which he subsequently left to go to the place where he worked, no great distance off. He was found, as I have said, the next morning frozen to death on the turnpike road. It is conjectured that he either sat down to rest or fell down, and that he speedily became insensible. I think this fact in itself is sufficient to prove that, had I given way to the temptation to rest, I too should have lost my life.