CHAPTER ONE."THE SEA! THE SEA! THE OPEN SEA!"One of the most interesting of English highways is the old coach roadfrom London to Portsmouth. Its interest is in part due to the charmingscenery through which it runs, but as much to memories of a bygone time.One travelling this road at the present day might well deem it lonely,as there will be met on it only the liveried equipage of some localmagnate, the more unpretentious turn-out of country doctor or parson,with here and there a lumbering farm waggon, or the farmer himself inhis smart two-wheeled "trap," on the way to a neighbouring market.How different it was half a century ago, when along this same highwayfifty four-horse stages were "tooled" to and fro from England'smetropolis to her chief seaport town, top-heavy with fares--often anoisy crowd of jovial Jack tars, just off a cruise and makingLondonward, or with faces set for Portsmouth, once more to breast thebillows and brave the dangers of the deep! Many a naval officer of nameand fame historic, such as the Rodneys, Cochranes, Collingwoods, andCodringtons,--even Nile's hero himself,--has been whirled along this oldhighway.All that is over now, and long has been. To-day the iron horse, withits rattling train, carries such travellers by a different route--thescreech of its whistle being just audible to wayfarers on the old road,as in mockery of their crawling pace. Of its ancient glories thereremain only the splendid causeway, still kept in repair, and the innsencountered at short distances apart, many of them once grandhostelries. They, however, are not in repair; instead, altogether outof it. Their walls are cracked and crumbling to ruins, the amplecourtyards are grass-grown and the stables empty, or occupied only byhalf a dozen clumsy cart-horses; while of human kind moving around willbe a lout or two in smock-frocks, where gaudily-dressed postillions,booted and spurred, with natty ostlers in sleeve-waistcoats,tight-fitting breeches, and gaiters, once ruled the roast.Among other ancient landmarks on this now little-used highway is one ofdark and tragic import. Beyond the town of Petersfield, goingsouthward, the road winds up a long steep ridge of chalk formation--the"South Downs," which have given their name to the celebrated breed ofsheep. Near the summit is a crater-like depression, several hundredfeet in depth, around whose rim the causeway is carried--a dark anddismal hole, so weird of aspect as to have earned for it the appellationof the "Devil's Punch Bowl." Human agency has further contributed tothe appropriateness of the title. By the side of the road, just whereit turns around the upper edge of the hollow, is a monolithic monument,recording the tragic fate of a sailor who was there murdered and hisdead body flung into the "Bowl." The inscription further states thatjustice overtook his murderers, who were hanged on the selfsame spot,the scene of their crime. The obelisk of stone, with its long record,occupying the place where stood the gallows-tree.It is a morning in the month of June; the hour a little after daybreak.A white fog is over the land of South Hampshire--so white that it mightbe taken for snow. The resemblance is increased by the fact of itsbeing but a layer, so low that the crests of the hills and tree-tops ofcopses appear as islets in the ocean, with shores well defined, thoughconstantly shifting. For, in truth, it is the effect of a mirage, aphenomenon aught but rare in the region of the South Downs.The youth who is wending his way up the slope leading to the Devil'sPunch Bowl takes no note of this illusion of nature. But he is notunobservant of the fog itself; indeed, he seems pleased at having itaround him, as though it afforded concealment from pursuers. Someevidence of this might be gathered from his now and then castingsuspicious glances rearward, and at intervals stopping to listen.Neither seeing nor hearing anything, however, he continues up the hillin a brisk walk, though apparently weary. That he is tired can be toldby his sitting down on a bank by the roadside as soon as he reaches thesummit, evidently to rest himself. What he carries could not be thecause of his fatigue--only a small bundle done up in a silkhandkerchief. More likely it comes from his tramp along the hard road,the thick dust over his clothes showing that it had been a long one.