Chapter Eighteen.
A Horrible Task.
Two days elapsed before the schooner was again well under the lee of Sandy Key, and preparations were made to land as soon as it grew dusk.
It was a soft, calm evening, and the sea looked solemn and desolate as the sun went down in a bank of clouds. A good look-out had been kept, but there was no sign of sail upon the wide spread sea, while the solemnity of the hour seemed to have influenced the men, who had gathered some inkling of their commander’s intentions.
“Whisht! Don’t talk about it,” said Dinny to one questioner. “Sure, it’s a whim of the skipper’s, and if he likes to take his brother and bury him a bit more dacently at the shelter, who has a better right?”
“Are you going?”
“And is it me? They wouldn’t ask me.”
Just at the same time a conversation was going on in the fore-part of the vessel, where the captain had been standing for some time with Bart.
“Nay, nay, my lad,” the latter whispered; “not this time.”
“Have you got all ready?”
“Ay. Just as you said.”
“Then, an hour after sundown, we’ll go.”
Bart tightened up his lips and looked more obstinate than he had ever before looked in his life.
“What is it?” said the captain, sharply.
“I was a-thinking,” said Bart, shortly.
“Well—of what?”
“I was a-thinking that you’ve just been made captain, and that the crew’s with you, and that you’re going to chuck it away.”
“What do you mean, Bart?”
“I mean captain, as so sure as you give the lieutenant another chance he’ll take it, and the lads, like Dinny and Dick, mayn’t have the chance to get Mazzard drunk and come to your help.”
“You do nothing but doubt your officer,” said the captain, angrily.
“More do you,” retorted Bart.
The captain started, and then turned angrily away; but Bart followed him.
“You’re skipper, and I’ll do aught you like; but so sure as you leave this here ship there’ll be a row, and you won’t be able to go again, for you won’t come back.”
The captain took a turn up and down, and then stopped opposite Bart.
“I’ll take your advice, Bart,” he said, “though it goes very much against the grain. Take Dinny with you, and do this for me as if I were helping you all the time.”
“Ay; you may trust me.”
“I do trust you, Bart, heartily. Remember this: Abel and I were always together as children and companions; to the last I loved my brother, Bart.”
Bart listened to the simply-uttered words, to which their tone and the solemn time gave a peculiar pathos; and for a few moments there was silence.
“I know,” he said, softly. “And in my rough way I loved Abel Dell as a brother. Don’t you think because I say nought that I don’t feel it.”
“I know you too well, Bart. Go and do this for me; I will stay aboard. I’m captain now, since fate so wills it, and the men shall find that I am their head.”
“Hah!” ejaculated Bart, raising his hand, but dropping it again and drawing back. “That’s how I like to hear you speak, captain. Trust me, it shall be done.”
An hour later the men stood aloof as Bart and Dinny lowered a long deal case into the boat and, as soon as the rope was cast off, hoisted the little sail and ran for the sandy cove where the boat had landed before.
They were provided with a lantern, and this they kept shrouded in a boat-cloak originally the property of the Spanish captain of a vessel that had been taken.
The precaution was needless, for nothing was within sight; and they landed and drew up the boat upon the sand, where the phosphorescent water rippled softly, and then the long chest was lifted out, and Bart bore it toward the cocoa-nut grove.
“Well,” said Dinny, following close behind, “I did say that I wouldn’t do such work as this; but it’s for the captain, and maybe some day I shall be wanting such a job done for me.”
Bart set down the case and Dinny the lantern beneath the cocoa-nut trees close by the levelled patch of shore; and then, with the dull light shining through the horn panes upon the sand, the two men stood in the midst of the faint halo listening to the soft whispering of the tide among the shingle, and the more distant boom of the surf.
“It’s an unked job,” said Bart at last. “But, poor lad, it’s the skipper’s wish. A lovely spot for a man to be put to rest.”
Dinny did not speak for a few moments. Then with an effort—
“Let’s get it done, me lad. I niver belaved in annything worse than the good people, and the phooka, and the banshee, of coorse; but it makes a man’s flesh seem to crape over his bones to come body-snatching, as ye may call it, on a dark night like this.”
They both stood hesitating and shrinking from their task for a few minutes longer, and then Bart stooped down and began to sweep back the sand.
“It’s laid light over him, Dinny, my lad,” he said. “Just sweep it away, and we can lift him into his coffin.”
“But—”
“He’s wrapped in a canvas for his winding sheet, lad. Sweep away the sand there from his feet.”
Dinny bent down and was in the act of scooping away the dry sand when he uttered a yell and darted away, followed by Bart, who was somewhat unnerved by his weird task, and who did not recover himself till they reached the boat.
“Here, what is it?” cried Bart, recovering himself, and grasping Dinny by the arm, feeling indignant now at his own cowardice. “Are you afraid of a dead man?”
“No; but he isn’t dead!” panted Dinny.
“What?”
“As soon as I touched him I felt him move!”
“Dinny, you’re a fool!” cried Bart, in an exasperated tone of voice. “I wish he was alive, poor lad!”
“I tell you,” cried Dinny, catching his arm, “he moved in his grave—I felt it plain!”
“Come back!” said Bart, fiercely.
“Divil a bit!”
“Come back!”
“Divil a bit, I say!”
“You coward!” cried Bart. “Am I to go and do it alone?”
“No, no, Bart, me lad, don’t thry it. There’s something quare about the owld business.”
“Yes,” said Bart, savagely. “You turned coward and upset me. I don’t know whether I’m most ashamed of you or of myself.”
He walked straight back toward where the soft yellow light of the lantern could be seen under the trees, leaving Dinny staring, trembling, and scratching his head.
“He’s gone and left me alone,” muttered Dinny. “Sure, and is it a Kelly as is a coward? If it was to face a man—or two men—or tin men—I’d do it if I had me shtick. But a dead body as begins to move in its grave as soon as ye thry to lift it out, and says quite plain, wid a kick of its legs, ‘Lave me alone, ye spalpeen!’ why, it’s too much for a boy.”
“Are you coming, Dinny?” cried Bart, as he approached the lantern.
“Bedad, and he’ll think me a coward if I don’t go,” said Dinny, panting. “Sure, and what are ye thrimbling about? D’ye call yourselves legs, and go shakking undher a boy like that? Faix, I’m ashamed of ye! Go along, do; and it isn’t me that’s freckened, but me legs!”
He mastered his dread and ran swiftly after Bart, who had once more reached the sandy trench.
“I thought you’d come, Dinny,” said Bart. “You’re not the lad to leave a mate in the lurch.”
“Thrue for ye, me boy; but are we to tak’ him back in the boat?”
“Yes, it’s the captain’s orders.”
“Howly Pater, but it’s dreadful work!” said Dinny.
“Then let’s get it done,” said Bart, stolidly; and he drew off the lid of the rough case. “Come, lad, let’s lift the poor fellow quickly into his coffin and act like men.”
“But didn’t ye fale him move, Bart, lad?” whispered Dinny.
“No. What foolery!” growled Bart. “Fancy!”
“Divil a bit, sor! I just touched him,” whispered Dinny; “and he worked his toes about, and thin give quite a kick.”
“Bah!” ejaculated Bart.
“Bedad, but he did!” whispered Dinny. “Wait a minute. The poor boy don’t like it, perhaps. If we only had Father McFadden here!”
“What are you going to do?”
“Shpake to him,” said Dinny, trembling; “and the blessed saints stand bechuckst me and harm!” he muttered, fervently. “Abel, me lad—captin, don’t ye want to go?”
There was a dead silence.
“Shpake to us, me lad, and say no if you don’t; and we’ll respect your wishes.”
The silence that followed Dinny’s address to the dead was broken by an impatient ejaculation from Bart.
“Come on!” he said. “Do you take me for a fool? Lift, man, or I’ll do it myself!”
Thus adjured, Dinny went once more to the foot of the shallow trench, and stooped down.
“Now, then, together!” said Bart. “The dead can’t hurt the quick.”
Dinny thrust his hands down in the sand on either side of the rolled-up canvas, made as if to lift, and then, as his hands met, he uttered another yell and fell upon his knees.
Bart started away as well, and stood in the dim light, trembling.
“There! Didn’t you fale him move?” whispered Dinny, who was shaking violently. “Captin darlin’, we were only obeying ordhers. Sure, and we wouldn’t disthurb ye for all the world if ye didn’t want to come. Don’t be angry wid us—it was ordhers, ye know; and av coorse ye know what ordhers is.”
“Did—did you feel it too, Dinny?” said Bart, hoarsely.
“Did I fale it! Sure, and he worked his toes again, and then give a bigger kick than ever!”
“Dinny,” cried Bart, passionately, “the poor fellow has been buried alive!”
“Buried aloive!” said Dinny.
“Yes; he has come to. Quick, uncover him!”
“Buried aloive! And it isn’t a did man kicking again’ being disthurbed in his grave!” cried Dinny, changing his tone and springing up. “Howly Pater! why didn’t ye say so before? Here, have him out at wanst!—the poor boy will be smothered wid the sand! Quick, me boy! quick!”
He dashed at the trench again, and Bart seized the head, both lifting together; and then, as the sand streamed away from the canvas cover in which the remains of poor Abel had been wrapped, they both uttered a hoarse cry of horror and stood holding up their ghastly burden as if in a nightmare, terror paralysing them. For they felt that the long wrapper was alive; and from out of holes eaten in it, and dimly-seen in the lantern’s yellow light, dozens of the loathsome land-crabs scuffled quickly out, to keep falling with a heavy pat upon the sand and crawl away; while as their shells rattled and scratched and their claws clinked together, the burden grew rapidly lighter, the movement gradually ceased, and the two men stood at last, icily cold, but with the sweat streaming from them, holding up the old sail containing nothing but the skeleton of the poor fellow they sought.
“Oh, murther!” gasped Dinny at last. “Bart, lad, think o’ that!”
Bart uttered a sound that was more like a groan than an ejaculation; but neither of them moved for some moments.
“What’ll we do now?” said Dinny at last.
Bart did not speak, but he made a movement side wise, which his companion unconsciously imitated, and together they reverently laid the grisly remains in the case, which Bart covered, and then screwed down the lid, for he had come prepared.
“What’ll the captain say?” whispered Dinny, as he held the lantern up for Bart to see the holes made ready for the screws.
Bart turned upon him fiercely.
“Don’t say a word of it to him,” he said harshly. “Poor lad, it would break his heart.”
“Not tell him?”
“Dinny, lad, you’ll keep your tongue about this night’s work?”
“Not tell the boys?”
“Not tell a soul,” said Bart. “We’re friends, and it’s our secret, lad. You’ll hold your tongue?”
“Howlt my whisht? Yes,” said Dinny, “I will. Bart, lad, d’ye feel freckened now?”
“No.”
“Nor I, nayther. It was the thought that there was something else that freckened me. Phew, lad! it’s very hot.”
He wiped the great drops of sweat from his brow, and then, as Bart ended his task—
“Ye were scared, though, Bart,” he said.
“Yes, I never felt so scared in my life.”
“I shake hands, thin, lad, on that. Thin I needn’t fale ashamed o’ running away. Faix, but it’s an ugly job! Oh! the divils. Sure, and whin I die I won’t be buried here.”
Dinny’s observations were cut short by Bart placing the lantern on the deal case; and then together the two men bore their eerie load down to the boat and laid it across the bows, the lantern being hidden once more beneath the folds of the great cloak with which the rough coffin was solemnly draped.
“You’ll be silent, Dinny,” said Bart.
“Niver fear, my lad,” said the Irishman.
Then the boat was run out as far as they could wade, the sail hoisted, and long before dawn they reached the schooner, over whose side hung a signal light.
As they reached the vessel, the captain’s face appeared in the glow shed by the light. The coffin was lifted on board, and then down into the captain’s cabin, after which the schooner’s wide wings were spread, and she was speeding on over the calm waters to the shelter, far away, that formed the buccaneers’ retreat and impregnable home, while Commodore Junk went down to his cabin, to kneel by the coffin side, and pray for strength to complete his vengeance against the world and those who had robbed him of the only one he loved.