Chapter Nineteen.
Death claims a Victim.
The breeze continued fresh until about midnight, after which it lessened a trifle, and came off from the larboard quarter. Daybreak found the boat off the north-eastern extremity of the Isle of Pines, and about five miles distant from that curious chain of islets called by the Spaniards the Islas de Mangles, which curves out like a breakwater across the northern face of the island. Their hunger, which had to some extent been appeased by their last plentiful meal of wild raspberries, and which had been altogether forgotten in the excitement of their subsequent flight now returned to them in full force, and, the breeze failing them, George determined to put the line overboard and try for a few fish.
He was successful beyond his most sanguine expectations, half-a-dozen fine but grotesque-looking fish speedily rewarding his efforts. The idea of devouring them raw was rather repulsive, but as there was no possible means of cooking them, they had either to do that or go without breakfast; so, selecting the most tempting-looking, they cut it up, and, after making a wry face over the first mouthful or two, managed to satisfactorily dispose of it. That is to say, George and Tom did; but poor Walford, on being offered a share, shook his head, murmured that he was not hungry, and closed his eyes again in patient suffering. The balance of the catch was carefully cleaned and strung up on the yard, in the hope that it would dry in the sun.
Their great want now was water. Their hunger being satisfied, thirst began to assert itself, and George would have landed upon the Isle of Pines and endeavoured to find fresh water, but for the fact that he caught sight of several people on the shore, who appeared to be watching the boat with pertinacious curiosity. In this strait he tried the plan of dipping his shirt into the sea, and putting it on again dripping wet; and, to his great delight, he found that this proceeding had a very sensible effect in mitigating thirst. Upon this, Tom tried the same plan, with equally beneficial results, and then they well soused poor Walford with sea-water, hoping that it would, to some extent, revive and refresh him.
By mid-day the Isle of Pines was broad on their starboard quarter, the last Cay on the “Jardines” shoal had been passed, and they were fairly at sea and in deep water. They might now reasonably look out for a frigate at any moment; but, as it would not do to depend upon this source of rescue alone, George continued to stand boldly to the southward and eastward, hoping that by so doing he would not only improve his prospects of falling in with a British frigate, but that he would also—failing the frigate—meet with a friendly merchantman.
By sunset they were fairly out of sight of land, but, so far, nothing in the shape of a sail had greeted their longing eyes. Once or twice a white speck on the horizon had temporarily raised their hopes, but it had vanished the next moment, being probably nothing more than the sunlight flashing upon a sea-bird’s wing.
George was hourly growing more and more anxious for a speedy rescue, not so much on his own account as for Walford’s sake, the condition of the latter being such as to give rise to the liveliest apprehension. He had eaten nothing since the previous day, pleading want of appetite, and as the sun went down he watched its gradual disappearance beneath the purple waves with wistful eagerness, murmuring, “The last time, the last time!” Then as the solemn darkness swept down over the sea, and the stars came out one by one in the great blue vault above, the little consciousness of his surroundings which he hitherto retained left him, and he fell to murmuring snatches of songs, mingled with babblings of his childhood’s days. The word “mother” was frequently upon his lips, and once he burst into a passion of hysterical tears, murmuring, child-like, that “he was very sorry; and that, if she would forgive him, he would be a good boy for the future, and would never do it again.”
This state of things gravely alarmed George, who began to fear that the last great solemn change was at hand. It was therefore with a feeling of intense relief that he heard a hail of “Sail, ho!” from Tom, whose sharp eyes had at last caught sight of a genuine and unmistakable sail broad on the boat’s lee bow.
There was nothing, however, to be done but to carefully watch the helm of the boat; she was already under canvas and steering the best course possible for intercepting the stranger; the only thing, therefore, was to steer straight, otherwise the chances were that the ship would be missed, after all. The strange sail was steering about east-south-east, being close-hauled on the larboard tack, and, from her position, George thought it just possible that he might intercept her, or, at all events, near her sufficiently to permit of her crew hearing his hail as they passed.
As the night deepened, the breeze freshened, and by the time that the strange sail had been in sight half an hour it was blowing so fresh that it was as much as they could do to keep the lee gunwale above water. Yet they dared not shorten sail, for the breeze which was threatening at every moment to capsize them was also hurrying the stranger more rapidly along, and consequently lessening their chances of intercepting her. Thick clouds, too, began to gather in the sky, threatening more wind, and, by obscuring the light of the moon, rendering it just so much the more unlikely that the crew of the approaching vessel would see them.
At last a heavy squall burst about a mile to windward of them, and George was reluctantly compelled to order Tom forward to shorten sail. Unfortunately the halliards had somehow got jammed aloft in the sheave, and the sail would not come down. Tom tugged and tugged at it desperately, but all to no purpose; there it stuck, with the squall rushing down upon them like a race-horse.
“Cast off the tack, Tom, and let the sail fly!” shouted George, and the lad had scarcely time to obey the order when the squall burst furiously upon them. The sail streamed out in the wind like a great banner from the top of the mast, lashing furiously, and shaking the boat to her keel. The crazy craft careened gunwale-to, notwithstanding that George had put his helm promptly up, and in another moment she would undoubtedly have gone over with them; but just as the water was beginning to pour in over the gunwale, crack! went the mast and the thwart with it over the side. The boat was nearly half full of water, and in their anxiety to free her, and get her before the wind, the mast and sail parted company from the boat, and they never saw them again.
The squall lasted about five minutes, and then passed off, leaving only a gentle breeze behind it. As soon as this was the case, they had a look round for the strange sail, and made her out—a topsail-schooner—about a mile and a half distant. George saw that there was still a chance for them, so they out oars and pulled vigorously. All was going well, when, to their intense surprise, the craft, after approaching to within little more than a quarter of a mile of them, suddenly put up her helm, and, wearing round, stood away upon a south-westerly course. With one accord George and Tom started to their feet and shouted lustily and repeatedly, “Ship ahoy! Ship ahoy! Ship ahoy!” until their throats were so strained that their voices failed them, and they became unable to utter another sound. It was all to no purpose; their cries attracted not the slightest notice; the schooner ran rapidly away from them and at last George in despair laid in his oar, flung himself down in the sternsheets, and covered his eyes with his hands, to shut out the tantalising sight.
Half an hour afterwards the reason for this extraordinary conduct on the part of the schooner became apparent, the upper canvas of a large ship under a heavy press of sail appearing in the south-east quarter. That this ship was a man-o’-war was evident at a glance, from the cut of her sails; and the course which she was steering, together with her large spread of canvas, showed that she was in pursuit of the schooner.
The first impulse of those in the boat was to out oars and pull toward her, but five minutes’ work sufficed to show them that their chance was almost hopeless; the frigate would pass them at a distance of about six miles, and with every eye on board her intently fixed upon the chase, what prospect was there, in that uncertain light, of so small an object as the boat being seen at so great a distance? Nevertheless, they toiled on with dogged perseverance, and did not abandon their efforts until the frigate had passed them, and her topsails had sunk below the horizon. Then indeed they laid in their oars, and directed their whole attention to Walford, whose condition became more alarming every moment.
Not that he made any complaint. The poor fellow indeed seemed to be quite unconscious of his pain and weakness; but his ghastly pallor, his laboured breathing, and the convulsive shudders which agitated his frame from time to time were to George a tolerably clear indication that dissolution was near at hand.
He was still quite light-headed, his mind wandering in feverish haste from scene to scene of his boyhood, as was evident from the rapid disjointed sentences which poured uninterruptedly from his lips. George was able to gather pretty clearly from them that, even as a lad, Walford had been wilful, headstrong, and obstinate, prone to go his own way without much consideration for the wishes of others, and there were occasional wild words and broken exclamations which seemed to indicate that, even whilst little more than a mere child, he had allowed himself to be betrayed into actual crime. And as he lay there, gasping his life away, the follies of boyhood and the graver offences of more recent days seemed to be in some way jumbled up hopelessly in his disordered mind with a confused idea of the urgent necessity for speedy repentance of both. There could be no doubt that, notwithstanding the disordered state of the unhappy man’s intellect, conscience was busily at work with him; that he was already beginning to dimly see the error of his ways and the hollowness—the utter unprofitableness—of his past life, and possibly also the critical nature of his position. But the mind was too completely shattered to avail itself of these promptings, and the remorse and regret which had tardily come to him found expression only in the simple pleadings for pardon which a child offers to its grieved parent. This distressing state of things lasted at intervals all through the night and well into the following day, when the dying man, utterly exhausted, sank into a fitful, troubled sleep.
The pangs of hunger and—still worse—of thirst again making themselves felt, George once more put the fishing-line over the side, and, after waiting patiently for nearly an hour, had the satisfaction of feeling a smart tug at it. He gave a sharp jerk, to strike the hook firmly into his fish, and at once began to haul smartly in, but he had only gathered in a foot or so of the line when there came a terrific pull at it, which sent the cord flying through his fingers in spite of all his efforts to hold it. He promptly called Tom to his assistance, but even with this aid he was unable to hold the fish; and, as a last resource, he threw a couple of turns round one of the thowl-pins. The result was disastrous; the line snapped short off at the pin, and when they came to investigate further, they found that they had lost the whole of it, except a bare fathom, which still remained in the boat.
This was a misfortune indeed, as it deprived them of their only means of obtaining that sustenance which was now becoming so urgent a necessity to them. But sailors are not easily disheartened, and they forthwith set to work to manufacture a new line out of the rope which they still had in the boat; Tom carefully unlaying the strands and jointing the yarns, whilst George tried his best to manufacture a hook out of a nail drawn from the gunwale of the boat. This task occupied them for the remainder of the day, and when it was completed the hook and line together constituted such a very make-shift, hopeless-looking affair that George, in spite of his hunger, could not repress an incredulous smile at the idea of any fish with his wits about him being beguiled by it. They tried it, however, but it was an utter failure; they could not secure even the barren encouragement of a nibble; and at last the attempt was given up in despair.
Shortly before sunset Walford once more opened his eyes, and began to stare blankly about him. For a minute or two there was a look in his eyes which encouraged George to hope that reason was returning to her abandoned throne, but the look quickly passed away, and the incoherent mutterings recommenced. The sun went down, night’s mantle of darkness once more descended upon the sea, and then the full moon in all her queenly beauty rolled slowly into view above the horizon, flooding the scene with her silvery light, and investing it with a magical beauty which was not without its influence even on those poor famine-stricken creatures, who were watching with such sympathetic solicitude beside their dying companion.
Suddenly Walford’s mutterings ceased, an expression of joyous surprise lighted up his ghastly wasted features, he seized George’s hand with a firm clasp in one of his, and, raising the other, exclaimed—
“Hark! what was that?”
“I heard nothing, Ned,” answered George tremulously; he knew instinctively now that the last dread moment was close at hand,—“I heard nothing; what was it?”
“My mother,” answered Walford,—“my mother calling to me as she used to call me, when I was a little innocent child, when she—ha! there it is again. It is her own dear, well-remembered voice. She is calling me to go to her; I must not stay out at play any longer; I did so last night, you know, and it grieved her. She said I was a naughty, disobedient boy, and I made her cry. But she forgave me and kissed me after I had said my prayers, and—and—‘Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is done in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses.’”
As the first words of this simple, beautiful prayer issued from Walford’s dying lips, George and Tom threw themselves upon their knees in the bottom of the boat, their hands clasped, their heads bent, and their hearts earnestly uplifted to Him who was thus mercifully taking the poor sufferer to Himself. The first sentence was spoken with child-like simplicity, but, after that, every word was uttered with increasing fervour and an evident conception of its momentous import, until the clause was reached, “and forgive us our trespasses,” which was breathed forth with a solemn intensity that thrilled the very souls of the listeners. Then the voice suddenly ceased, and as George looked up with startled eyes he saw Walford’s lips tremble, a radiant smile parted them for an instant, and he sank heavily back on the boat’s thwart—dead.
George gazed long and earnestly in the face of the dead man, his thoughts travelling rapidly back to that eventful evening when they two met—the one going humbly and doubtingly to declare his love, the other hurrying triumphantly away from a successful wooing; and Leicester grieved, as he pictured the sorrow of that loving woman’s heart, when the news should be taken to her of the sad event just past. He thought, too, of the strange meeting in mid-ocean, of the helpless state in which Walford had remained since then, of his own vow, and all that it had cost him, and as he reverently gathered the folds of canvas about the lifeless form he felt comforted with the reflection that, though he had failed, he had honestly done his best to keep that vow.
He did what he could to dispose the corpse decently and to prepare it for its last long sleep beneath the waves; it was not much that he was able to do, but he did what he could, “for Lucy’s sake,” as he kept on muttering to himself; and when all was ready he turned to Tom. The poor lad, utterly worn-out, had sunk down in the bottom of the boat, and, with one arm supporting his head on the thwart, was fast asleep.
“Well, better so,” thought George to himself; “he is enjoying at least a temporary respite from his miseries; I will not disturb him;” and, murmuring a short but earnest prayer, he raised the body in his arms, lifted it over the side of the boat, and allowed it to pass gently away from his grasp into the peaceful depths below. “God have mercy on his soul,” he murmured, and with clasped hands stood and watched the shrouded form passing slowly out of sight for ever.