Chapter Ten.
A Strange Rencontre.
We left the Aurora, as the reader will remember, at the moment when, by the merest hair’s breadth, she was enabled to avoid what must have been a terribly disastrous collision with the ill-fated Princess Royal on the day when the hurricane burst with such destructive effect upon the outward-bound fleet.
Deprived of her fore-topsail, the little barque was soon left astern by her two unwelcome neighbours, and—the fleet rapidly dispersing, now that it was no longer possible to regulate the speed of the several craft which composed it—by nightfall her crew found themselves, comparatively speaking, alone, there being only some twenty sail in sight from the deck.
That night was a most anxious one for Captain Leicester, the gale being heavier and the sea considerably higher than he had ever before witnessed; the Aurora, however, proved to be a capital little sea-boat, riding over the great liquid hills light and dry as a gull; and when at length the morning broke, revealing only two sail in sight, George felt so easy in his mind that he did not hesitate to go below and seek in his comfortable berth an hour or two of that rest which he so greatly needed.
The first stroke of the hurricane had been, as is generally the case, the worst; for about half an hour it had blown with frightful and disastrous fury, as has already been described, after which it lulled somewhat, and then had again steadily increased. Accordingly, when Captain Leicester went on deck at noon, he found the gale still gathering strength, the sea higher than ever, and the sky looking more threatening than he remembered to have ever before seen it.
The ship was scudding under bare poles, and behaving capitally, too; but George saw that if the sea rose much higher there would be great danger of being “pooped;” so he—like the people on board the unfortunate Princess Royal—roused out a new foresail and, with very great difficulty, got it bent and set, reefed. This sail dragged the little barque along at a tremendous pace; and from that time there was no further danger of her being “pooped” or overrun by the sea.
On the third day the gale broke; and by sundown the weather had so far moderated as to permit of the Aurora being brought to the wind and hove-to, a manoeuvre which George was most anxious to accomplish, since the ship had, for over seventy-two hours, been running to the eastward, or directly away from her port, at the rate of some ten knots an hour, giving her over seven hundred miles of extra distance to make up. The Aurora remained hove-to during the whole of that night; but at eight bells next morning she made sail under single-reefed topsails and courses; stretching away to the northward and westward on the port tack. She continued on this tack all day; and went about at the end of the second dog-watch, George’s object being to work his way back to the spot, as nearly as possible, where the fleet had separated, and there wait two or three days if need be, in the hope of falling in with the bulk of them again.
Captain Leicester had of course taken full advantage of the return of fine weather to repair damages; the crew had been busy during the whole day getting two new topgallant-masts aloft and rigging them, bending new sails in place of those split or blown away, and so on; the Aurora was consequently, when night fell, all ataunto once more; and a stranger looking at her, would, except for the new look of some of the spars and canvas, never have suspected that she had had her wings clipped.
At nightfall she was standing to the southward and westward on the port tack, under every stitch of canvas that would draw; the wind was failing fast; the sea had long since ceased to break; there was now only an occasional white fleecy comb to be seen on the crests of the waves; and the ship was gliding gently along, with a slow, steady, rhythmical rising-and-falling motion over the long heavy swell, at the rate of some five knots in the hour. The skipper was in excellent spirits at having escaped so well and so cheaply from the fury of the hurricane; and he remained on deck until midnight, chatting with Mr Bowen, the chief mate.
The relief-watch had just been called, and George was waiting to accompany the mate below when his attention was suddenly attracted by a curious appearance in the sky to windward. It was still cloudy; and, low down on the horizon and about two points on the weather bow, he noticed that the clouds were lighter and brighter in tint than anywhere else.
“Look, Bowen,” he exclaimed, “do you see that peculiar-looking cloud away there on the horizon, just over our cat-head? What is the meaning of it?”
The mate looked in the direction indicated; and his more mature experience at once suggested an explanation.
“Looks to me,” he said, “as if there was something afire over there. Here, you Tom,” to a lad belonging to the relief-watch, who had just come on deck, “slip up as far as the fore-topmast cross-trees, and see if you can see anything out of the common away there on the weather bow.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the lad; and in another moment he was dancing nimbly up the fore-rigging; his form just dimly discernible in the dark shadow of the sails.
Presently he hailed from the cross-trees, “I can’t see nothing, sir; but the sky away over there looks uncommon bright, and it seems to flicker now and then, as if there was a big fire burning under it.”
“That’ll do; you can come down again,” answered the chief mate. Then, turning to George, he said—
“Depend upon it, sir, there’s a ship afire away over there. Well, we’re steering a course as’ll take us pretty close to her, if so be as there is one; and I suppose, sir, you’ll feel like giving of her a overhaul, won’t you?”
“Most certainly,” answered George earnestly. “We will at least ascertain whether there are any human beings on board her. Mr Ritson,”—to the carpenter, who since Cross’s impressment had acted in the capacity of second mate—“steer your present course, please, as long as the wind will allow you; crack on all you can; and, as soon as the burning ship—or whatever it is—is fairly in sight, give me a call.”
He then descended to his cabin, and in another five minutes had fallen into a state of blissful oblivion.
At eight bells (or four o’clock a.m.) Ritson knocked at George’s state-room door, after calling the chief mate, and said—
“We can see the flames and smoke from the deck, sir, though the ship herself is still hull-down. I’ve been up in the fore-top, howsoever, with the glass, and make her out to be a large ship—close upon a thousand tons, I should say—but I can’t see any people on board of her, nor I can’t make out no sign of boats. She’s all ablaze from for’ard right aft as far as the main-mast, which toppled over and fell for’ard while I was lookin’ at her. I fancy the people must ha’ left her, sir.”
“All right, Ritson,” answered George, “I’ll be on deck in a minute or two.”
Within the stipulated time Captain Leicester made his appearance on deck, and proceeded at once to the fore-top, where, with the aid of his glass, he made a careful inspection of the burning ship.
“Well, Mr Bowen,” he said, when he had completed his examination, and was once more down on deck, “it is as Ritson says: there is no sign of any human being on board her; I have looked long and carefully at her, and am quite sure I should have seen the people moving about, had there been any. We will stand on as we are going, however, and cross her stern; we shall then perhaps get a chance to make out her name. Somehow, she has a familiar look with her, as though I had seen her before; I wonder if she was in the fleet?”
“Like enough, sir,” answered Bowen; “we’re right in the track of ’em; and maybe this is one of the slow-coaches as we run away from.”
“Possibly,” answered George abstractedly; and then the two fell to pacing slowly fore and aft, from the main-mast to the taffrail, in that persevering way which is so characteristic of seamen.
The Aurora was now sliding gently along at a speed of about four knots, with every sail set that would draw; and gradually she crept up closer and closer to the burning ship, which, meanwhile, was slowly drifting to leeward.
The watch on deck were clustered together in a body, forward, watching the unusual sight; the ship being now about a point on the lee bow and about half a mile distant. Suddenly there was a loud shout from them, followed by the cry—
“There’s somebody still aboard the burning ship sir!”
George and the mate, who at the moment were walking towards the taffrail, with their backs towards the burning ship, turned quickly at the cry, and the former, hastily seizing the telescope which lay ready to hand on the skylight, swiftly brought it to bear. There, sure enough, standing right aft on the raised poop, could be distinctly seen a solitary figure, apparently that of a man. He seemed to be gazing intently into the water astern, pointing and gesticulating, and was evidently wholly unaware of the approach of the Aurora.
“Yes,” said George, “truly enough there is a man on board; and he does not seem to have seen us yet; perhaps the glare of the flames has dazzled his eyes. Just step down into the cabin, Mr Bowen, if you please, and bring up a couple of muskets; we will fire them, one after the other, and the reports will call his attention to the fact of our presence.”
The mate turned away to do George’s bidding, and he had hardly disappeared down the companion-ladder when the skipper, who had the telescope once more at his eye, saw the figure start—look behind him, as though he had heard some alarming sound—and then spring, in apparent terror, into the sea.
“He’s jumped overboard, sir!” reported the men forward, who were now eagerly watching the actions of the stranger.
“Ay, ay,” answered Leicester, “I see he has. One of you call the watch below; the rest of you lay aft here and clear away the starboard gig, cast off her lashings, and get her ready for rousing off the gallows and into the water.”
The gig which had been hanging at the davits ever since the Aurora cleared out of the docks at London, had been destroyed when the ship was thrown on her beam-ends in the hurricane; and the men had been so busy on apparently more important duties that they had had no opportunity of getting another boat ready for service; hence there was now a considerable amount of delay in the launching of the boat which George intended to despatch in search of the swimmer.
Mr Bowen soon returned to the deck with the muskets, and handing one to George and retaining the other himself, they fired them one after the other in rapid succession, hoping by this means to attract the unfortunate man’s attention and show him that help was near.
George then sprang into the mizzen-rigging and looked anxiously out over the glittering surface of the sea, in the effort to catch a glimpse of the man, should he happen to be still above water. It was not, however, until the Aurora was fairly crossing the wake of the burning ship—which by this time had drifted a considerable distance to leeward—that he was successful. Then, indeed, he did for an instant detect a small dark object on the crest of a sea, standing out in bold relief against the bright ruddy reflection of the flames in the water beyond it. Almost at the instant that he caught sight of it, he lost it again as it disappeared in the hollow of the swell, then once more it rose into view, clearly and unmistakably the head of a man.
“All right, I see him,” he exclaimed. “Now then, Mr Bowen, is the boat ready? I am going to that poor fellow’s assistance, so back the main-topsail, if you please, and send the boat after us as quickly as you can.”
As the last words left George’s mouth his hands rose above his head, his body curved itself over towards the water, and in an instant he shot downward out of the rigging swiftly as a sea-bird making its swoop, and entered the water without a splash.
On coming to the surface, Captain Leicester struck vigorously out at once in the direction of the burning ship, knowing that the man he sought was exactly in line with her, but that he would probably not see him until he was close upon him. He swam steadily on, not hurrying himself, but husbanding his strength as much as possible, and in about ten minutes he caught sight of the object of which he was in search. But the manner in which that object presented itself to his view was so startling that George’s first impulse was to turn round and swim back towards the Aurora with all speed, an impulse which, however, was only felt to be instantly overcome. The man was suddenly revealed, within some six feet or so of George’s grasp, as the latter rose upon the crest of a sea; but, instead of swimming as George expected he would be, the unfortunate creature was lying on his back, his ghastly white face upturned to the sky, and his eyes fixed and staring, with that terrible indescribable expression in them which tells at once and unmistakably the dreadful tale of madness.
Very naturally, our hero felt a little doubtful as to the expediency of placing himself within the grasp of a madman; he therefore, before closing with him, exclaimed in a loud, cheery voice—
“Hillo, there! are you tired? If so, just say the word, and I’ll drop alongside and lend you a hand.”
For all the visible effect this speech had on the stranger he might as well have been stone-deaf, for he vouchsafed not the slightest notice.
George shouted again, with a like result, and then—still feeling very doubtful as to the best mode of proceeding—he struck out, and swam quietly round the ghastly floating figure. A stroke or two sufficed to place him in such a position as enabled him at last to get a clear and distinct view of the stranger’s features, fully illumined by the glare of the flames, and instant recognition followed.
“Walford!” he exclaimed. Then, without another moment’s hesitation, he dashed up and, throwing himself upon his back, seized his rival by the hair and drew him into such a position as permitted of his taking Walford’s head upon his shoulder and supporting it high enough above the surface to prevent the sea washing over it and so suffocating him.
Walford offered no resistance, and gave not the faintest sign of being aware of George’s presence; and there the two lay, quietly floating on the bosom of the long heaving swell, until the boat came to their assistance and conveyed them both on board the Aurora.
On reaching the ship, George had his rival promptly stripped, rubbed vigorously down, and comfortably bestowed in his own berth, well and warmly wrapped up in blankets, with Tom Price—one of the forecastle hands, and a very smart, intelligent young fellow—to watch over him. After which, the skipper gave a little attention to his own comfort, and finally went on deck once more, it being by that time too late to think of turning in again.
By the time that George regained the deck, the Aurora had crept to a distance of about four miles from the Princess Royal. The unfortunate craft was by that time blazing fiercely fore and aft, the fire having at last reached her store-room, in which there was a considerable quantity of highly inflammable material; and half an hour afterwards her powder-magazine (almost every ship of any size in those days was provided with a magazine) exploded; and the charred fragments of half-consumed timber, which were widely scattered over the now sleepily heaving surface of the sea, alone remained as relics of the once noble and stately ship, the destruction of which had been the last link in a chain of disastrous occurrences resulting primarily from the overbearing, tyrannical, and imprudent behaviour of her officers.
With the appearance of the sun above the horizon the clouds gradually disappeared, the wind dropped, the surface of the ocean became like heaving oil; and the Aurora, losing steerage-way, rolled almost gunwale-to, with her canvas flapping loudly and monotonously against her masts.
About two bells (or nine o’clock) one of the hands, upon being sent aloft to “grease down,” reported a sail in the southern quarter, and on the usual inquiry being put to him, as to what he made her out to be, he replied that she was a small topsail-schooner.
“A small topsail-schooner!” muttered George. “I wonder what she can be; I cannot remember having seen any such craft in the fleet. Ritson,”—to the carpenter who had charge of the deck,—“do you remember having seen a topsail-schooner among the fleet?”
“No, sir; can’t say as I do,” answered Ritson. “Don’t believe there was any such craft, sir; the smallest, as I remembers was that purty little brig painted all white down to her water-line; perhaps you recollects her, sir?”
“Yes,” said Leicester, “I recollect the craft perfectly well; and, as far as my memory serves me, she was, as you say, the smallest craft in company.”
The conversation here dropped for a time, George resuming the somewhat dejected saunter fore and aft from the main-mast to the taffrail, and the half-unconscious whistling for a wind, in which he had before been indulging. His pursuit of this monotonous and uninteresting occupation was interrupted by the steward, who requested him to step down into the cabin, “to take a look at the man as was picked up this morning; as he seems to be took a bit worse, sir.”
George at once went below, and found Walford sitting up in the berth, muttering to himself disconnectedly and occasionally addressing with great earnestness the watchful Tom, whose horror-stricken face plainly revealed that his patient’s random observations had been of a somewhat startling character. On entering the state-room, Leicester at once addressed Walford, asking him whether he felt better; and the unfortunate man glanced for a moment in George’s face with an air of semi-recognition; but this immediately passed away, and the incoherent mutterings went on again as before.
“That’s just how he’ve been goin’ on for the last half-’our,” explained Tom; “talkin’ about ‘murder’ and ‘hangin’,’ and being left to burn in the ship; it’s enough to give one the ’orrors to listen to him.”
George sat down by the side of the cot and listened patiently for nearly an hour to Walford’s rambling talk; and, although he was unable to make out from it a clearly-connected story, he heard enough to give him a shrewd idea of the truth, and to convince him that a terrible tragedy of some kind had occurred on board the ill-fated Princess Royal. The patient at length grew calm once more, and, lying back upon his pillow, seemed inclined to sleep, upon which George quietly rose and went on deck again to see how matters were proceeding there.
As he meditatively made his way up the companion-ladder, he could not help thinking of the singularity of this last meeting between him and his rival, and comparing it with the one which had occurred on that lovely June evening, on the road to Stoke. As the two men stood there on the white dusty road, with the rays of the declining sun darting down upon them through the foliage of the overhanging trees, and as Walford told the story of his just concluded engagement to Lucy, how little, thought George, could either of them suspect that, when they next came into such close contact, it would be literally on the bosom of the broad Atlantic, up-borne by nothing save its restless waters. Poor Leicester was greatly disturbed by this singular and unconscious claim upon his hospitality which had so recently arisen. He was as generous-hearted a man as the sun ever shone upon, ever ready to give liberally and ungrudgingly to any one who seemed to be in need; but somehow he wished that in the present instance it had fallen to the lot of some one else than himself to play the part of rescuer and benefactor, or that the rescued individual had been any one rather than Walford. The fact was that he wanted to forget, if possible, the keen and bitter pain of his disappointment: and now the presence of his unhappy guest had brought it all back to him and would keep it in poignant remembrance as long as they two should remain together. Then, he bethought himself how selfish a feeling he had been allowing himself to indulge; how utterly he had forgotten that the matter was one with which Lucy’s happiness must be inseparably connected; and that fate—or Providence, rather, as he reverently corrected himself—had in a very great measure confided that happiness to his keeping, by delivering into his care the man upon whom she had bestowed the priceless treasure of her heart’s best love. And as he thought this, he solemnly vowed that he would honestly strive to prove worthy of the trust; that he would be to Lucy’s lover a brother—ay, more than a brother; that he would nurse and tend him, restore to him his reason if God willed it, and, in any case, watch over and protect him—at the cost of his own life even, if need were—until he could restore him to the arms of the woman who was impatiently awaiting at home his safe return.
“His well-being has been confided to me as a sacred trust,” he murmured in conclusion, “and, please God, I will prove myself worthy of it.”
With this resolution he dismissed the subject temporarily from his thoughts, and turned his attention once more to the affairs of the ship.
Glancing aloft, and then all round the horizon, he observed that it had fallen a flat calm, and that moreover there was no immediate prospect of a breeze. The sky was a clear deep blue in the zenith, merging by imperceptible gradations into a delicate warm grey at the horizon. The water was absolutely without a ripple, there was not so much as the faintest suggestion of a “cat’s-paw” on all its glassy surface; and save for the long sluggish sweep and heave of the swell which, as it undulated past the ship, caught and reflected the varying tints of the sky, it would have been difficult to detect the presence of water at all at a distance of more than a few yards from the ship. The Aurora was still rolling sluggishly on the sleepy swell; her dazzling white canvas flapping and the slings and trusses of the yards creaking with the roll; the men, rendered languid by the heat, were making such show as they were able of being busy on various odd jobs about the decks or aloft; and the man at the wheel had lashed it and was leaning upon it more than half-asleep. Ritson, apparently for want of something better to do, was seated on the main-topmast cross-trees, with the ship’s telescope in his hand, scrutinising the motions of the distant schooner, whose tiny “royal” was now visible from the deck, gleaming white as snow on the extreme verge of the horizon.
Noting all these things at a glance, George turned to saunter aft, thinking that on such a perfectly calm day, and with such still water, he might, by leaning well out over the taffrail, get a glimpse of the ship’s bottom and see whether it had fouled at all, or whether the copper showed any signs of wrinkling. Arrived at the taffrail, he leaned well out over it, and peered down into the water. The first thing which attracted his notice was the deep, pure, beautiful ultramarine tint of the water, as he gazed far down into its unfathomable depths; the next was, the presence of a long greyish-brown object under the ship’s counter, which had escaped his notice at first in consequence of its being in the deepest shadow of the hull. A moment sufficed to satisfy him that it was a huge shark; and as the creature caught sight of him, and with a barely perceptible movement of its fins, backed out a foot or two from under the ship, as if in preparation to make a dart at him in case he should fall into the water, George shuddered at the thought of what might have been his or Walford’s fate, had the monster been in the neighbourhood of the ship a few hours earlier.
Sliding his body gently inboard again, Leicester turned to the dozing helmsman, and exclaimed—
“Here, you Ned; rouse up, man. There’s a big shark under the counter, so get out the shark-hook, ask the cook for a piece of good fat pork, and muster the watch aft in readiness to haul him inboard, in case we can coax him into swallowing the bait.”