Chapter Thirteen.
Surprised.
“A Terrible ending to a sin-stained career,” murmured the skipper of the Aurora with white set lips, when the first shock of surprise and consternation had passed away sufficiently to allow him to speak. “Up with your helm, my man,” he continued to the seaman at the wheel; “up with your helm, and keep her away upon a west and by south course; we’ll get away from this accursed spot as soon as possible. Man the braces, fore and aft, if you please, Mr Ritson, square the yards, secure the long-gun, and then let all hands make sail.”
Then, going to the companion, he passed the word below for Mr Bowen to close the magazine and come on deck.
Five minutes later the chief mate emerged from the companion, and, walking up to George, observed—
“Well, sir, you’ve managed to make a pretty effectual end of the buccaneer, I see.”
“Yes,” answered George gravely. “The schooner struck; but we are much too short-handed to take and retain possession of such a craft as that, so, as I did not feel justified in leaving them at liberty to resume their nefarious business, I continued to fire into the schooner, intending to sink her; and I am of opinion that her captain, recognising the fact that escape was hopeless, blew her up with his own hand, hoping to involve us in the destruction also. It was a terrible thing, Mr Bowen, to cause the loss of so many lives, but I am convinced that I only did my duty. And now, as there seems to be no immediate prospect of our falling in with the fleet again, I propose to take full advantage of this fine fair wind, and proceed upon my voyage; so please pack on the ship everything that will draw; then let the men clear up the decks, and knock off work; they have had two very fatiguing days, and have fought well; let them get all the rest they possibly can between this and to-morrow morning.”
When the sun set that evening, the Aurora was flying to the southward and westward (as if instinct with life and thrilling with horror at her terrible achievement) before the freshening gale at the rate of fully twelve knots per hour, with studding-sails set on both sides, alow and aloft; while her crew, assembled on the forecastle, discussed in low tones the incidents of the fight, and her skipper, with hands clasped behind him, bent head, and furrowed brow, held solemn self-communion upon the same subject.
George Leicester now found himself at liberty to attend to his guest, and he spent almost the whole of his leisure time by the side of Walford’s cot. For the first week after the arrival of the latter on board the Aurora very little change or improvement could be detected in him; his mental faculties seemed to be almost paralysed; and he would lie in his cot for hours at a time, with wide-opened eyes, staring into vacancy, the blank, expressionless look upon his face betraying the utter inactivity of his mind. Then there would occur a short period, during which it seemed that memory was struggling to re-assert itself; he would glance vacantly round the cosy sleeping-cabin in which he found himself, a look of mild surprise would overspread his features, and he would pass his hand over his brow with the action of one who is trying to remember something; then would recur another vacant period.
During all this time he never expressed a wish or uttered a single coherent word; only occasionally, when the memory was struggling to regain its seat, he would mutter a few incoherent words, that of “murder” being sometimes repeated, in low tones of suppressed horror, half-a-dozen times together. His appetite appeared to be good, since he ate and drank freely whatever was offered him; but if the food was withheld, as it sometimes was, by way of experiment, at Captain Leicester’s order, he never asked for it, or evinced any surprise or uneasiness at its non-appearance.
About the tenth day, however, after the one on which he had been picked up, George thought he detected signs of improvement. The periods of thinking were more frequent and more prolonged, and once during that day, when the skipper entered the cabin, Walford noticed the opening of the door, and, turning his eyes in that direction, regarded George for some moments with a steadfast inquiring look; but the recognition, if such there was, was momentary only, the hand was pressed meditatively to the forehead the next instant, and then the blank look returned.
The next day witnessed a recurrence of the same symptoms, added to which there seemed to be a vague sort of semi-recognition of George’s voice; for, whenever the latter spoke, Walford would look up with an anxious questioning glance, as though he had an idea that he had heard the voice before.
Finally, on that same evening, when George and Mr Bowen were in the saloon together, chatting over the tea-table, the after-cabin door being open, so as to insure a current of air through the apartment, Walford, who had been asleep, suddenly started up in his cot with the exclamation—
“Surely that is Leicester’s voice?”
George heard the ejaculation, and, springing to his feet, stepped eagerly into the sleeping-cabin, saying—
“Of course it is, my dear fellow. How do you feel now? Better?”
“Better?” repeated Walford. “I haven’t been ill, have I? Where am I? How did I come here? And where did you come from?”
“What a string of questions!” said George with a laugh. “But don’t worry yourself by trying to guess the answers to any of them just now, you have been ill; but, thank God, you are getting better again. When you are well enough to listen, I will tell you all I know; until then you must be satisfied with the assurance that you are as safe as a man can be in a tight little ship, with fine weather and plenty of sea-room.”
“Safe!” ejaculated Walford. “Ah! but am I safe? I have a horrible feeling of dread upon me—a sensation of some frightful danger hovering over me—a feeling that unless I can do something, I know not what, a hideous disaster will happen.”
He shuddered violently as these words left his lips; then, turning suddenly to George, he grasped him convulsively by the arm, and exclaimed in agitated tones—
“Oh, Leicester! tell me what is it that threatens? What have I to guard against? If you know what it is—”
“There,” said George soothingly, “do not worry about it any more. I did not intend to say a word about it for some time to come; but, since I find that you remember something about it, I will tell you this much. You have been in very great danger indeed, but all that is long past; you are now on board my ship, more than a thousand miles away from the danger which threatened you, and as safe as a man can be in mid-ocean.”
“Thanks, thanks! I believe you,” muttered Walford with a sigh of ineffable relief, as he sank back upon his pillow. “So I am in your ship, eh? That’s strange; I can’t imagine—but, there, I shall not worry myself any more about the matter; you’ll look after me, I know; you’re a thorough good fellow, Leicester, and I’m almost sorry now that I—that I—um! what was it, now? Well, I dare say I shall remember it further on. I say, old fellow, what time is it? Nearly dinner-time, I should think, for I feel most confoundedly hungry.”
“It is nearly dinner-time,” answered George, delighted to find so great an improvement in the man he had vowed to protect and restore. “If you can hold out for another half-hour, I think I may promise you a decent meal by that time. Will that do?”
“Yes, oh, yes, I dare say I can manage to survive until then,” murmured Walford.
Whereupon the skipper hurried away and took counsel with the steward; the result of which was that in little more than the stipulated half-hour Walford was served with the best meal which the Aurora’s resources could furnish.
From that time he grew steadily better, and in another day or two he was able to leave his cot and to indulge in a bath, a clean shave, and an hour or so on deck, half-sitting, half-reclining in a hammock which the skipper had ordered to be slung for him from the spanker-boom. He suffered from extreme bodily weakness, doubtless the result of his frenzied exertions on board the ill-fated Princess Royal; but that was, of course, an evil which rest and nourishing food would speedily remedy. But he did not recover the use of his reasoning faculties for some time after the period now referred to, and then the recovery was only partial.
As for Captain Leicester, he was in high spirits; the breeze lasted fresh for four full days after his encounter with the pirate schooner, so fresh indeed that once or twice he was obliged to furl his royals, in order to save the sticks; and the barque, no longer compelled to moderate her pace to that of the slowest sailer in a large fleet, maintained a steady speed of twelve knots during the whole of that time, thus fully making up, in the skipper’s opinion, for the time and ground lost during the gale, and encouraging him to look forward hopefully to the accomplishment of a quick passage.
But such a state of things was too good to last. On the fifth day the wind fell light, and on the sixth it failed them altogether, leaving the Aurora helpless in the “doldrums,” she being at that time about a thousand miles from Cape Haytien, and six hundred from the island of Saint Thomas. This was particularly vexatious, because Captain Leicester considered that, had the breeze continued fresh and favourable for only twenty-four hours longer, it would in all probability have run him fairly into the North-East trades, and he would then have been able to calculate the duration of the remainder of the voyage with almost mathematical exactness, and, what was still more to the purpose, would have been sure of a breeze, and that a fair one, for the remainder of the way.
However, there was no help for it, they had to take the wind and weather as it came, and the crew had a busy time of it “box-hauling” the yards, now this way, now that; trimming the sails to every passing breath of the capricious air, and, after all their trouble, accomplishing only some half-a-dozen miles during the whole day.
On the next day it was the same, excepting that the proceedings were varied by a tremendously heavy thunder-storm, followed by, instead of the wind which Captain Leicester so earnestly hoped for, a perfect deluge of rain, which lasted for rather more than an hour. It was a regular tropical downpour; the water descended, not in separate detached drops, but in sheets, which splashed down on the decks as if from a cataract. Advantage was taken of this copious downfall of pure fresh water to refill all the water-casks; after which the scuppers were plugged, wash-deck tubs filled, and all hands, stripping to the skin, indulged in the unwonted luxury of a thorough ablution in the warm soft water, finishing up by rousing out all their “wash clothes,” and treating them to the same beneficial process.
The storm cleared away as rapidly as it had worked up, leaving the sky absolutely cloudless, and the water thrashed down by the rain until it was smooth as a polished mirror. The heat was intense, and the men, notwithstanding their refreshing bath, went about their work languidly, perspiring at every pore. It was a positive relief to them to see the sun at last go down behind the gleaming horizon, and a greater relief still when, an hour later, a faint breeze from the eastward came creeping over the water, and, barely filling the Aurora’s light upper sails, gave her just sufficient way through the water to allow of her head being kept in the right direction.
At eight o’clock that evening Mr Bowen retired to his cabin, it being then his watch below, and at nine the skipper followed his example. The ship was then stealing along through the water at a speed of about two knots, the royals, topgallantsails, and more lofty staysails just “asleep,” the topsails alternately filling out and flapping again to the masts with the barely perceptible swing of the ship over the low, long, sleepy heave of the swell, and the courses drooping heavily and uselessly from the yards. The sky was “as clear as a bell,” to use a favourite metaphor of Ritson’s, not a trace of cloud being visible in any part of the vast sapphire vault which stretched overhead, spangled here and there with a few stars of the first magnitude, and with the moon, nearly at the full, hanging in the midst like a disc of burnished silver, her pure soft light flooding the sea with its dazzling radiance, and causing the sails to stand out like sheets of ivory against the deep dark blue of the sky. There seemed to be no immediate prospect of any change in the weather, but George was thankful that the ship was really at last moving once more—though ever so slowly—in the right direction; and, fervently hoping that the breeze would last long enough to run him into the “trades,” he went below with an easy mind, after giving Ritson the usual stereotyped order to call him should any untoward event occur.
After the overpowering heat of the day the comparative coolness of the night was unspeakably refreshing, and with all the doors, the skylight, and the stern-windows open, and a thorough circulation of fresh air through the cabins, their several occupants were soon wrapped in a sound and dreamless slumber.
It was even more pleasant on deck than it was below, for the hull of the ship had, during the long scorching day, absorbed a considerable amount of heat, which it gave off again during the night, causing the cabins and forecastle to be unpleasantly warm even after all possible means had been adopted for their thorough ventilation, whilst on deck the full benefit of the breeze, what there was of it, was to be obtained.
Such, at all events, was Mr Ritson’s opinion, as he sauntered listlessly fore and aft, between the taffrail and the main-mast, glancing now aloft at the all but idle canvas, then into the binnacle, then over the side at the tiny bubbles creeping lazily past the ship’s side, and finally forward, to where the man on the lookout could be seen seated upon the rail, facing ahead, with his arms folded and his back leaning against the great wooden stock of one of the anchors, his form showing black as that of an ebony statue against the brilliant silvery sheen of the moonlight on the water. The remainder of the crew were dimly visible seated on the deck in the black shadow of the bulwarks, a tiny red spark or two indicating that some of them were solacing the idle hours with a whiff or two of the fragrant weed. Officers who were strict disciplinarians would have forbidden smoking in the watch on deck, and would have insisted on the whole watch keeping constantly on the move, as a safeguard against dozing; but Ritson was not a strict disciplinarian; he liked to spare the men all unnecessary labour of every kind, and, as there was no sail-trimming to be done, he just allowed them to rest their weary bodies as much as they could.
He would have liked greatly to rest his own weary body, too, for indeed he felt it to be almost a torture to be pacing ceaselessly to and fro there on the deck, hour after hour.
He pulled out his watch, the hands indicated that it was ten minutes to ten; it would be full two hours more before he would be relieved. There was a most inviting-looking chair standing on deck near the skylight, which Captain Leicester had been using during the day, and poor Ritson thought how pleasant it would be to rest his tired limbs in it for a few minutes. Then he took a stroll round the decks, just to wile away the time, and to make sure that the watch—and especially the lookout—was not “caulking.” The shadowy figures scrambled somewhat hurriedly to their feet on his approach, giving rise to just the faintest suspicion that perhaps after all they might have been “shutting their eyes to keep them warm;” but the lookout man seemed unconscious of his presence, and was humming, scarcely above his breath, the air of a homely song as Ritson passed him, his gaze resting on a brig ahead, which had been in sight all day, and which, from the fact that she was steering in the same direction as the Aurora, was thought to belong, like themselves, to the dispersed fleet. When Ritson again reached the quarterdeck, it was ten o’clock, so he struck “four bells” sharply; the wheel and lookout were relieved, and then everybody settled down once more, to pass away the remaining two hours of the watch.
As has been already hinted, Ritson was not so strict a disciplinarian as to forbid smoking by the watch on deck, so long, of course, as the smoking was not allowed to interfere with the duty of the ship. Nay, more; he sometimes allowed himself the luxury of a pipe under similar circumstances, and he thought he might safely do so on the present occasion. So, seating himself in the skipper’s chair, he drew out his pipe, tobacco, and knife, and prepared to enjoy his whiff.
Oh! how comfortable a chair that was! How great a relief to sit in it, even for the minute or two during which he was cutting up his tobacco and filling his pipe! This work, though performed with great deliberation, was at length accomplished; his steel and tinder-box furnished him with a light; and he began to smoke.
Somehow he forgot to get up out of the chair again when his pipe was lighted, but, leaning back restfully in it instead, watched the little rings and wreaths of smoke which issued from it and went floating lazily away until they vanished in the soft cool air of the night. Then, by association of ideas, Ritson’s thoughts strayed away to the little flaxen, curly-haired urchin at home, his one-year-old son, who used to be so delighted to watch the wreathing smoke issue from his father’s pipe, that he would crow and jump and kick upon his mother’s knee, until the good woman had hard work to hold him. He fancied he could see the young rascal still, his fat, dimpled cheeks wreathed with smiles of delight, his blue eyes sparkling, and his fat chubby arms and legs flourishing in the air as he made frantic grasps at the little blue smoke-rings floating toward him. Yes; and he could hear Anna’s, his wife’s voice, half-jestingly, half in earnest, scolding the happy father for keeping the child awake. And, letting his thoughts have free play on so pleasant a theme, he could recall the same voice crooning a soothing lullaby to the little fellow as, later on, he nestled into his mother’s breast, tired out with his romp, and softly sank to sleep. Very soothing was that lullaby—very soothing indeed—yes—it was—very—a—very—soothing—little—song—and—and—
And Ritson’s head sank upon his breast, as he, too, yielded to the seductive influence of sleep.
A few feet away stood or rather lolled the helmsman, his body drooping over the wheel, on the upper rim of which he had crossed his arms for the sake of the welcome support. On taking charge of the wheel he had been given the course, and, glancing into the binnacle, he found that the barque was heading in the required direction; upon which, like a good helmsman, he at once selected a star to steer by, a star which was just a finger’s breadth clear of the main-royal yard-arm. By the time that he had been at the wheel a quarter of an hour he discovered that the ship was steering herself, and he accordingly relaxed his vigilance, allowing his thoughts to travel away whithersoever they would. Gradually his weary eyelids closed, and a short period—perhaps a minute or so—of forgetfulness followed, from which he would suddenly start guiltily and glance first aloft at the star, and then at the motionless figure of Ritson. This glance of inquiry showing that the star still occupied its proper position, and that the second mate had not observed his dereliction of duty, the eyelids again closed, and a longer period of forgetfulness would ensue, which of course ended, as it was sure to do, in the man falling soundly asleep as he stood.
As for the man on the lookout, he was notorious for his somnolent powers. He made no pretence of an effort to keep awake. There was no reason, he argued, why he should. It was a fine night, as light as day; there was nothing in sight but the brig ahead, and, although the Aurora was clearly gaining on her, there was no likelihood of her running over her in his watch; therefore to keep a lookout just then was quite a useless formality. Besides, there was the officer of the watch, who would keep all the lookout required on such a brilliantly fine night. And, arguing thus, he settled himself comfortably into the position vacated by his predecessor, and, folding his arms across his breast, tranquilly composed himself to sleep.
The remainder of the watch had settled down to sleep, as a matter of course; they had not the lookout; and they were within call of the officer of the watch, should their services be required; that, they considered, was all that was just then expected of them; and they closed their eyes, and yielded to their feelings of drowsiness without a shadow of compunction.
Thus, by half-past ten o’clock that night, the entire ship’s company of the Aurora, fore and aft, were fast asleep.
Whilst all hands were thus wrapped in peaceful oblivion a small object gradually merged into view immediately ahead of the Aurora. Had the lookout man been broad awake—instead of fast asleep, as he was—he would certainly not have noticed this object until it was within a mile of the ship—unless his gaze had happened to have been attracted by an occasional momentary flashing gleam of silvery light—because its colour so artfully matched the delicate steely blue grey of the gently-rippled sea that it was absolutely invisible beyond that distance. Even at the distance of half a mile a cursory careless glance ahead might have easily missed it. But when a quarter of a mile only intervened between it and the barque the look out man, had he been wide-awake and with all his wits about him, would suddenly have become conscious that a large boat, painted grey, and full of men, was pulling swiftly and noiselessly toward the ship. On she swept, silently as a dream; not a word was uttered on board her; there was no warning roll and rattle of the oars in the rowlocks to apprise the sleeping crew of the approach of danger; there was not even the plashing sound of the oar-blades dipping into the water, they rose and fell silently as the misty oars of a phantom boat; and when at length she swept up alongside the Aurora, a sign was all that was needed to convey the orders of the officer in charge to his crew: his right hand was gently raised, the oars were noiselessly lifted from the rowlocks and laid in without a sound upon the padded thwarts, the boat sheered alongside, without absolutely touching, the painter was made fast to the Aurora’s fore-chains, and sixteen armed figures climbed noiselessly as ghosts over the bulwarks, leaving two in charge of the boat.