Chapter Twenty Five.
The Rocca Islets.
The night had grown somewhat darker within the last hour, a few light clouds having come up to windward, spreading themselves over the sky and obscuring a good many of the stars; so that by the time we had been away from the ship about a quarter of an hour it was impossible to see anything of her except the light which twinkled at her gaff-end, and which might easily have been mistaken for a star.
We rounded the south-west angle of the island; and soon afterwards found ourselves pulling up a narrow channel between the island and the reefs, in perfectly smooth water, save for the slight undulations of the ground-swell. We reckoned that the strangers were now about two miles distant, so with muffled oars, and in the strictest silence, we paddled gently on, Mr Flinn leading in the launch. After about half an hour of this work, the launch ceased pulling, the other boats following suit; and the word was passed for the gig—in which I had been bringing up the rear—to pass ahead. We did so, and in another minute were alongside the leading boat.
“We can’t be far off them now, Ralph,” said Paddy in a loud whisper, “so just go aisy ahead, me darlint, and see what you can find out. And don’t be a month of Sundays about it, aither, you spalpeen, for we’ll soon be havin’ the daylight upon us; indade it looks to me as if the sky is lightin’ up to the east’ard already, so we’ve no time to spare.”
“Never fear,” said I, “I’ll not be a moment longer than I can help. Give way, gigs, and pass the word for the bow oar to lay in and keep a bright lookout ahead.”
We swept silently away, the stroke oar having orders to keep his eye on the boats as long as it was possible to see them; and he was just reporting to me in a whisper that he had lost sight of them when the bow man gave the word “oars,” and said he could see something broad on our port bow. The boat’s head was sheered to port, and at the same moment I caught sight of the brigantine’s spars showing up black and indistinct against the dark sky. She was not above fifty yards away from us, and I had just given the word to paddle quietly ahead when a voice hailed us in Spanish, ordering us to keep off or they would fire. Before we could reply, crash came a volley of musketry at us, tearing up the water all round the boat, and one poor fellow dropped his oar and fell forward off his seat.
“Give way, men!” I shouted. “Dash at her and get alongside before they have time to load again. The other boats will be here to support us in a moment.”
The men required no second bidding, but, bending to their oars until the stout ash bent like fishing-rods and the water flashed from the blades in luminous foam, they sent the boat like an arrow in under the main chains, dropping their oars and seizing their cutlasses as we sheered alongside, and springing like grey-hounds slipped from the leash at the craft’s low bulwarks.
But we had been reckoning without our hosts. Instead of finding the crew all below comfortably asleep in their hammocks, there they were at quarters, with guns loaded and run out, boarding-nettings triced up, and in fact everything ready to repel an attack, and it was only our extremely cautious approach which had saved us from a broadside or two of grape. Our people cut and slashed at the netting in a vain attempt to hew a passage through it, and were either shot down or thrust back with boarding-pikes; those who attempted to creep in at the ports receiving similar treatment. And all the time the small-arm men were playing briskly upon us with their muskets; so that at the end of five minutes I found myself with all hands beaten back into the boat, and every one of us, fore and aft, suffering from wounds more or less severe.
“Come, lads!” I exclaimed; “take another slap at them; we must get on deck somehow. You Jones, give me a hoist up on your shoulders; I think I can see a hole in the netting; here—a foot farther aft—so, that’s well. Now, heave.”
And up I went, clear above the craft’s gunwale and neatly in through the hole which I had espied. I should have fallen on the deck on my head, and probably dislocated my neck had not a brawny Spaniard happened to be immediately beneath me. Taken by surprise at my abrupt appearance, he had not time to get out of my way or even to strike at me, and before he could recover himself my pistol was at his temple and he staggered backward, shot through the head. In his fall, he forced back two or three of those nearest him, creating a momentary confusion. One of the gigs was at that instant struggling to get in through the open port near me, and I bent down, seized him by the collar, and lugged him in on deck, recovering myself just in time to ward off a savage cutlass-blow.
Jones—who happened to be the man I had dragged inboard—was on his feet in an instant, and, placing himself alongside me, we both pressed a little forward, so as to leave room for the rest of the gigs to follow by the same entrance while we covered them.
At the same moment a ringing cheer was heard forward; there was a rush of many feet, and Flinn with his party poured aft, having come quietly in over the bows while the crew were engaged with us aft.
“Launches to the rescue!” he shouted; “Hurroo, me bhoys! lay it on thick and heavy. Don’t give them time to recover themselves; if the naygurs won’t go below or throw down their arrums, just haive them overboard.”
The onslaught of the three other boats’ crews—which, having stolen quietly up in the confusion and slipped in over the bows without molestation, were perfectly fresh—was irresistible. The brigantine’s crew were forced in a body right aft to the taffrail, when, to avoid being cut down where they stood, or driven overboard, they threw down their arms and begged for quarter.
Lights were procured; the prisoners were passed below and secured; and we then had time to turn our attention to the other craft. Where was she? During the skirmish I had caught a momentary glimpse of her at about a cable’s length on our port beam through the glancing of the pistol-flashes on her spars and rigging, but now she was nowhere to be seen.
“Matthews,” said Mr Flinn, “take a blue-light from the launch into the fore-top and burn it.”
In less than a minute the glare of the blue-light illumined the scene with a ghastly radiance; and there, about a quarter of a mile distant, was the ship under way, standing to the northward and westward under jib and spanker, with her topsails just let fall ready for sheeting home.
“Oh, ho! Is it that you’re afther thin, me foine fellow?” exclaimed Flinn, who always dropped into his native brogue under the influence of excitement. “By the powers but we’ll soon sthop that little game. Fore-top there! That’ll do with the blue-light. Jump on the topsail-yard and cast off the gaskets. Lay out and loose the jib and fore-topmast-staysail, some of you; and Mr Chester, kindly get this mainsail set at once, if you please.”
“All ready with the topsail, sir,” sang out the man aloft.
“Then let fall, and come down, casting loose the foresail as you do so. Sheet home the topsail, lads; that’s well! man the halliards and up with the yard. Hoist away the jib and staysail; fore-sheets over to starboard. One hand to the wheel and put it hard-a-port. Cut the cable, forward there. Round-in upon the starboard braces—ease off your mainsheet, slack it away and let the boom go well out. Now she has stern-way upon her. Capital. Now fill your topsail—smartly, lads!—and haul aft your lee head sheets. Steady your helm. Now she draws ahead. Hard up with the helm. There she pays off! Square the fore-yard; gently with your weather-braces—don’t round-in upon them too quickly. Well there; belay!”
All this had passed almost as quickly as the description can be read, and we were now under way and steering directly after the ship, which had only succeeded in getting her topsails sheeted home and the fore-topsail partially hoisted.
“Is that gun ready forward, Mr Vining?” asked Flinn.
“All ready, sir,” answered Vining.
“Then burn another blue-light and throw a shot over him.”
Up flared once more the ghostly light; the ship, like a vast phantom, loomed out against the black sky directly ahead, and after a momentary pause the sharp report of the brass nine-pounder rang out forward, the flash lighting up the chase for an instant, and bringing every rope, spar, and sail into clear relief, while the sound was repeated right and left by the echoing cliffs of the island astern, and the startled sea-birds wheeled screaming all round us.
No notice was taken by the ship of our polite request that she should heave-to; on the contrary, every effort seemed to be put forth to get the canvas set as speedily as possible.
But the brigantine was slipping through the water three feet to their one, under the influence of the light baffling breeze which came down to us from over the lofty cliffs astern, and we were soon within hailing distance.
“Mr Martin, are the starboard guns loaded?” asked Mr Flinn.
“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “Loaded with round and grape.”
“Then elevate the muzzles of the guns as much as possible, if you please. I am going to range up alongside on the ship’s port quarter, when we will pour in our broadside and board in the smoke. If we are not smart, both ships will be ashore on the reefs. Mr Vining, kindly take charge of the brigantine, with four hands; the rest prepare to follow me on board the ship.”
We were by this time close to the chase, on board which all was dark and silent as the grave.
“Stand by to heave the grapplings, fore and aft. Now port your helm, my man—Jones, isn’t it? That’s right, hard-a-port and run her alongside. This way, lads, our cat-head is your best chance. Hurroo! boarders away!” shouted Flinn, and away went the whole party swarming over the ship’s lofty bulwarks helter-skelter, like a parcel of school-boys at play, our entire starboard broadside going off with a rattling crash at the same instant.
And then uprose from the deck of the ship an infernal chorus of shrieks, groans, yells, and curses from those of her crew who had been mown down by our shot, mingling horribly with the cheers of our people, the oaths of those who opposed us, the popping of pistols, and the clash of steel. There were about forty men on board, chiefly Spanish desperadoes, who fought like incarnate fiends; but they had no chance when once we were on board, and after contesting every inch of the deck until they, like the crew of their consort, had been driven aft to the taffrail, in which obstinate resistance they lost more than half their number, the survivors sullenly flung down their arms and surrendered.
The next business was to attend to the safety of both vessels, which were now perilously near the reefs ahead. Half a dozen men were sent on board the brigantine to assist those already there in working her, when the grapplings were cast off, the brigantine starboarded her helm while we ported ours, and the two ships separated, to haul up on opposite tacks.
The ship’s sails were not above half set, so as soon as we had hauled her to the wind the halliards were manned and the topsail-yards got chock up to their sheaves, the courses let fall, tacks boarded, and sheets hauled aft, when we eased the helm down and threw her in stays.
Day was by this time beginning to break. The sky overhead was lighting up, the stars paling out and fading away, while surrounding objects began to loom ghost-like and indistinct in the first grey of the early dawn. The brigantine was just visible about half a mile ahead and inshore of us, apparently hove-to. As we drew up abreast of her she filled her topsail and stood on in company, the ship by this time under every stitch of canvas, up to topgallantsails, while the brigantine drew ahead of us under mainsail, topsail, and jib, and was obliged to shiver her topsail every now and then in order to avoid running away from us.
In twenty minutes more we rounded the point, and there lay the “Astarte,” a couple of miles off, rolling heavily upon the ground-swell. On reaching her, both our prizes were hove-to as close to the frigate and to each other as was consistent with safety, and Mr Flinn and I jumped into the gig and went on board to report.
“Well, Mr Flinn,” said the skipper, meeting us at the gangway, “glad to see you back safe and sound; you too, Mr Chester,” shaking hands with us both. “But how is this? Are you hurt, Ralph?” as on my facing to the eastward the light fell upon my face, and he saw blood upon it.
“A broken skull, sir;” I replied, “nothing very serious though, I believe.”
“And what’s the news?” continued the skipper. “I see you have brought both vessels out with you. What are they?”
“To tell you the truth, sir,” answered Flinn, “we have had no time yet to find out what they are. They are both Spaniards, however, and, if I am not greatly mistaken, we shall find that the brigantine is little better than a pirate.”
“Um!” said the skipper, “likely enough; she has all the look of it. And now, what about casualties? have you suffered much?”
“Rather severely, sir, I am sorry to say. Five killed, and eighteen—or rather, nineteen with Mr Chester—wounded; eight of them severely. I am afraid we shall lose little Fisher, sir.”
“Lose little Fisher!” exclaimed the skipper. “Why, whoever was thoughtless enough to let that poor child go upon so dangerous an expedition?”
Flinn looked at me, and I at him; but neither of us could plead guilty, so the matter dropped for the time.
The surgeon and his assistant now trundled down over the side, with their tools under their arms, and went on board the prizes to attend to the poor fellows who were wounded, Mr Flinn returning with them to arrange the prize crews, and to anchor the prizes, the skipper having come to the determination to remain in smooth water until the wounded had all been attended to and placed comfortably in their own hammocks on board the frigate.
In the mean time I trundled down into the midshipmen’s berth, bathed my wound—a scalp-wound about six inches long—in cold water, clapped on a quarter of a yard of diachylon plaster, a sheet of which I always took the precaution to keep in my own chest, snatched a mouthful or so of biscuit and cold meat, and then returned to the deck to see if I could be of use.
“Oh! I’ve been looking for you, sir,” said the captain’s steward, as I put my head above the coamings. “The captain wishes to see you in his cabin at once, if you please, sir.”
“Is he there now, Polson? All right, then, I’ll go down to him forthwith,” and away I went.
“Come in!” said the deep, musical voice of the skipper, in answer to my knock. I entered.
“Oh! It’s you, Ralph. Come in and sit down. I see you have been doing a little patching up on your own account. Is it very hard?”
“Thank you, no; a mere breaking of the skin,” I replied. “I shall be as good as new in a day or two, I hope.”
“That’s well. Still you had better let Mr Oxley look at it when he is at leisure. Very trifling wounds turn out badly sometimes in this hot climate. And now—I want to speak to you about that poor lad Fisher. I am told he was in the gig with you.”
“In the gig with me!” I echoed taken thoroughly by surprise. “I assure you, Captain Annesley, I was quite unaware of it, then. Indeed, I was not aware that he had left the ship until Mr Flinn spoke of him as being wounded. I haven’t even seen him throughout the affair.”
“I am glad to hear that,” said the skipper, his brow clearing. “To tell you the whole truth, Ralph, I have been feeling very angry with you; for when I heard that the poor boy had gone in your boat, I quite thought it must have been with your connivance. And I need scarcely point out to you that I could not approve of such a child as that being allowed to take part in an expedition of so dangerous a character, where he would only be in the way, and could be of no possible assistance. However, since you say that you know nothing about it, I suppose he must have slipped down into the boat surreptitiously and stowed himself away. Now, as there is nothing particular for you to do, you may as well—”
At this moment Mr Flinn entered.
“Sit down, Mr Flinn, sit down, man,” said the skipper. “Well, how are things looking on board the prizes by this time?”
“Capitally, sir, I am happy to say,” replied Flinn, with a beaming phiz. “The wounded have nearly all been attended to, and we may begin to transfer them at once. Little Fisher seems in a somewhat more promising condition now that his wounds have been dressed, and the others are also doing well. As to the prizes, the brigantine has such a heterogeneous assortment of goods in her hold that her cargo alone, which is very valuable, is sufficient to betray her character. Her skipper was killed—by you, Ralph, if I understand them rightly—early in the attack, but the mate, or lieutenant as he calls himself, swears she is a privateer. However, as he cannot produce anything like a commission, I am very glad I am not in his shoes. The craft is called the ‘Juanita,’ and the mate says they were bound from Cumana to Cartagena, but his papers look to me remarkably like forgeries. The ship is the ‘San Nicolas,’ bound from La Guayra to Cadiz, with a general cargo and—two large boxes of silver bricks, which we found stowed away down in the run. Her papers are all perfectly correct, and she is evidently a prize to the brigantine. The rascals on board her profess to be her regular crew, and disown all acquaintance with the crew of the ‘Juanita,’ but there are twice as many men on board as are entered in the ship’s books, and altogether their tale is far too flimsy to hold water. I have no doubt they are a prize crew from the ‘Juanita,’ and that the ship’s crew have all been murdered. So that we have done a very good-night’s work, I think.”
“Capital,” said the skipper. “Couldn’t well be better, except for our losses in killed and wounded. Let the poor fellows be transferred at once, if you please, Mr Flinn. When they are all stowed comfortably away, we will shift the silver into the frigate also; then there will not be much fear of its recapture. And lastly, we will shift the prisoners over to the frigate; then the prizes will not require such large prize crews.”
We then went on deck together, and I went away in the launch to effect the transfer of our killed and wounded. This was a long and painful business, some of the wounded requiring the most careful handling; but it was done at last, and by the end of the afternoon watch everything was ready for us to weigh and proceed to sea again, which we at once did; the prizes being ordered to rendezvous at Barbadoes.
Mr Vining, the third lieutenant, had charge of the “San Nicolas,” while the “Juanita” was entrusted to Carter, the master’s-mate, who had strict injunctions to stick close to and protect the ship.
We weighed in a body, and stood away to the southward, close-hauled on the larboard tack; the frigate cracking on, and leaving her prizes to follow at their best pace. Vining also carried on upon the “San Nicolas,” giving her every stitch of canvas she could show, while Carter had to haul down a couple of reefs in his mainsail and topsail, reef his foresail, and stow his flying-jib and fore-topmast-staysail in order to moderate his speed to that of his consort.
At two bells in the first dog-watch, the crew were mustered, the men having cleaned and shifted their rig for the occasion, while the officers appeared in full-dress, sail was shortened, and the ship hove-to. The bodies of the five poor fellows who had fallen in the attack of the previous night were placed in the lee gangway, sewn up in their hammocks, each with an eighteen-pound shot at his feet, and the ensign spread over them as a pall. The skipper stationed himself at their heads with the prayer-book in his hand, and, having looked along the deck fore and aft to satisfy himself that everything was as it should be, took off his cocked hat, the rest of us uncovering at his example.
“I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord. He that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die.”
The words, in all their solemn beauty of promise, uttered in a voice which quivered slightly with emotion, fell clearly and distinctly from the captain’s lips, and went straight to the hearts of the throng of ocean warriors who had gathered to bid a last long, sad farewell to their fallen comrades, and to consign them with all honour to a sailor’s grave. The bronzed and bearded faces of the listeners wore an expression of gravity well suited to the most solemn ceremonial of the Christian faith, and as the impressive service proceeded, more than one of the stalwart seamen, who had a few hours before fought side by side with those who now lay at their feet wrapped cold and stark in their bloody shrouds, dashed with a hasty and furtive hand the unwonted tears away.
Nor were the externals of the scene altogether inappropriate to the occasion. The frigate, pausing in her rapid flight, swayed slowly and majestically upon the bosom of the surges which would soon receive the bodies of her dead heroes, and hung, as if in sentient grief, over the spot which was to be their tomb. Her graceful hull, lofty spars, and snowy canvas gleamed refulgent in the last rays of the setting sun as he sank to his rest through a bank of rainbow-tinted clouds, and the rising wind sobbed and moaned dirge-like through her taut rigging.
At length the glorious luminary touched the horizon, staining the bosom of the waters to a deep rosy hue, and flinging a broad pathway of glittering molten gold from the ocean’s rim across the restless billows clear up to the frigate’s side. Slowly sank the broad disk behind the purple horizon, as the solemn ceremony drew to an end. The ensign, that meteor flag, beneath whose folds so many heroes have fought and died, was gently raised, and at the words “Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the souls of our dear brothers here departed, we therefore commit their bodies to the deep,”—the inner ends of the gratings upon which the dead lay were slowly elevated, the sullen plunge of the bodies smote upon the ear, and the last ray of the departing sun flashed upon the swirling eddies where they had disappeared, dyeing them deep in crimson and gold.
The ocean suddenly darkened, the gorgeous cloud-tints faded into tender grey, and, as the service came to a conclusion, a gun boomed the frigate’s farewell to her lost ones; the main-yard was swung; and the dead were left to their last long sleep deep within the sheltering bosom of the ocean they had loved in life so well.
We stood on until midnight, when we tacked to the northward; in which direction we steered during the whole of next day and the following night, when we deemed ourselves far enough to windward to enable us to pass between the Islands of Saint Lucia and Saint Vincent and fetch Barbadoes on the other tack.
In the meantime all the wounded were doing well except poor little Fisher. His injuries were of a very serious nature, a cutlass-blow having cloven his right shoulder until it had nearly severed the arm from the body, and his right lung was penetrated by a pike-thrust. The skipper had ordered a cot to be slung for the little fellow in his own cabin, and thither I went as often as I could, to sit beside him, help him to the cooling drinks which our kind-hearted medico had concocted for him, and cheer him up when his spirits drooped, as they too often did. Exhausted by loss of blood and severe physical suffering, his nervous system appeared to have completely broken down, and the incessant heave and roll of the ship distressed him almost beyond his powers of endurance.
“Oh! Chester,” he said to me one day, “if I could but be on shore, I believe I should get better. It tires me out to lie here, hour after hour, watching the sway of the ship. And then it is so dreadfully hot here, although the stern-ports are always open. What I should like is to be on shore, in a nice large room, with the windows open and the sea-breeze rushing in, laden with the odour of flowers, and to lie and listen to the rustle of leaves, and watch the branches of the trees swaying in the wind, with the birds and butterflies glancing to and fro, and the sunlight glittering upon the water. I can’t sleep now, with the tramping of feet overhead, the creaking of the bulkheads, and the everlasting wash of the sea sounding in my ears, but I believe I could sleep then; and if I could sleep I feel that I should get better.”
A day or two after he had said this, I went down to see him toward evening, and at the cabin-door I met the doctor just coming out.
“How is he this evening, doctor?” I inquired.
“Worse; very much worse. I am beginning to despair of him now. He is light-headed, and I question if he will recognise you,” was the discouraging reply.
I went in and found the skipper himself standing by the cot, holding one dry burning hand in his, listening to the incoherent ramblings of the poor lad, and endeavouring to soothe him. Home scenes and incidents of school-days seemed to be uppermost in his mind at the moment that I entered, but soon afterwards his thoughts wandered away to the night of the attack.
“I must go, I must go,” he exclaimed in anxious tones; “if it be only to prove whether I am a coward or no. Chester spoke very kindly to me, but I believe he thinks I am afraid. It will be dreadful, I know—the flashing cutlasses, the fierce thrust of pikes, and perhaps the fire of grape and canister. And there will be gaping wounds, and blood—blood everywhere; and oh! the suffering there will be; I have read of it all—the burning, unquenchable thirst, the throbbing and quivering of agonised limbs, and the upturned glance of unendurable torture. How can I possibly bear to look upon it all? And perhaps I may be one of the wounded—or the slain. And if I am, what then? I do not care about pain for myself, I can bear it; but it is the sufferings of others that I dread to see. And if I am killed—why, I shall die doing my duty, and I am not afraid of death; I have never done anything that I need be ashamed of; I never did anything mean or dishonourable; I have always tried to be kind to every one; and I have read the Bible regularly which my poor dear mother gave me.”
He paused a little. Then the tears welled slowly up into his eyes. “I am dying—I know it, though none of them have said so. I wonder whether my father will be sorry. He is a proud man and stern—very stern; I cannot remember that he ever kissed me, and I have never been able to tell whether he cares for me or no. But I believe he does—I hope he does; and at all events, he need not be ashamed of me, for I have proved that I am no coward. My mother will grieve for me, though; it will break her heart and—oh!”
Here a violent flood of tears came to the poor boy’s relief, and he sobbed as though his heart would break.
“Phew!” exclaimed the skipper. “This will never do; he is too weak to bear this, I am sure. Run for Oxley, and tell him to come at once, Ralph; we must stop this at any cost.”
I rushed out of the cabin, and returned in another minute with the doctor.
The poor boy was still sobbing occasionally, but he was crying more quietly now, and lying quite still in his hammock, instead of moving his limbs restlessly about as he had been.
The doctor leaned over the cot, felt his pulse, and laid his hand upon his patient’s forehead.
“It is a dreadful tax upon his already exhausted strength,” said the medico, “but I believe in the present case it has done good rather than harm. However, it will not do to risk a repetition of this sort of thing, so I will give him a mild opiate, although I would much rather not, in his present exhausted condition.”
He leaned over the cot once more with his finger on the lad’s pulse, and gazed long and anxiously in the pale, upturned face, as though revolving in his mind some weighty problem. Then, turning abruptly away, he left the cabin, beckoning me to follow.
As he was mixing the draught in the dispensary, he remarked,—
“If he can only last out until we reach Barbadoes, I believe we might save him yet; but it is this constant motion which is irritating his wound, and sapping his life. When do you think we shall get in?”
“To-morrow morning, if the breeze holds,” I replied.
“Too late, I am afraid,” said my companion, shaking his head. “The patient is in such a critical state that a few hours more or less may make all the difference between life and death to him. However, I will not give him up without a fight. Mr Stuart and I will watch him through the night, and perhaps you could arrange to stay with him through the dog-watches, could you?”
“Assuredly,” I replied. “I will speak to Mr Flinn about it, and I am sure he will excuse me.”
“Very well, then; that’s arranged,” said the doctor. “Now run away with that draught. If the poor boy is still agitated, give it him at once; if not, keep it by you for the present.”
I returned to the cabin, and found that little Six-foot had stopped crying, and seemed disposed to sleep, so I put the bottle in a place of safety, and whispered to the skipper the doctor’s arrangement.
“All right,” he returned. “You remain here. I must go on deck now; and I will mention to Flinn that you will not be on deck during the dog-watch.”
He stole out on tiptoe, and I was alone with my patient. I settled myself in a low chair near the cot, and looked out through the stern-port. The sun was just setting, and the western sky glowed with the same gorgeous colouring which it had worn on the evening of the funeral. The sight reminded me of the sad incident, and I wondered whether we were to have a sadder one yet. I sat for some time lost in mournful thought, when there was a slight stir in the cot, and I heard little Fisher’s voice say weakly—
“Is that you, Ralph, sitting there? It is so dark I can scarcely make you out.”
“Yes, it is I,” I answered cheerfully. “How are you now, Six-foot? You have had a bit of a snooze, have you not?”
“I believe I have been dozing,” he replied. “I seem very weak, Ralph, and I have scarcely any feeling left in my legs. I fancy I shall not last many hours longer.”
“Oh, nonsense!” I returned. “What has put that idea into your head? Why, we shall be in Carlisle Bay by sun-rise to-morrow; and then, if you are strong enough to bear removal, you can have your wish as to going on shore, you know. And once there, you will soon pull round, old fellow. No more rolling and knocking about then, Harry; no more groaning bulkheads; but the quiet and coolness that you have been longing for, with the sea-breeze, and trees, the birds and butterflies, and tender women to nurse and pet and make much of you, instead of us clumsy people. Only think of it! Why, by this time to-morrow you will feel so much better for the change that you will be wanting to sit up in bed—or even to turn out, perhaps.”
“Oh, no, no,” he replied. “I am far worse than you seem to think, Ralph. Still, I believe I might pull round even yet, if I could but get ashore.”
“Well, look here,” said I. “If you are to be moved to-morrow, it is of the greatest importance that you should have a good night’s rest to-night, so try, like a dear good fellow, to get to sleep again, will you? Do you feel thirsty?”
“Rather,” he replied. “But I seem to want something different from that stuff that the doctor has mixed for me. If I could only get a little fruit now—a bit of one of those pines you brought on board at Kingston, for instance—I believe it would refresh me more than anything else.”
“Would it?” said I; “then you shall have it; that is, if the doctor will allow it; for now that you speak of it, I know the skipper has one or two pines left, and I am certain you will be heartily welcome to them. Do you mind being by yourself for a minute or two, while I run to the doctor, and speak to him about it? All right; I will be back in a second.”
The doctor saw no objection, so we soon had a splendid pine sliced up, and I held a thin piece to the poor little sufferer’s lips. It refreshed him greatly, and after another draught of the acid mixture he settled down more comfortably than he had been at all. When I turned him over to the doctor at last and left the cabin, there seemed to be some slight improvement in his condition.
In the early dawn of the following morning we anchored in Carlisle Bay, Barbadoes, and by noon poor little Fisher had been safely conveyed on shore and lodged in the colonel’s residence near Needham Point, where he would have all the ladies belonging to the garrison to nurse him, and be conveniently situated for frequent visits from the staff-surgeon.