"Oh, but I have done a fool's thing!" he cried. "I have been fooled, and I have sent John Bannister to death!"
I stood before him, speechless, gasping. Though I could make neither head nor tail of what he had told me, I could see with my eyes that the man was suffering torture in his soul. If Bannister was in danger, if it was possible to save anything from the fire, it was I myself--and I alone--who was capable of action, since Rushby was dead lame. And yet I must first know the truth of the matter, for I was wholly in the dark.
I went to Rushby and laid a hand upon his shoulder.
"Come, tell me what it all means," said I. "Tell me your story from the first."
He looked up at me, and then for the first time smiled--a sad smile, none the less.
"Sit down," he answered, in a calmer voice. "I will tell you all from the beginning, as quickly as I can."
[CHAPTER XIX--THE BOATSWAIN TELLS HIS STORY]
This that follows is the story that was told to me by William Rushby, sometime boatswain of the Mary Greenfield, as we sat together side by side in the ravine, the while John Bannister had gone forth alone in peril of his life.
To begin with, he reminded me of that evening when he had spoken to me through the porthole on the ship, when I was held a prisoner in the cabin that I shared with Amos Baverstock. After that--it will be remembered--I never saw him again; for when the ship arrived at Caracas, I was transported by night to the hills beyond the town.
As for Rushby, he fell in with a friend--and that is the best of being a sailor, who is never at a loss for a handshake and a word of greeting in every port in all the world. For the boatswain, when the ship was alongside the wharf, had seized the opportunity to desert, and lay in hiding in the town, until news was brought him that Amos and his party had set forth across the mountains. He then worked his way to Rio, and a month later turned up in Southampton, where by the merest chance he found John Bannister, about to set forth in quest of me across the Western Ocean.