A Whaleman's Wife

by Frank Thomas Bullen

CHAPTER XXVII

AND LAST

It may well be wondered why in the much-abused name of common-sense the mariners on board the Grampus did not, seeing the hopelessness of saving their vessel, make for the boats and leave her. But it must be remembered that, apart from the fact that they were nearly all mixed up in that horrible compost of savagery, there were really only three of them who had any clearness of head remaining. These three, whom I have already named, were busy preparing the starboard quarter boat for leaving when suddenly there burst upon them, like a flood, a mob of natives, and before they had time to draw their weapons they were overpowered, and another dark deed was consummated. As so often has happened in South Sea Island story, the innocent suffered equally with the guilty—indeed, more, for one guilty man escaped for a time. Off in the dark Reuben waited, all his nerves raw with anxiety for those who would never come. What to do he did not know, for light and graceful as a whaleboat is when she has her full complement of men on board, she is cumbrous as a barge to be handled by one man at any time without sail; and when to that one man’s task is added the hampering of darkness and ignorance of the way he should go, the hill of difficulty becomes well-nigh insurmountable.

Reuben stood with his feet upon the two cleats, made and fastened for the purpose of raising the steersman’s body, one on each side of the stern-sheets, staring with smarting eyes into the smoky, flame-stabbed darkness where the ship lay. Occasionally a great spurt of blood-red fire lit up sea, shore, and sky, and made him tremble for fear of discovery; then a wild chorus of yells and shrieks chilled his blood as he pictured mentally the scene being enacted on board. Strangely enough, he had quite forgotten his own peril, had forgotten how many were the native canoes, how impossible it would be for him to propel that heavy boat one quarter as fast as those amphibious natives could swim after him if once they realised his departure. Ah! The boat sagged heavily to one side, and in over the bluff of the bow climbed a dark figure, gasping as if its chest was being rent asunder. Reuben sprang forward, and found it was the skipper. The two men stared at each other for a moment; then the skipper gurgled out, ‘Oars, pull for life; all dead but me.’ And as he spoke he seized an oar and began to pull. Reuben said no word, but took another, and with the long, splendid stroke of the whaler they propelled the beautiful craft silently seaward, passing the headland safely and unobserved. A light breeze was blowing, and no sooner were they clear of the head than the skipper said, his native gruffness asserting itself even in that terrible hour, ‘Come, lend a hand ’n’ git th’ mast up. She’ll go twice as fast under sail. Git a move on ye.’ It was a heavy task for two men, one of whom was evidently fighting hard against overpowering weakness, but Reuben’s great strength again stood him in good stead, and before ten minutes had elapsed the big sail was bellying bravely forward, and the boat, heading out into the night, was gently bowing to the incoming Pacific swell, seeming eager to escape from those awful shores.

Captain Da Silva took the steer-oar, and with something of his old skill laid the boat on the direct course for the nearest reef-opening, steering by the white curdlings on the reef-tops around, which showed up most conspicuously against the dark of the night. Astern the Grampus, now one vast flame, filled the sky with a lurid glare, and the smoke of her burning came floating over the heads of the fugitives in a long grey cloud. For a space of about half an hour not a word was spoken by either of the men. Then suddenly the skipper said sharply, ‘Who’s this?’ pointing to the motionless figure lying in the stern sheets at his feet as if he had only just seen it.

‘It’s yewr wife, Cap’n,’ answered Rube in the most matter-of-fact manner possible.

‘How ’d she kem here?’ demanded the skipper again.

‘I brought her, sir,’ replied Rube, without the slightest change of voice.

‘Oh, yew did, eh?’ said the skipper faintly. And then stooping and letting go his hold of the oar, he laid his hand upon the unconscious woman and said, ‘’R y’ all right, Pris? I’m drefful sorry t’ have brung ye t’ this; but I kain’t do nothin’ f’r y’ naow. I’m mighty sick man myself.’ And with that word he fell forward in a heap fainting.

This brought Rube aft on the jump, but it was well for him that Priscilla had been roused from her curious stupor and was able to attend to her husband, as the steering of the boat demanded all one man’s attention now.