Chapter Four.
The wreck of the Psyche.
Our journey down the river was a very different affair from that of our upward passage; for whereas in the latter we had been compelled to force our way against an adverse current, we now had that current favouring us; thus it came about that although the sun had passed the meridian when the boats emerged from the Camma Lagoon, after destroying the slave factory therein, it yet wanted an hour to sunset when the gig, still leading the rest of the flotilla, entered the last reach of the river and we once more caught sight and sound of the breakers beyond the bar.
Mr Perry, the late first lieutenant, who now, by the death of Captain Harrison, had automatically become acting captain of the Psyche, had turned over the command of the launch to the master’s mate, for the return passage, and was in the gig with me; and as we drew nearer to the river’s mouth I noticed that he rose in the stern-sheets of the boat and glanced somewhat anxiously to seaward. For a full minute or more he stood gazing under the sharp of his hand out across the sandbank as it seemed to glide rapidly past us, its summit momentarily growing lower as the gig swept along toward the point where the dwindling spit plunged beneath the surface of the water, and, as he gazed, the expression of puzzlement and anxiety on his face rapidly intensified. By this time, too, his action and attitude had attracted the attention of those in the boats astern, and, glancing back at them, I saw that Nugent, in the launch, and Hoskins, the third lieutenant, in the pinnace, had followed his example. Naturally, I did the same, wondering meanwhile what it was at which they were all looking so intently, when Mr Perry suddenly turned upon me and demanded, almost angrily—
“I say, Mr Fortescue, what has become of the ship? D’ye see anything of her?”
“The ship, sir?” I echoed dazedly—for, with the question, it had come to me in a flash that we ought by this time to be able to see at least the spars of the Psyche swaying rhythmically athwart the sky out over the low sandbank, if she still lay at anchor where we had left her;—“the ship? No, sir, I confess that I can’t see her anywhere. Surely Mr Purchase cannot have shifted his berth, for any reason? But—no,” I continued, as the absurdity of the suggestion came home to me—“of course he hasn’t; he hasn’t enough hands left with him to make sail upon the ship, even if he were obliged to slip his cables.”
At that moment a hail of “Gig ahoy!” came from Nugent aboard the launch; and, glancing back at him, we saw him pointing at some object that had suddenly appeared on the ridge of the spit, away on our port quarter. It was a man, a white man, a seaman, if one might judge from his costume, and he was waving a large coloured handkerchief, or something of the kind, with the evident object of attracting our attention. While we still stood at gaze, wondering what this apparition could possibly mean, another man appeared beside him.
“Down helm, and run the boat in on the bank,” ordered our new skipper. “I must see what this means.”
“Flatten in, fore and aft, and stand by to let run your halyards!” ordered the coxswain, easing his helm down; and as he spoke I stepped upon the stern thwart with the object of getting a somewhat more extended view over the sandbank. But there was nothing to be seen—stay! why was the spray from the surf flying so much higher in one particular spot than elsewhere? And that spot appeared to be about abreast of that part of the bank where the two men were standing. I stood a moment or two longer, seeking an explanation of the phenomenon, and then fell headlong over the man who was sitting upon the aftermost thwart gathering in the slack of the mainsail as the yard came down; for at that moment the gig grounded on the bank and shot a quarter of her length high and dry with the way that she had on her. As I picked myself up, rubbing my barked elbows ruefully, to the accompaniment of a suppressed snigger from the boat’s crew, Mr Perry, with a brief “Make way, there, lads,” sprang upon the thwarts and, striding rapidly from thwart to thwart, rushed along the length of the boat, placed one foot lightly on the gunwale, close to the stem head, and leaped out on to the sand, with me close at his heels.
Together we raced for the crest of the spit; but even before we had reached it the terrible truth lay plain before us. For there, about a quarter of a mile to the southward of us, on the seaward side of the spit, lay the Psyche, hard and fast aground, dismasted, and on her beam-ends, with the surf pounding at her, and her spars and rigging, worked up into a raft, floating in the swirl alongside the beach; while on the shore, opposite where she lay, the little company that had been left aboard to take care of her laboured to save such flotsam and jetsam as the surf flung up within their reach.