The Castaways

by Harry Collingwood

I translated the gist of these remarks to the French captain, and at the same time gave him a hint to exhibit a proper amount of righteous indignation over the robbery; which he did to perfection, wringing his hands, rumpling his hair, and pacing the deck with the air of a madman while he poured out anathemas enough upon O’Gorman and his gang to sink the entire party to the nethermost depths of perdition. Meanwhile, the French crew, under the supervision of the mates—with Price watching the operation to see that a clean sweep was made of the lazarette—went to work to pass the stores on deck; and in less than an hour everything that the lazarette had contained was safely transferred to the brig, and stowed away.

While this operation was in progress, O’Gorman made a tour of the various cabins, compelling the unfortunate passengers to turn out their trunks before him, and appropriating the whole of their cash, jewellery, weapons, and ammunition, together with as much of their clothing as happened to take his fancy. As he executed his self-imposed task with considerable deliberation, those passengers whose turn was still to come had plenty of time to meditate upon their coming despoilment, and one of them—the individual who had so kindly relieved me of my letter—took it into his head to do me a good turn. Withdrawing quietly to his cabin, he presently reappeared with a mahogany case, to which he unostentatiously directed my attention, immediately afterwards laying it carelessly down in a dark corner of the cabin.

Then he came and stood close beside me, and murmured in my ear:

“A brace of duelling-pistols, with a full supply of ammunition, monsieur. Since apparently they must go, I would rather that they should fall into monsieur’s hands, if possible. He may perhaps find them useful some time in the future.”

“A thousand thanks, monsieur,” returned I, in a whisper. “Should we ever meet again I will endeavour to repay your kindness with interest.”

Then, watching my opportunity, I possessed myself of the case of pistols, made my way on deck with them, and—thanks to the bustle of trans-shipping the stores—managed to slip on board the brig with it and convey it, undetected, to my own cabin. Having done which, I spoke a reassuring word or two to Miss Onslow—who had retired to her own cabin—lighted a pipe, and sauntered up on deck again with the most careless demeanour imaginable.

It was long past midnight by the time that O’Gorman had finished rifling the barque, by which time he had secured all the provisions out of the unfortunate craft’s lazarette, had taken four brass nine-pounder guns, two dozen stand of muskets, the same number of cutlasses and boarding pikes, together with a considerable quantity of ammunition, had emptied one of the barque’s water-tanks, and had robbed them, in addition, of their two best boats—fine twenty-seven feet gigs—with their whole equipment. Then, the weather still being stark calm, he compelled the Frenchmen to hoist out their remaining two boats and to tow the brig clear of and about a mile distant from the barque. Before that moment arrived, however, the French skipper contrived to get a hurried word with me.

“Monsieur,” he said, “the contents of your letter have been communicated to me; and permit me to say that you and Mademoiselle Onslow have the heartiest sympathy and commiseration of myself and my passengers in your most unpleasant situation. But, monsieur, I fear I cannot possibly help you in the way that would doubtless be most acceptable to you—namely, by receiving you on board my ship. The scoundrels who hold you in their power would never permit it; and even were it possible for you and mademoiselle to slip aboard, unperceived, and secrete yourselves, your absence would be quickly discovered, it would be guessed what had become of you, and the pirates would assuredly give chase and recapture you—for the barque, fine ship though she be, certainly is a trifle slow—and who knows what vengeance the wretches might wreck upon us for having presumed to abet you in your attempt to escape them? You will perceive, I am sure, that my duty to my passengers forbids my exposing them to such a risk. But I shall now call at Cape Town, to replace what those villains have taken from me; and you may rest assured that I will not only report the act of piracy that has been perpetrated upon me, but I will also make known the unfortunate situation of yourself and mademoiselle, so that your countrymen may be enabled to take such steps as they may see fit to effect your rescue.”

This was as much as I could reasonably hope; and I thanked the skipper heartily for undertaking even so much as that.

In the early hours of the morning a gentle little air from the northward—that gradually strengthened to a nice working breeze—sprang up; and when I went on deck at seven bells the Marie Renaud was out of sight, and we were alone once more on the tumbling waste of waters.