At dawn Desmond awoke to find the grab labouring in a heavy sea, with just steering-way on. The wind had dropped to a light breeze. The Gujarati was soon up and relieved the serang at the wheel; the rest of the crew, haggard, melancholy objects, were set to work to make things ship-shape. Only the Babu remained below; he lay huddled in the cabin, bruised, prostrate, unable to realize that the bitterness of death was past, unable to believe that life had any further interest for him.
Desmond's position was perplexing. Where was he? Perforce he had lost his bearings. He scanned the whole circumference of the horizon, and saw nothing but the vast dark ocean plain and its immense blue dome--never a yard of land, never a stitch of canvas. He had no means of ascertaining his latitude. During the twelve hours of the storm the grab had been driven at a furious rate; if the wind had blown all the time from the south-east, the quarter from which it had struck the vessel, she must now be at least fifty miles from the coast, possibly more, and north of Bombay. In the inky blackness of the night, amid the blinding rain, it had been impossible to read anything from the stars. All was uncertain, save the golden sheen of sunlight in the east.
Desmond's only course was to put the vessel about and steer by the sun. She must thus come sooner or later in sight of the coast, and then one or other of the men on board might recognize a landmark--a hill, a promontory, a town. The danger was that they might make the coast in the neighbourhood of one of the Pirate's strongholds; but that must be risked.
For the rest of the day there were light variable winds, such as, according to Fuzl Khan, might be expected at that season of the year. The north-east monsoon was already overdue. Its coming was usually heralded by fitful and uncertain winds, varied by such squalls or storms as they had just experienced.
The sea moderated early in the morning, and became continually smoother until, as the sun went down, there was scarce a ripple on the surface. The wind meanwhile had gradually veered to the south-west, and later to the west, and the grab began to make more headway. But with the fall of night it dropped to a dead calm, a circumstance from which the Gujarati inferred that they were still a long way from the coast. When the stars appeared, however, and Desmond was able to get a better idea of the course to set, a slight breeze sprang up again from the west, and the grab crept along at a speed of perhaps four knots.
It had been a lazy day on board. The crew had recovered from their sickness, but there was nothing for them to do, and as Orientals they were quite content to do nothing. Only the Babu remained off duty, in addition to the watch below. Desmond visited him, and persuaded him to take some food: but nothing would induce him to come on deck; the mere sight of the sea, he said, would externalize his interior.
It was Desmond's trick at the wheel between eight and midnight. Gulam Mahomed was on the look-out; the rest of the crew were forward squatting on the deck in a circle round Fuzl Khan. Desmond, thinking of other things, heard dully, as from a great distance, the drone of the Gujarati's voice. He was talking more freely and continuously than was usual with him; ordinarily his manner was morose; he was a man of few words, and those not too carefully chosen. So prolonged was the monotonous murmur, however, that Desmond by and by found himself wondering what was the subject of his lengthy discourse; he even strained his ears to catch, if it might be, some fragments of it; but nothing came into distinctness out of the low-pitched drone. Occasionally it was broken by the voice of one of the others; now and again there was a brief interval of silence; then the Gujarati began again. Desmond's thoughts were once more diverted to his own strange fate. Little more than a year before, he had been a boy, with no more experience than was to be gained within the narrow circuit of a country farm. What a gamut of adventure he had run through since then! He smiled as he thought that none of the folks at Market Drayton would recognize, in the muscular, strapping, sun-tanned seaman, the slim boy of Wilcote Grange. His imagination had woven many a chain of incident, and set him in many a strange place; but never had it presented a picture of himself in command of as mixed a crew as was ever thrown together, navigating unknown waters without chart or compass, a fugitive from the chains of an Eastern despot. His quick fancy was busy even now. He felt that it was not for nothing he had been brought into his present plight; and at the back of his mind was the belief, founded on his strong wish and hope, that the magnetism of Clive's personality, which he had felt so strongly at Market Drayton, was still influencing his career.
At midnight Fuzl Khan relieved him at the wheel, and he turned in. His sleep was troubled. It was a warm night--unusually warm for the time of year. There were swarms of cockroaches and rats on board; the cockroaches huge beasts, three times the size of those that overran the kitchen at home; the rats seeming as large as the rabbits he had been wont to shoot on the farm. They scurried about with their little restless noises, which usually would have had no power to break his sleep; but now they worried him. He scared them into silence for a moment by striking upon the floor; but the rustle and clipper-clapper immediately began again.
After vain efforts to regain his sleep, he at length rose and went on deck. He did not move with intentional quietness, but he was barefoot, and his steps made no sound. It was a black night, a warm haze almost shutting out the stars. As he reached the deck he heard low murmurs from a point somewhere aft. He had no idea what the time was: Shaik Abdullah had the water-clock, with which he timed the watches; and Desmond's could not yet be due. Avoiding the spot where the conversation was in progress, he leant over the bulwarks, and gazed idly at the phosphorescent glow upon the water. Then he suddenly became aware that the sounds of talking came from near the wheel, and Fuzl Khan was among the talkers. What made the man so uncommonly talkative? Seemingly he was taking up the thread where it had been dropped earlier in the night; what was it about?
Desmond asked himself the question without much interest, and was again allowing his thoughts to rove when he caught the word "sahib," and then the word "Firangi" somewhat loudly spoken. Immediately afterwards there was a low hiss from the Gujarati, as of one warning another to speak lower. The experiences of the past year had quickened Desmond's wits; with reason he had become more suspicious than of yore, and the necessity to be constantly on his guard had made him alert, alive to the least suggestion. Why had the speaker been hushed--and by Fuzl Khan? He remembered the ugly rumours, the veiled hints he had heard about the man in Gheria. If they were true, he had sold his comrades who trusted him. They might not be true; the man himself had always indignantly denied them. Desmond had nothing against him. So far he had acted loyally enough; but then he had nothing to gain by playing his fellow-fugitives false, and it was with this knowledge that Desmond had decided to make him privy to the escape. But now they were clear of Gheria. Fuzl Khan was free like the rest; he had no longer the same inducement to play straight if his interest seemed to him to clash with the general. Yet it was not easy to see how such a clashing could occur. Like the others he was lost at sea; until land was reached, at any rate, he could have no motive for opposition or mutiny.