"And whatever may chance, we will not leave you, Mirandola," said Dennis. "Shall I forget the days when you were the only friend of my solitude? Would you could speak, for assuredly I would ask your counsel on this pass to which we are come."
They went daily to the clearing to watch the progress of the canoe. As yet they had given no answer to the maroons; but these were working very diligently at the task, having apparently inferred from the silence of the white men that at least nothing would be done to prevent their making use of the vessel. Dennis and Turnpenny talked over the situation again and again; but their thoughts followed the same weary round. At one moment they were almost resolved to throw in their lot with the maroons and voyage with them to the mainland; the next they shrank from this course as throwing away what seemed their only chance of ultimate rescue—the chance of being found some day by an English vessel.
The problem weighed more heavily on Dennis than on Turnpenny. Compared with his former sufferings, it was to the sailor a slight matter. Dennis, lying sleepless at night, envied his friend the soundness of his slumbers. The mariner snored as peacefully on his canvas couch in the corner of the hut as though he were on a feather bed at home. To Dennis the hours of darkness passed wearisomely. He thought of all that had happened since he sailed with light heart from Plymouth Sound, and wondered sometimes whether his comrades had not perchance been happier in meeting swift death in the storm. Then he upbraided himself for his ingratitude to the Providence which had preserved his life and health, and given him the companionship of a fellow countryman. He contrasted, too, his lot with that of Turnpenny's mates on the mainland, dragging out a miserable existence of slavish toil. He recalled the sailor's stories of the tortures they endured—and then suddenly, one night, there flashed upon his mind a possibility which, in his preoccupation with his own plight, had never yet occurred to him. The maroons would shortly leave the island; had Providence arranged this as an opportunity for helping the hapless Englishmen in the Spaniards' power? If Turnpenny and he should accompany the black men, might they not find, at some time or other, a means of rescuing the prisoners—Ned Whiddon, Hugh Curder, Tom Copstone, and the rest?
The idea set Dennis throbbing with a new hope, a new aim. Slaves sometimes escaped; the maroons themselves were the offspring of negroes who had made off from the Spanish settlements and formed alliances with the native Indians of the woods. Their communities were constantly being recruited: what if the sailor and he should cast in their lot temporarily with the men about to embark, and watch for opportunities of communicating with the distressed Englishmen! Even if they never found a means of reaching home, it would still be something to the good if their comrades were got out of the hands of their oppressors. At the worst they might form a settlement of their own, and live free, though in exile.
The idea took complete possession of Dennis. He felt no desire to sleep. For a moment he was tempted to wake Turnpenny and put the question to him; instead, he got up, and stole quietly from the hut, to think it over more fully under the open sky. He walked down to the shore, and, sitting on a rock, looked over the sea and pondered the matter to the soft accompaniment of the washing tide.
It was clear that the Spaniards of the mainland had no suspicion that the island was inhabited, or they would long since have visited it. They might be off their guard. From what Turnpenny had told him he knew the indolence of their temperament—the unlikelihood of their taking precautions against problematical dangers. Unless directly threatened by the vessels of adventurers like Hawkins and Drake, they might be expected to ply their trade—manage their pearl fisheries, work their mines—without great vigilance. True, they had recently set about strengthening their defences; but probably the season of panic had passed; it was years since Hawkins had troubled them. It had already been proved what a determined few could do; if he, with Turnpenny and the six maroons, could safely reach the mainland, might they not bide their time until, Fortune assisting them, they found some means of bringing off the prisoners, or at least of striking a blow in their cause? Surely it was better to make the attempt than to rust in idleness on the island, waiting on a chance that might perhaps never come, and always exposed to the risk of discovery by the Spaniards. The more Dennis thought, the more his imagination was captivated by the idea, and when he at last returned to the hut he was resolved to broach the subject to Turnpenny as soon as he should wake.
As he came to the entrance the sailor's voice hailed him.
"Be that you, sir?"
"Yes. I could not sleep, and went for a walk on the shore."
"I had but just waked, all of a sweat, and shaking like a leaf."