The men by Mr Meldrum’s side, however—forgetting the past conduct of the survivors of those in the longboat and the fact of their not only having deserted them but even locked them below to drown in the hold of the sinking ship—rushed into the water, eager, in the common exercise of that humanity which is common to us all, but especially noticeable in English sailors, to relieve the misery that was so apparent, and to separate those who were living from those who had ceased to suffer; and, of all these Good Samaritans, Mr McCarthy, who had been so bitter in his denunciation of the mutineers, was the first to go forward, with Frank and Mr Meldrum, you may be sure, not very far off.
“Only six out of the dozen that left the ship!” exclaimed Mr Meldrum to the man in the stern-sheets, to whom he extended his hand to aid him in getting out of the boat. “Where are the rest of your number?”
But the emaciated wretch—who seemed to have suffered considerable bodily injury as well as want of food, for one of his arms hung down powerless at his side, and there was a broad cut across his face from some weapon—was as incapable of speech as he was apparently of moving. His lips only worked feebly, without any sound coming from them, and he stumbled and fell forwards on his face when he tried to rise by the aid of Mr Meldrum’s arm.
“Bedad, they’re in a bad way, sorr,” said Mr McCarthy sympathisingly, coming up and helping Mr Meldrum to lift the man out and place him on the beach, where he had already laid down the corpse that had been in the bows, throwing a bit of the sail over it to hide it for the time from observation. “The poor divil can’t spake, sure. I wondther which of them it wor? I’m blest if I can make him out, and I knew all the men purty well, most of them being in my own watch, by the same token.”
But just then, the stewardess saved him from puzzling over the man’s face any further.
“It’s Llewellyn, my husband!” she cried out, pushing Mr McCarthy away, and taking the almost lifeless figure he was supporting tenderly in her arms, oblivious of everything save of her natural womanly pity and love. “The poor fellow! the poor fellow!” and she burst into tears over the miserable semblance of the man, who, coward and deserter as he had proved himself to be, had yet once been dear to her as her husband.
“Ah! then he accompanied them too!” said Mr Meldrum reflectively to the first-mate, as the last man was raised from the bottom of the boat and carried as tenderly ashore as if he had been one of their own party and a loved shipmate. “So there were thirteen of them altogether, instead of twelve, as I thought! That makes seven unaccounted for. I wonder what became of them!”
“Sure and the divil only knows,” replied the first-mate laconically, “for Bill Moody, the baste, must be along o’ them, as he’s not with these here; and he was sartain to be will looked afther by the ould gintleman in black down below!”
“Hush!” said Mr Meldrum. “If he is dead, let him rest in peace!”
“Aye, aye, sort; so say I,” answered Mr McCarthy; “and may joy go with him, for he was the broth of a boy!”