When the Sea Gives Up Its Dead: A Thrilling Detective Story

by Mrs. George Corbett

Hilton smiled his sudden comprehension, and eagerly bent his eyes upon the chart. The captain, seeing that his purpose was likely to be understood, pointed first to Hilton, then to the chart, in effect asking him to give as much information as he could. Very soon Hilton put his finger on London and looked at the captain, who nodded comprehension. Then he slowly traced the course of the “Merry Maid” on the chart until nearly abreast Lisbon, when he stopped, feigned to go to sleep; to strike his head with his eyes shut; to awake struggling in the water; to withdraw a tube from his waistcoat pocket; and to inflate by its means a concealed life-saving garment. The captain thoroughly understood this pantomime, and clenched his fist in anger at those who had perpetrated so dastardly a deed. Then, once more pointing questioningly to the chart, he gave Hilton to understand that he wished to know whither the “Merry Maid” was bound, whereupon the remainder of the route to Malta was traced out for him. After this, being mutely questioned in his turn, Pereiro made a start at Lisbon, Hilton following his movements with breathless attention. Stopping near the spot indicated by the latter, he gave a sharp cry, tossed his arms as if struggling in the water, made a pantomimic rescue, and then began to rub himself vigorously, and to pump his arms up and down to show that artificial respiration had been resorted to. Hilton squeezed his hands gratefully, and murmured words of thanks, of which Pereiro had no difficulty in grasping the import, although they were uttered in a tongue of which he knew nothing but that it was English. After this, anxiously watched, he slowly traced a course which filled Hilton’s heart with dismay, for he never stopped until he had rounded Cape Horn, and followed what seemed to his companion to be an interminable coastline.

Finally, he stopped at Callao, and was astounded to see that his information was received with every symptom of distress. For a time, Hilton knew not what to do, for he felt stunned. To go all that distance, and in a sailing vessel, too, was equivalent to being dead to friends and foes alike for many months. Moreover, he was rendered utterly useless, and could do nothing but fret and worry at the trouble which would be felt at home on his own account.

“My mother will wonder why she does not hear from me. Those scoundrels will forge some plausible tale to account for my disappearance, and poor Harley will be doomed to undergo the whole of his horrible sentence in prison, if, indeed, he lives so long. Between grief for Harley, and grief for me, my poor mother will fret herself into the grave. And poor Annie! My God! how everything is playing into the hands of those villains! It seems unbelievable—and there is that bottle of papers I threw overboard, too. Perhaps that will soon disclose the true state of affairs, and Harley’s liberation may be effected without any further help from me.”

Could he have foreseen the fate of the papers he had prepared so carefully, his distress of mind would have been much greater than it was. Fortunately, this knowledge was denied him, but he already suffered enough to cause him to have a relapse, and for some time his condition gave great anxiety to his nurses.

After many days he was sufficiently convalescent to come on deck, and after that his physical progress was rapid. As he recovered his wonted strength and vigour, the admiration of those around him increased considerably. Some of them—indeed, all—used as they were to swarthy skins, and dusky locks, looked upon his smart, upright physique, his clear, fair skin, just relieved from effeminacy by being slightly tanned, his finely-cut features, his wavy, flaxen hair, his expressive grey eyes, and his small hands and feet, as the perfection of all that was gallant and beautiful in man. By-and-bye they also began to admire him for other than his physical qualities. For he was not disposed to be the idle and ungrateful recipient of bounty, but lost no opportunity of doing a service to his deliverers.

Ships are never overmanned. There is always room for the help of another hand or two. And even then, in squally weather, it taxes everybody’s energies to keep pace with the exigencies of the hour. Thus, it often happened that Hilton proved himself invaluable, and though Captain Pereiro, with whom he was fast learning to converse in broken Portuguese, remonstrated with him for working so hard, he could not renounce any part of the active life he was now leading. For it served to save him from the despondency which he could not otherwise have resisted.

Nevertheless, he counted the months, the weeks, the days that must elapse ere he could obtain any news of what was transpiring at home, and every spell of adverse weather caused him acute anguish, since it lengthened the time during which he would have to remain inactive. But as all things come to those that wait, even so did the last day of his voyage dawn on Hilton Riddell, and it was with curiously mingled emotions that he once more found himself ashore. True, it was in a strange country, among a strange people, and thousands of miles away from the place in which he was anxious to find himself.

But it was, at any rate, a civilised country, to which English news might penetrate, and he was not without a faint hope that he might come across an English paper containing some account of progress made on Harley’s behalf. How fallacious this hope was will be apparent to the reader, but one has to picture oneself in his destitute, lonely, and desperate condition, to realise to what mere straws of comfort one can cling for consolation. The “Halcyon” would be some weeks before it would be ready to leave Callao, and Captain Pereiro, who by this time knew a great deal of the Englishman’s story, very generously urged him to make it his home until he could get himself transported back to England.

Being without money, and possessing no credit with anyone here, Hilton took the only course open to him under the circumstances, unless he had been willing to seek work, and remain here long enough to save money for his passage. This he could not do, as he deemed his speedy presence in England imperative, in Harley’s interests. He therefore went to the British Consul, and represented himself as a seafarer, who had been washed overboard in a squall. His reason for being thus uncommunicative concerning what really occurred was that he feared that any report should reach England through the Consulate, and find its way into the English papers before he could arrive himself. He was fully alive to the fact that news of his safety would be gladly welcomed by his mother and friends. But he also knew that if his enemies were to suspect him to be in the land of the living, they would be on their guard, and would, perhaps, succeed once more in baulking him of the prey he meant to run to earth, in spite of what appeared to be a malignantly adverse fate.

“The bitterness of my loss is past,” he said. “My people already mourn me dead, and my enemies triumph over my removal from their path. I will awaken neither the hopes of the one nor the fears of the other until the right moment for striking arrives. My blow will then be more deadly and sure, and I shall be able to work with much more freedom if my continued existence is unsuspected.”