Chapter Twenty Eight.
Katrine lay dazed and senseless, a huddled mass in a corner of the boat, mercifully oblivious of the perilous lowering down the great hull of the ship, of the gradual leaving behind of all that was most dear. The climax of emotion through which she had passed, had exhausted for the time being all power of sensation. While not actually unconscious, her mind was torpid. Nothing mattered, her very powers of fear were at an end. What was past, was past, what would come, would come; nothing mattered the cast of a die!
In the boat were women, dazed like herself, others again weeping and lamenting; others, like Mrs Mannering, composed and brisk, showing at their best, when those from whom more might have been expected proved broken reeds.
It was all dream-like and unreal. Tossed on the waves in the crowded boat, the great hull of the ship looked a rampart of strength. To have left that stronghold to toss in this cockleshell—the dazed brain marvelled feebly at such inconsistency. High on the deck a confused mass of people moved to and fro, but their faces were indistinguishable, and soon vanished from sight. The sounds of a voice shouting peremptory orders mingled with the dashing of the waves, but soon that also became inaudible, as the boat floated farther and farther away.
Katrine sat motionless, oblivious of all that was happening around. The hood of her coat had fallen back from her head and her bleached face had a fixed, almost terrible beauty. Nancy Mannering glanced at her anxiously from time to time, and finally shook her strongly by the arm.
“Now! Brace up, Katrine!” cried the strong voice, “brace up! It don’t matter much what happens to you and to me, my dear. We are just women—unattached women at that—there are too many of our sort knocking around, but here’s some one here who does count—a little man for you to cuddle and protect! Heaven knows the kind he’ll grow up; he’ll be none the worse, any way, for remembering this night, and who knows! some woman may fare the better for your pains. Here, sonny! stop that row. Come to the pretty lady. She’ll nurse you, and tell you tales.”
A sturdy weight was deposited on Katrine’s lap; in the dim light she recognised the features of her former enemy, the redoubtable Jackey, all drawn and wet with tears. Separated from his father, overcome by the hopeless terror of childhood, he had lost his braggart airs, and appeared just a pitiful baby thing, longing to be kissed and held. His wet face nozzled into Katrine’s breast, his little legs in the ridiculous knickerbockers dangled limply over her knees, and the sight, the touch, awoke her to life. She gathered the child in her arms and crooned over him, and Jackey wreathed her neck with his arms, and pressed wet kisses on her cheek! Presently, gathering confidence, he began to question after the manner of childhood.
“How soon shall we be drowned? How much does it hurt to be drowned? As much as a tooth? Will the water be cold? Would it be brave to scream? Will you hold me tight, so that I can’t leave go? Must we say our prayers before we’re drowned?”
“We are not going to be drowned, I hope, Jackey. By-and-bye a big boat will come along and take us up, but you can say your prayers all the same. Pray for your father on our own big ship, and, and—”