Words cannot well express the astonishment that those on the whaleback felt at finding the castaways aboard the Silver Swan—or at finding the brig itself. For the past twelve hours they had all believed that the derelict was a victim of Uncle Sam’s feverish impatience to destroy all obstructions to commerce in his ocean.
Upon figuring the whole matter up, it was pretty evident that it was the Success which the naval ensign had exploded, for she had been sunk at the stern sufficiently to cover her name, and had been so battered by the waves that the lettering on the bow was also probably unreadable.
After believing, as they did, that the Swan was sunk and all her treasures with her, the whaleback had sailed about in circles, seeking the wreck of the Success, on which they believed Brandon and his two companions to be.
It was only by providential fortune that the brig had finally been sighted, and the whaleback had steamed up just in time to wrest the Silver Swan from Messrs. Leroyd and Weeks.
Swivel was taken aboard the steamer and carefully examined by Lawrence Coffin, who was no mean surgeon, and he pronounced the youth as seriously, if not dangerously, injured. He had burst a blood vessel and had sustained other internal injuries, and would probably be unfit for work of any kind for a long time.
“Best place for him is the Marine Hospital,” declared Mr. Coffin to Brandon and Caleb that night in the steamer’s cabin.
“Hospital nothin’!” exclaimed Caleb, with conviction. “The hospital is all right for them as hain’t go no homes—like as I hadn’t, nor no friends—a good deal as I was—nor nothing; but that boy ain’t goin’ to lack a shelter as long as I’m alive.”
“Best not take him on a sea voyage just yet, Mr. Wetherbee,” responded Mr. Coffin seriously.
“I don’t intend to. He’s goin’ ter live with me, though.”
“But won’t you sail the Silver Swan?” asked the first officer. “She’s as good as new and she’s yours, too, I understand.”