Chapter Fourteen.
Captured by pirates.
Daylight increased; and as the sun, like a vast ball of fire, rose slowly above the horizon, the mist lifted as if it had been a curtain from off the surface of the water, rolling away in huge wreaths of vapour before the breeze. The wind had once more hauled round to the southward, and then away to the westward, when, beneath an arch of clouds, we saw two vessels alongside each other. One was a schooner, a fine, rakish-looking craft; the other a large brig. The latter had her royals and top-gallant-sails flying loose, her topsails were on the caps, her courses were hauled up, her yards were braced here and there; indeed, she presented a picture of most complete confusion. Her appearance would too plainly have told us that something wrong had taken place, even had we not heard the cries in the night. In vain we looked round on every side for the dinghy; she was nowhere to be seen. We examined the vessels through a spy-glass we had with us. She was not visible alongside either of them. Again and again we swept the horizon, but not a speck could we discover that might be her. “What is to be done?” exclaimed Jerry in a tone of deep grief. I too felt very sorry for fear harm had happened to Cousin Silas; nor did I forget Ben and the Sandwich islander. “Hallo! hallo! Look there! what is happening now?” Jerry added. We looked. The schooner had parted a little distance from the brig, and the latter vessel, after rolling once or twice to starboard and port, seemed to dip her bows into the sea. We gazed earnestly with a sickening feeling. Her bowsprit did not rise again. Down, down she went, slowly and calmly, as if making a voluntary plunge to the depths of the ocean. The water closed over her decks, her lower masts disappeared, her topmasts followed, and the loose sails for a moment floated above the spot where she had been, and then sank also, drawn down by the halliards beneath the waters.
We felt almost stupified with horror. Combining the shrieks we had heard and the occurrence we had just witnessed, we could have no doubt that the schooner we saw before us was a pirate, and that her crew had, after murdering those on board the brig, sunk her, to destroy, as they might hope, all traces of their guilt. They had had in us, however, witnesses of the atrocity they had committed, when they thought no human being could be cognisant of the fact. What, however, had become of Mr Brand, and Ben, and the native? Had they been on board, we should probably have acted wisely in endeavouring to get away from the pirates, as they would undoubtedly, if they could catch us, and thought that we suspected what had occurred, treat us much in the same way that they had treated the crew of the brig. Still, how could we think for a moment of running away and deserting our friends—such a man, too, as Cousin Silas, who, we felt sure, would never have deserted us while the slightest hope remained of our being alive?
For some time after the brig had sunk, the schooner appeared to take no notice whatever of us, while we continued to draw nearer and nearer to her. We had an Englishman, Mr Stone, who acted as master of the Dove, and two other natives. Stone was a simple-minded, honest man. His principle was, if he received an order from a superior, to obey it. Therefore, as Mr Brand had directed him to continue beating up to windward till he returned on board, it never occurred to him to propose running away from our suspiciously dangerous neighbour. The natives held their tongues, but did not look happy. Mr McRitchie was the most agitated. He kept walking our little deck with hurried steps. We were drawing nearer and nearer to the big schooner. Suddenly he stopped and looked at us, the tears starting into his eyes. “My dear lads,” said he, “it is very, very sad to think of, but there can be no doubt, I greatly fear, that our friend and his followers have been murdered by yonder piratical villains. If they are still alive, (and what chance is there of it?) they will certainly not be allowed to return to us. We are, therefore, only sacrificing our own lives by allowing ourselves to fall into the power of the villains. While there is time, let us escape. Captain Stone, don’t you agree with me?”
“Well, sir, I cannot but say I do,” answered the captain. “If you order me, as I consider that the craft is under your charge, we’ll keep away at once, and make all sail to the northward. I feel that we ought to have done it as soon as we made out what that craft there was.”
The doctor hesitated still—a violent struggle was going on in his mind. He passed his hand across his brow. “Yes, it must be done. Keep her away, and make all sail,” he exclaimed.
Scarcely was the helm put up, and a large square-sail of light canvas the little schooner carried hoisted, when the stranger seemed to observe our presence. We had not run on for ten minutes when her head came slowly round towards us, her square-topsails were hoisted up, her foresail was rigged out, a square-sail was set, and after us she came like a greyhound in chase of a hare.
“What chance have we, do you think, of getting away from her, Mr Stone?” said Jerry, pointing to the big schooner, which was coming up hand over hand after us.
Stone, who was at the helm, looked over his shoulder at the stranger. “Why, none whatever, Mr Frankland,” he answered, after a minute’s deliberation.