I remembered the description that Mr Butterfield had given me of the captain of the “Emu.” I thought, perhaps, that he had committed some dreadful crime, and was being thus punished for it. The only one of the crew whom I remembered, Gregory Growles, was certainly a bad specimen of humanity. Perhaps, though pretending to be honest traders, they were pirates; and even when I had obtained my liberty they would not scruple to make me walk the plank, should my presence be inconvenient. I cannot, however, describe the hundred-and-one gloomy ideas which I conjured up. How far they were from the truth time only was to show. The ship continued her eccentric proceedings with more or less violence. The tempest roared above my head. Crashing sounds still rose from the cargo which had shifted, and which it appeared to me must ere long be smashed to atoms. The worst of the matter was, that I had no one to blame but myself. Had I been seized and shut up in the hold by a savage captain, I should have felt myself like a martyr, and been able to lay my sufferings on others. When I was able to reflect more calmly on my situation, I remembered that the storm must inevitably some day or other come to an end. I had read of storms lasting a week, or even a fortnight, and sometimes longer, but if I could hold out to its termination, as by means of the biscuits and olives I might do, I hoped that I should at last effect my liberation. I must not, however, take up more time by further describing the incidents of this memorable portion of my existence.
Chapter Thirteen.
Still in the hold—Dreamland again—Chicken-pie—Return of the rats—I improve my plans for catching them—Two rats at one meal—My state of mind—“Mercy! Mercy!”—While there’s life there’s hope—I recommence my exertions to get out of the hold with some success—Purer air—My weakness returns—I recover my strength—Still no outlet—I perform my ablutions—My desire to live at all hazards returns—“Where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise”—The yarn of Toney Lawson—The evil effects of getting drunk—The “Viper”—Toney obliged to give in—Toney’s thoughts of escape—The fate of the “Viper” determines the question—Toney’s wonderful escape.
Perhaps one of the most painful circumstances connected with my imprisonment was the impossibility of calculating how the time went by.
I remember that I suddenly awoke after dreaming that I was at a jolly picnic with old friends near Roger Riddle’s cottage. That the cloth was spread with pies and tarts, a cold sirloin of beef, a dish of fowls, and a tempting ham, and that we were eating and drinking, and laughing and singing, in the merriest way possible. I had just had the breast and wing of a chicken and a slice of ham placed on my plate, and was running over to get the mustard-pot, when to my surprise it became covered with feathers, and off it flew. I was jumping up to catch hold of it, not wishing thus to lose my dinner, but instead found myself in total darkness, and gradually came to the disagreeable consciousness that I was in the hold of the “Emu,” and that I had only a few small biscuits and three olives remaining of my stock of provisions, independent of the pickles in the corner of my handkerchief.
The ship, however, was perfectly quiet. The gale must have ceased some time before, to allow the sea to go down. By putting my ears to the planks I could catch the sound of a gentle ripple as she glided along, but no other noise was to be heard. The bulkheads had ceased to creak, the masts to complain, the cargo to crash, and all was perfectly quiet overhead.
My hunger showed me that I must have been a long time asleep, and I could not resist the temptation of eating the remainder of my biscuits and olives. I had thus only the pickles to exist on, unless I could catch some rats with which to eat them. I took a draught of water, and then sat down to consider the plans I had before thought of to trap my game.
One occurred to me as the most feasible. Though I could not see I could feel, and my idea was to form a bag with a piece of the canvas, and give it a small mouth so contrived that I could close it suddenly with a string. Among the articles in my pocket was a stock of string of various thicknesses; I found on measuring it that I had not only sufficient to make the bag, but enough to gather in the mouth with an additional piece to hold in my hand. My gimlet would serve as an awl or sailmaker’s needle, though not an efficient substitute. I had been so long accustomed to the darkness that I fancied I could pass the string through the holes I had made without difficulty. My hunger was an incentive to perseverance.