I told the mate. “Why, I did so not twenty minutes ago,” he answered. “What does the old man want us to do it again for?”
“The captain knows this coast well, Mr Kydd,” I answered. “We may be thankful to get an anchor to hold as soon as we get into shallow water.”
Seeing the mate did not seem disposed to obey, I took the lead, and calling to two of the hands, prepared to heave it.
“No, no,” observed Kydd, “that is my work;” and taking the lead from me, hove it carelessly. “No bottom,” he answered; “I should think not, indeed, out here.”
It appeared to me that as the line ran out the whole length, he could not be mistaken. Returning to the cabin, I made my report to the captain. “Andrew,” he said, “sit down; I want to have a few words with you. I am going to that haven whence I shall never come back. I feel that I shall not hold on much longer to life. I have not been a successful man, and leave my boy but ill-provided for. As to my friends, there are none that I can think of who are able to help him; and the few acquaintances I have who could do so, I cannot trust. The thought of what will become of my orphan boy weighs heavily on me. Andrew, you are young and healthy, and may Heaven preserve your life for many years! I have no great claim on you, but Andrew, as you hope Heaven will watch over you, do you keep an eye on my boy. Do for him the best you can. I have seen enough of you to know that you will act wisely and kindly. I do not desire to have him pampered and spoiled by riches, if I could give them, but I cannot bear the thought of his being left friendless and in poverty to fight his way through this often hard and cruel world. You will see to this, Andrew? I am sure you will.”
“I will, Captain Page; I promise you,” I answered, and I took his cold clammy hand.
Poor Natty was all this time sobbing violently. The truth that he was going to lose his father burst upon him, and that father had ever been kind and indulgent.
“That is well, that is well,” murmured Captain Page. “I trust to you to be his human protector, and to One”—and he turned his eyes upward—“who will ever be a Friend of the fatherless.”
The captain said a good deal more, and made various arrangements about Natty. Desiring me to get some papers from his desk, he showed me how I could obtain the little property he was likely to leave.
“I wish I could see the brig safely brought to an anchor,” he observed after a long silence. “It is a nasty coast at best. With a breeze we could work off it, but while this calm lasts we cannot help ourselves from being carried wherever the current takes us, till we get into water shoal enough for anchoring. I shall be happier when once we can bring up, for if we do not, we may, when we little expect it, be driven on shore; and let me tell you, Andrew, what with the surf and the sharks, few of us are likely to escape with our lives. I know this coast well, and a sandy beach, exposed to the whole sweep of the Atlantic, is even more dangerous than a rocky shore. It must be time again to heave the lead. Go on deck, Andrew, and see how things are.”