“Hold on, until the ship breaks up!” cried Lord Reginald. “We may have a chance of getting on shore in the morning.”
Though he gave this advice, he had little hope of its being followed. Sea after sea continued to dash against the ship, and he feared, from the cries which reached him, that many of his men were being torn from their hold and carried away. He could just distinguish Voules and Lucas clinging to the bulwarks a short distance from him. Now he cast his eyes on the dark shore with a line of foaming breakers between him and it. Then he looked seawards, and as he looked he saw an enormous black wave advancing, higher, it seemed to him, than any of its predecessors. On it came, and struck the ship, with a blow resounding louder than the loudest thunder. The centre of the ship seemed to melt away with part of the poop, carrying off several who had been clinging to it. No one could render help to another. It was each man for himself. He saw a figure, which he knew to be young Lucas, caught by the sea and whirled round and round. Voules still remained, holding on to the bulwarks. Then another sea came; he felt the poop breaking up beneath his feet. In another instant he found himself among the foaming breakers, surrounded by masses of wreck. He sank, but again coming to the surface, clutched a piece of timber. It was of too small a size to float him. He was rolled over and over, until compelled to let go. As he did so he saw close to him a large beam, with a bolt projecting from one end. Grasping the bolt, he got astride of the beam, being thus enabled to keep his body above the water, though he ran a risk of having his legs injured by the heavy pieces of wood dashing about on all sides. In vain he shouted, to ascertain if Voules or Lucas were near him. The only objects he could distinguish were the masses of dark timber amid the white, foaming breakers, and the outline of the rocky shore. It seemed even then doubtful whether he should ever reach that shore. Once, indeed, he fancied that he saw a human form clinging to a spar at no great distance from him, but unable to direct the movements of the piece of timber on which he floated, he could render no assistance to the hapless person, who returned no answer to his shouts. His own fate seemed uncertain. Should the timber be dashed against the rocks, he would in all probability be ground to pieces before he could escape, but on looking towards the land, he fancied that he could make out a sandy beach. He prayed that the timber to which he clung might be directed to it. Still, as he heard the fearful roar of the breakers, and watched the masses of foam which swept towards the shore, he felt the uncertainty that he should ever reach it. Several times he was nearly torn from his hold by the masses of wreck driven against him. His strength was decreasing. Another sea came rolling on, it might wash him from his hold. He clung to the bolt with all his might, and almost the next moment he felt his feet touch the ground. At first he was afraid of letting go. The second time he put down his feet he trod on the sand. Fearful that the beam which had carried him in safety might roll over and crush him, he let go, and making a last effort, struggled upwards. The foaming seas washed round his legs, and threatened to carry him back, but on he struggled, gasping for breath until the dry ground was reached, and then, by one strenuous effort, getting out of the reach of the water, his strength giving way, he sank to the ground, utterly exhausted.
Chapter Eleven.
Death of Voules—All lost—Despair of Lord Reginald—Neptune—Water found—A mournful duty—Burying the drowned—Remorse—The rival Crusoes—The last of poor Ben—Stone throwing—Nothing but clams—Neptune and the pigeon—The body of Lucas discovered—Good intentions—An angry meeting—Neptune’s dislike to shell-fish—A perilous swim—Looking over the island—Another stormy encounter—Labour in vain—Pride against reason—Bow-making—Nep finds a treasure.
Lord Reginald lay for some minutes on the beach utterly exhausted, but not senseless. He recollected vividly all that had occurred. So battered and bruised did he feel, it seemed to him that he had only escaped from drowning to die a more lingering death on the barren shore, or to be massacred by the savage inhabitants of the island on which he had been cast.
“Is it my fate alone to have escaped among all the stout fellows who manned the ship?” he at length asked himself. “Perhaps even now some are struggling in the waves, and as I have been carried in safety to the shore, I ought to try and help them.”
This thought made him attempt to rise, and he found that he could do so with less difficulty than he had supposed possible. The wind had begun to fall almost directly after the ship had struck, but still the seas rolled in as heavily as before. He knew, weak as he was, should he venture into their power, that he might be lifted off his feet and carried away in their cruel embrace. On looking around he saw a mass of broken spars, torn canvas, and running rigging thrown up within his reach. On examining it he found that he could unreeve some of the rope. He set energetically to work.
By using a knife which he fortunately had in his pocket, he was able to cut off several lengths, which, knotting together, formed a long rope. Taking three spars he forced them with all his might, in the form of a triangle, into the sand, and secured one end of the rope to the spar nearest the sea, while the other end he fastened round his waist. This done he was able to advance further into the water than he would otherwise have ventured to do.