One afternoon, about three weeks after the Red Eric had been wrecked on the sandbank, Captain Dunning went out on the point of rocks, and took up his accustomed position there. Habit had now caused him to go to the point with as much regularity as a sentinel. But on the present occasion anxiety was more deeply marked on his countenance than usual, for dark, threatening clouds were seen accumulating on the horizon, an unnatural stillness prevailed in the hot atmosphere and on the glassy sea, and everything gave indication of an approaching storm.
While he sat on a low rock, with his elbows on his knees, and his chin resting in his hands, he felt a light touch on his shoulder, and looking round, found Ailie standing by his side. Catching her in his arms, he pressed her fervently to his heart, and for the first time spoke to her in discouraging tones.
“My own darling,” said he, parting the hair from her forehead, and gazing at the child with an expression of the deepest sadness, “I fear we shall never quit this dreary spot.”
Ailie looked timidly in her father’s face, for his agitated manner, more than his words, alarmed her.
“Won’t we leave it, dear papa,” said she, “to go up yonder?” and she pointed to a gathering mass of clouds overhead, which, although heavy with dark shadows, had still a few bright, sunny points of resemblance to the fairy realms in which she delighted to wander in her daydreams.
The captain made no reply; but, shutting his eyes, and drawing Ailie close to his side, he uttered a long and fervent prayer to God for deliverance, if He should see fit, or for grace to endure with Christian resignation and fortitude whatever He pleased to send upon them.
When he concluded, and again looked up, Dr Hopley was standing beside them, with his head bowed upon his breast.
“I fear, doctor,” said the captain, “that I have broken my resolution not to alarm my dear Ailie by word or look. Yet why should I conceal from her the danger of our position? Her prayers for help ought to ascend, as well as ours, to Him who alone can deliver us from evil at any time, but who makes us to feel, as well as know, the fact at such times as these.”
“But I am not afraid, papa,” said Ailie quickly. “I’m never afraid when you are by me; and I’ve known we were in danger all along, for I’ve heard everybody talking about it often and often, and I’ve always prayed for deliverance, and surely it must come; for has not Jesus said if we ask anything in His name He will give it to us?”
“True, darling; but He means only such things as will do us good.”
“Of course, papa, if I asked for a bad thing, I would not expect Him to give me that.”
“Deliverance from death,” said the doctor, “is a good thing, yet we cannot be sure that God will grant our prayer for that.”
“There are worse things than death, doctor,” replied the captain; “it may be sometimes better for men to die than to live. It seems to me that we ought to use the words, ‘if it please the Lord,’ more frequently than we do in prayer. Deliverance from sin needs no such ‘if,’ but deliverance from death does.”
At this point the conversation was interrupted by Tim Rokens, who came up to the captain, and said respectfully—
“If ye please, sir, it ’ud be as well if ye wos to speak to the men; there’s somethin’ like mutiny a-goin’ on, I fear.”
“Mutiny! why, what about?”
“It’s about the spirits. Some on ’em says as how they wants to enjoy theirselves here as much as they can, for they won’t have much chance o’ doin’ so ashore any more. It’s my belief that fellow Tarquin’s at the bottom o’t.”
“There’s not much spirits aboard the wreck to fight about,” said the captain, somewhat bitterly, as they all rose, and hurried towards the hut. “I only brought a supply for medicine; but it must not be touched, however little there is.”
When the captain came up, he found the space in front of their rude dwelling a scene of contention and angry dispute that bade fair to end in a fight. Tarquin was standing before the first mate, with his knife drawn, and using violent language and gesticulations towards him, while the latter stood by the raft, grasping a handspike, with which he threatened to knock the steward down if he set foot on it. The men were grouped round them, some with looks that implied a desire to side with Tarquin, while others muttered “Shame!”
“Shame!” cried Tarquin, looking fiercely round on his shipmates, “who cried shame? We’re pretty sure all on us to be starved to death on this reef; and it’s my opinion, that since we haven’t got to live long, we should try to enjoy ourselves as much as we can. There’s not much spirits aboard, more’s the pity; but what there is I shall have. So again I say, who cried ‘Shame?’”
“I did,” said Glynn Proctor, stepping quickly forward; “and I invite all who think with me to back me up.”
“Here ye are, me boy,” said Phil Briant, starting forward, and baring his brawny arms, as was his invariable custom in such circumstances. “It’s meself as’ll stick by ye, lad, av the whole crew should go with that half-caste crokidile.”
Gurney and Dick Barnes immediately sided with Glynn also, but Jim Scroggles and Nikel Sling, and, to the surprise of every one, Markham, the second mate, sided with the steward. As the opposing parties glanced at each other, Glynn observed that, although his side was superior in numbers, some of the largest and most powerful men of the crew were among his opponents, and he felt that a conflict between such men must inevitably be serious. Matters had almost come to a crisis when Dr Hopley and the captain approached the scene of action. The latter saw at a glance the state of affairs, and stepping up to the steward, ordered him at once into the hut.
Tarquin seemed to waver for a moment under the stern gaze of his commander; but he suddenly swore a terrible oath, and said that he would not obey.
“You’re no longer in command of us,” he said gruffly, “now that you have lost your ship. Every man may do what he pleases.”
“May he?” replied the captain; “then it pleases me to do that!” and, launching out his clenched right hand with all his might, he hit the steward therewith right between the eyes.
Tarquin went down as if he had been shot, and lay stunned and at full length upon the sand.
“Now, my lads,” cried the captain, turning towards the men, “what he said just now is so far right. Having lost my ship, I am no longer entitled to command you; but my command does not cease unless a majority of you choose that it should. Tarquin has taken upon himself to decide the question, without asking your opinion, which amounts to mutiny, and mutiny, under the circumstances in which we are placed, requires to be promptly dealt with. I feel it right to say this, because I am a man of peace, as you well know, and do not approve of a too ready appeal to the fists for the settlement of a dispute.”
“Ah, then, more’s the pity!” interrupted Briant, “for ye use them oncommon well.”
A suppressed laugh followed this remark.
“Silence, men, this is no time for jesting. One of our shipmates has, not long since, been taken suddenly from us; it may be that we shall all of us be called into the presence of our Maker before many days pass over us. We have much to do that will require to be done promptly and well, if we would hope to be delivered at all, and the question must be decided now whether I am to command you, or every one is to do what he pleases.”
“I votes for Cap’en Dunning,” exclaimed Gurney.
“So does I,” cried Jim Scroggles; who, being somewhat weather-cockish in his nature, turned always with wonderful facility to the winning side.
“Three cheers for the cap’en,” cried Dick Barnes, suiting the action to the word.
Almost every voice joined in the vociferous cheer with which this proposal was received.
“An’ wan more for Miss Ailie,” shouted Phil Briant.
Even Jacko lent his voice to the tremendous cheer that followed, for Briant in his energy chanced to tread on that creature’s unfortunate tail, which always seemed to be in his own way as well as in that of every one else, and the shriek that he uttered rang high above the laughter into which the cheer degenerated, as some one cried, “Ah, Pat, trust you, my boy, for rememberin’ the ladies!”
Order having been thus happily restored, and Captain Dunning having announced that the late attempt at mutiny should thenceforth be buried in total oblivion, a council was called, in order to consider seriously their present circumstances, and to devise, if possible, some means of escape.
“My lads,” said the captain, when they were all assembled, “I’ve been ponderin’ over matters ever since we were cast away on this bank, an’ I’ve at last come to the conclusion that our only chance of gettin’ away is to build a small boat and fit her out for a long voyage. I need not tell you that this chance is a poor one—well-nigh a forlorn hope. Had it been better I would have spoken before now, and began the work sooner; but I have lived from day to day in the hope of a ship heaving in sight. This is a vain hope. We are far out of the usual track of all ships here. None come this way, except such as may chance to be blown out of their course, as we were; and even if one did come within sight, it’s ten chances to one that we should fail to attract attention on such a low bank as this.
“I’ve had several reliable observations of late, and I find that we are upwards of two thousand miles from the nearest known land, which is the Cape of Good Hope. I propose, therefore, that we should strip off as much of the planking of the wreck as will suit our purpose, get the carpenter’s chest landed, and commence work at once. Now, what say you? If anyone has a better plan to suggest, I’ll be only to glad to adopt it, for such a voyage in so slim a craft as we can build here will be one necessarily replete with danger.”
“I’ll tell ye wot it is, cap’en,” said Tim Rokens, rising up, taking off his cap, and clearing his throat, as if he were about to make a studied oration. “We’ve not none on us got no suggestions to make wotsomdiver. You’ve only got to give the word and we’ll go to work; an’ the sooner you does so the better, for it’s my b’lief we’ll have a gale afore long that’ll pretty well stop work altogether as long as it lasts.”
The indications in the sky gave such ample testimony to the justness of Rokens’ observations that no more time was wasted in discussion. Dick Barnes, who acted the part of ship’s carpenter when not otherwise engaged, went out to the wreck on the raft, with a party of men under command of Mr Millons, to fetch planking and the necessary material for the construction of a boat, while the remainder of the crew, under the captain’s superintendence, prepared a place near Fairyland for laying the keel.
This spot was selected partly on account of the convenient formation of the shore for the launching of the boat when finished, and partly because that would be the lee side of the rocky point when the coming storm should burst. For the latter reason the hut was removed to Fairyland, and poor Ailie had the mortification in a few hours of seeing her little paradise converted into an unsightly wreck of confusion. Alas! how often this is the case in human affairs of greater moment; showing the folly of setting our hearts on the things of earth. It seems at first sight a hard passage, that, in the Word of God. “What?” the enthusiastic but thoughtless are ready to exclaim, “not love the world! the bright, beautiful world that was made by God to be enjoyed? Not love our fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, wives? not give our warmest affections to all these?” Truly, ye hasty ones, if you would but earnestly consider it, you would find that God not only permits, but requires us to love all that is good and beautiful here, as much as we will, as much as we can; but we ought to love Himself more. If this be our happy condition, then our hearts are not “set on the world”; on the contrary, they are set free to love the world and all that is lovable in it—of which there is very, very much—more, probably than the best of men suppose. Else, wherefore does the Father love it and care for it so tenderly?
But Ailie had not set her heart on her possessions on the sandbank. She felt deep regret for a time, it is true, and in feeling thus she indulged a right and natural impulse, but that impulse did not lead to the sin of murmuring. Her sorrow soon passed away, and she found herself as cheerful and happy afterwards in preparing for her long, long voyage as ever she had been in watching the gambols of her fish, or in admiring the lovely hues of the weeds and coral rocks in the limpid pools of Fairyland.
It was a fortunate circumstance that Captain Dunning set about the preparations for building the boat that afternoon, for the storm burst upon them sooner than had been expected, and long before all the requisite stores and materials had been rafted from the wreck.
The most important things, however, had been procured—such as the carpenter’s chest, a large quantity of planking, oakum, and cordage, and several pieces of sail cloth, with the requisite thread and needles for making boat sails. Still, much was wanting when the increasing violence of the wind compelled them to leave off work.
Some of the men were now ordered to set about securing such materials as had been collected, while others busied themselves in fixing ropes to the hut and rolling huge masses of coral rock against its fragile walls to steady it.
“Av ye plaze, sir,” said Briant to the Captain, wiping his forehead as he approached with a lump of tarry canvas which he used in default of a better pocket-handkerchief, “av ye plaze, sir, wot’ll I do now?”
“Do something useful, lad, whatever you do,” said the captain, looking up from the hole which he was busily engaged in digging for the reception of a post to steady the hut. “There’s lots of work; you can please yourself as to choice.”
“Then I comed fur to suggist that the purvisions and things a-top o’ the sandbank isn’t quite so safe as they might be.”
“True, Briant; I was just thinking of that as you came up. Go and see you make a tight job of it. Get Rokens to help you.”
Briant hurried off, and calling his friend, walked with him to the top of the sandbank, leaning heavily against the gale, and staggering as they went. The blast now whistled so that they could scarcely hear each other talk.
“We’ll be blowed right into the sea,” shouted Tim, as the two reached a pile of casks and cases.
“Sure, that’s me own belaif entirely,” roared his companion.
“What d’ye say to dig a hole and stick the things in it?” yelled Rokens.
“We’re not fit,” screamed Phil.
“Let’s try,” shrieked the other.
To this Briant replied by falling on his knees on the lee side of the goods, and digging with his hands in the sand most furiously. Tim Rokens followed his example, and the two worked like a couple of sea-moles (if such creatures exist) until a hole capable of holding several casks was formed. Into this they stowed all the biscuit casks and a few other articles, and covered them up with sand. The remainder they covered with tarpaulin, and threw sand and stones above it until the heap was almost buried out of sight. This accomplished, they staggered back to the hut as fast as they could.
Here they found everything snugly secured, and as the rocks effectually sheltered the spot from the gale, with the exception of an occasional eddying blast that drove the sand in their faces, they felt comparatively comfortable. Lighting their pipes, they sat down among their comrades to await the termination of the storm.
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