The cutter was a fast sailer, and although the pirate schooner had left Sandy Cove nearly two days before her, the Wasp, having had a fair wind, followed close on her heels. The Avenger cast anchor in the harbour of the Isle of Palms on the morning of her fifth day out; the Wasp sighted the island on the evening of the same day.
It was not Gascoyne’s purpose to run down at once and have a hand to hand fight with his own men. He felt that his party was too weak for such an attempt, and resolved to accomplish by stratagem what he could not hope to compass by force. He therefore hove-to the instant the tops of the palm-trees appeared on the horizon, and waited till night should set in and favour his designs.
“What do you intend to do?” inquired Henry Stuart, who stood on the deck watching the sun as it sank into the ocean behind a mass of golden clouds, in which, however, there were some symptoms of stormy weather.
“I mean to wait till it is dark,” said Gascoyne, “and then run down and take possession of the schooner.”
Henry looked at the pirate captain in surprise, and not without distrust. Ole Thorwald, who was smoking his big German pipe with great energy, looked at him with undisguised uneasiness.
“You speak as if you had no doubt whatever of succeeding in this enterprise, Mr Gascoyne,” said the latter.
“I have no doubt,” replied Gascoyne.
“I do believe you’re right,” returned Thorwald, smoking furiously as he became more agitated. “I make no question but your villains will receive you with open arms. What guarantee have we, Mister Gascoyne, or Mister Durward, that we shall not be seized and made to walk the plank, or perform some similarly fantastic feat—in which, mayhap, our feet will have less to do with the performance than our necks—when you get into power?”
“You have no guarantee whatever,” returned Gascoyne, “except the word of a pirate!”
“You say truth,” cried Ole, springing up and pacing the deck with unwonted energy, while a troubled and somewhat fierce expression settled on his usually good-humoured countenance. “You say truth, and I think we have been ill-advised when we took this step—for my part, I regard myself as little better than a maniac for putting myself obstinately, not to say deliberately, into the very jaws of a lion, perhaps I should say a tiger. But mark my words, Gascoyne, alias Durward,” (here he stopped suddenly before the pirate, who was leaning in a careless attitude against the mast, and looked him full in the face,) “if you play us false, as I have no hesitation in saying I believe that you fully intend to do, your life will not be worth a pewter shilling.”
“I am yet in your power, Mr Thorwald,” said Gascoyne; “if your friends agree to it, I cannot prevent your putting about and returning to Sandy Cove. But in that case the missionary’s child will be lost!”
“I do not believe that my child’s safety is so entirely dependent on you,” said Mr Mason, who had listened in silence to the foregoing dialogue; “she is in the hands of that God on whom you have turned your back, and with whom all things are possible. But I feel disposed to trust you, Gascoyne, and I feel thus, because of what was said of you by Mrs Stuart, in whose good sense I place implicit confidence. I would advise Mr Thorwald to wait patiently until he sees more cause than he does at present for distrust.”
Gascoyne had turned round and, during the greater part of this speech, had gazed intently towards the horizon.
“We shall have rough weather to-night,” said he; “but our work will be done before it comes, I hope. Up with the helm now, Henry, and slack off the sheets; it is dark enough to allow us to creep in without being observed. Manton will of course be in the only harbour in the island; we must therefore go round to the other side and take the risk of running on the reefs.”
“Risk!” exclaimed Henry; “I thought you knew all the passages about the island?”
“So I do, lad—all the passages; but I don’t profess to know every rock and reef in the bottom of the sea. Our only chance is to make the island on the south side, where there are no passages at all except one that leads into a bay; but if we run into that, our masts will be seen against the southern sky, even from the harbour where the schooner lies. If we are seen, they will be prepared for us, in which case we shall have a desperate fight with little chance of success and the certainty of much bloodshed. We must therefore run straight for another part of the shore, not far from the bay I have referred to, and take our chance of striking. I think there is enough of water to float this little cutter over the reefs, but I am not sure.”
“Think! sure!” echoed Thorwald, in a tone of exasperated surprise; “and if we do strike, Mr Gascoyne, do you mean us to go beg for mercy at the hands of your men, or to swim back to Sandy Cove?”
“If we strike I shall take the boat, land with the men, and leave the cutter to her fate. The Avenger will suffice to take us back to Sandy Cove.”
Ole was rendered speechless by the coolness of this remark, so he relieved himself by tightening his belt and spouting forth volcanoes of smoke.
Meanwhile, the cutter had run to within a short distance of the island. The night was rendered doubly dark by the rapid spreading of those heavy clouds which indicated the approach of a squall, if not a storm.
“This is well,” said Gascoyne in a low tone to Henry Stuart, who stood near him; “the worse the storm is to-night the better for the success of our enterprise. Henry, lad, I’m sorry you think so badly of me.”
Henry was taken aback by this unexpected remark, which was made in a low sad tone.
“Can I think too badly of one who confesses himself to be a pirate?” said Henry.
“The confession is at least in my favour. I had no occasion to confess, nor to give myself up to you.”
“Give yourself up! It remains to be seen whether you mean to do that or not.”
“Do you not believe me, Henry? Do you not believe the account that I gave of myself to you and your mother?”
“How can I?” said the young man, hesitatingly.
“Your mother believed me.”
“Well, Gascoyne, to tell you the plain truth, I do feel more than half inclined to believe you; and I’m sorry for you—I am, from my soul. You might have led a different life—you might even do so yet.”
“You forget,” said Gascoyne, smiling sadly, “I have given myself up, and you are bound to prevent my escaping.”
Henry was perplexed by this reply. In the enthusiasm of his awakened pity he had for a moment forgotten the pirate in the penitent. Before he could reply, however, the cutter struck violently on a rock, and an exclamation of alarm and surprise burst from the crew, most of whom were assembled on deck.
“Silence!” cried Gascoyne in a deep sonorous tone, that was wonderfully different from that in which he had just been speaking to Henry; “get out the boat. Arm yourselves and jump in. There is no time to lose.”
“The cutter is hard and fast,” said Henry; “if this squall does not come on, or if it turns out to be a light one, we may get her off.”
“Perhaps we may, but I have little hope of that,” returned Gascoyne. “Now, lads, are you all in the boat? Come, Henry, get in at once.”
“I will remain here,” said Henry.
“For what end?” said Gascoyne, in surprise.
“The cutter belongs to a friend; I do not chose to forsake her in this off-hand manner.”
“But nothing can save her, Henry.”
“Perhaps not. Nevertheless, I will do what I can. She moves a little. If she is lifted over this reef while we are on shore, she will be carried out to sea and lost, and that must not be allowed. Leave me here till you land the men, and then send the boat back with two of them. We will put some of the cutter’s ballast into it and try to tow her off. It won’t take half-an-hour, and that will not interfere with your plans, I should think, for the whole night lies before us.”
Seeing that he was determined, Gascoyne agreed, and left the cutter, promising to send off the boat directly. But it took half-an-hour to row from the Wasp to the shore, and before the half of that time had elapsed, the storm which had been impending burst over the island.
It was much more violent than had been expected. The cutter was lifted over the reef by the first wave, and struck heavily as she slid into deep water. Then she rushed out to sea before the gale. Henry seized the helm and kept the little vessel right before the wind. He knew nothing of the sea around, and the intense darkness of the night prevented his seeing more than a dozen yards beyond the bow.
It was perhaps as well that he was kept in ignorance of what awaited him, for he was thus spared at least the anticipation of what appeared certain destruction. He fancied that the rock over which he had been carried was the outer reef of the island. In this he was mistaken. The whole sea around and beyond him was beset with reefs, which at that moment were covered with foam. Had daylight revealed the scene, he would have been appalled. As it was, he stood stoutly and hopefully to the helm while the cutter rushed wildly on her doom.
Suddenly she struck with terrific violence, and Henry was hurled to the deck. Leaping up, he sprang again to the helm and attempted to put about, but the shock had been so great that the whole framework of the little craft was dislocated. The fastenings of the rudder had been torn out, and she was unmanageable. The next wave lifted her over the reef and the gale swept her away.
Even then the hopes of the young man did not quite fail him. He believed that the last reef had now been passed, and that he would be driven out to the open sea, clear at least of immediate danger. It was a vain hope. In another moment the vessel struck for the third time, and the mast went over the side. Again and again she rose and fell with all her weight on the rocks. The last blow burst out her sides, and she fell to pieces, a total wreck, leaving Henry struggling with the waves.
He seized the first piece of wood that came in his way, and clung to it. For many hours he was driven about and tossed by the winds and waves until he began to feel utterly exhausted, but he clung to the spar with the tenacity of a drowning man. In those seas the water is not so cold as in our northern climes, so that men can remain in it for a great length of time without much injury. There are many instances of the South Sea Islanders having been wrecked in their canoes, and having spent not only hours but days in the water, clinging to broken pieces of wood, and swimming for many miles, pushing these before them.
When, therefore, the morning broke, and the bright sun, shone out, and the gale had subsided, Henry found himself still clinging to the spar, and although much weakened, still able to make some exertion to save himself.
On looking round he found that numerous pieces of the wreck floated near him, and that the portion to which he clung was the broken lower-mast. A large mass of the deck, with part of the gunwale attached to it, lay close beside, him, held to the mast by one of the shrouds. He at once swam to this, and found it sufficiently large to sustain his weight, though not large enough to enable him to get quite out of the water. While here, half-in and half-out of the water, his first act was to fall on his knees and thank God for sparing his life, and to pray for help in that hour of need.
Feeling that it would be impossible to exist much longer unless he could get quite out of the water so as to allow the sun to warm his chilled frame, he used what strength remained in him to drag towards him several spars that lay within his reach. These he found to be some of the rough timbers that had lain on the deck of the cutter to serve as spare masts and yards. They were, therefore, destitute of cordage, so that it was not possible to form a secure raft. Nevertheless, by piling them together on the top of the broken portion of the deck, he succeeded in constructing a platform which raised him completely out of the water.
The heat of the sun speedily dried his garments, and as the day wore on the sea went down sufficiently to render the keeping of his raft together a matter of less difficulty than it was at first. In trying to make some better arrangement of the spars on which he rested, he discovered the corner of a sail sticking between two of them. This he hauled out of the water, and found it to be a portion of the gaff. It was a fortunate discovery; because, in the event of long exposure, it would prove to be a most useful covering. Wringing it out, he spread it over the logs to dry.
The doing of all this occupied the shipwrecked youth so long, that it was nearly mid-day before he could sit down on his raft and think calmly over his position. Hunger now began to remind him that he was destitute of food; but Henry had been accustomed, while roaming among the mountains of his island home, to go fasting for long periods of time. The want of breakfast, therefore, did not inconvenience him much; but before he had remained inactive more than ten minutes, the want of sleep began to tell upon him. Gradually he felt completely overpowered by it. He laid his head on one of the spars at last, and resigned himself to an influence he could no longer resist.
It was evening before he awoke from that slumber. The sun had just disappeared below the horizon, and the red clouds that remained behind were beginning to deepen, as night prepared to throw her dark mantle over the sea. A gull wheeled over the youth’s head and uttered a wild cry as he awoke, causing him to start up with a feeling of bewildered uncertainty as to where he was.
The true nature of his position was quickly forced upon him. A dead calm now prevailed. Henry gazed eagerly, wistfully round the horizon. It was an unbroken line; not a speck that resembled a sail was to be seen. Remembering for the first time that his low raft would be quite invisible at a very short distance, he set about erecting a flag. This was easily done. Part of his red shirt was torn off and fastened to a light spar, the end of which he stuck between the logs. Having set up his signal of distress he sat down beside it, and, drawing part of the sail over his shoulders, leaned on the broken part of the bulwark, and pondered his forlorn condition.
It was a long, sad reverie into which poor Henry Stuart fell that evening. Hope did not, indeed, forsake his breast—for hope is strong in youth; but he was too well acquainted with the details of a sailor’s life and risks to be able to shut his eyes to the real dangers of his position. He knew full well that if he should be cast on any of the inhabited islands of the South Seas (unless it might be one of the very few that had at that time accepted the Gospel) he would certainly be killed by the savages, whose practice it is to slay and eat all unfortunates who chance to be wrecked and cast upon their shores. But no islands were in sight, and it was possible that he might be left to float on the boundless ocean until the slow and terrible process of starvation did its work, and wore away the life which he felt to be so fresh and strong within him.
When he thought of this he shuddered, and reverted, almost with a feeling of pleasure, to the idea that another storm might spring up ere long, and by dashing his frail raft to pieces, bring his life to a speedy termination. His hopes were not very clear even to his own mind. He did indeed hope, because he could not help it; but what it was that he hoped for would have puzzled him to state. A passing ship finding him in a part of the Pacific where ships were not wont to pass was, perhaps, among the least animating of all his hopes.
But the thoughts that coursed through the youth’s brain that night were not centred alone upon the means or the prospects of deliverance. He thought of his mother,—her gentleness, her goodness, her unaccountable partiality for Gascoyne; but more than all, he thought of her love for himself. He thought, too, of his former life—his joys, his sorrows, and his sins. As he remembered these last, his soul was startled, and he thought of his God and his Saviour as he had never thought before. Despite his efforts to restrain them, tears, but not unmanly tears, would flow down his cheeks as he sat that evening on his raft; meditated on the past, the present, and the future, and realised the terrible solemnity of his position—without water or food—almost without hope—alone on the deep. (See Frontispiece.)
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