Fitz Burnett looked wonderingly at the skipper as if he did not
comprehend the bearings of the question. "Where?" he faltered. "Yes;
you asked me to set you ashore. I say, where?"
"Oh, at any American or English port, sir."
"Do you know how far we are from the nearest?"
"No; I have no idea how far we have come."
"Never mind that," said the skipper gravely. "Let's take it from
another way of thinking. Do you know what it means for me to set you
ashore at some port?"
"Oh yes, sir: that I shall be able to communicate with any English
vessel, and get taken back to Liverpool."
"Well," said the skipper grimly, "you are a young sailor, but I am
afraid that you have very small ideas about the size of the world. I
dare say, though, that would be possible, sooner or later, for you go to
very few ports now-a-days without coming across a ship flying British
colours. It would be all right for you; but what about me?"
Fitz looked at him wonderingly again. "What about you, sir?" he
stammered. "I was not thinking about you, but about myself."
"That wanted no telling, my lad. It's plain enough. You were not
thinking about me, but I was. Look here, my boy. Do you know what my
setting you ashore means just now?"
"Yes, sir," said the boy sharply. "Getting rid of a very troublesome
passenger."
"Oh, you think so, do you? Well, I'll tell you what I think. It would
mean getting rid of one troublesome passenger, as you call yourself, and
taking a dozen worse ones on board in the shape of a prize crew. Why,
young Burnett, it would mean ruin to me and to my friends, whose money
has been invested in this cargo."
"Oh no, _no_, sir. I am alone out here, and my captain's vessel is far
away. I couldn't go and betray you, even if I wanted to. You could set
me ashore and sail away at once. That's all I want you to do."
"Sweet innocency!" said the skipper mockingly. "But I won't set it down
to artfulness. I think you are too much of a gentleman for that. But
do you hear him, Poole? Nice ideas he has for a beardless young officer
in Her Majesty's Navy. Why, do you mean to tell me, sir, you know
nothing about international politics, and a peculiar little way that
they have now-a-days of flashing a bit of news all round the world in a
few minutes of time? Don't you think that after that bit of a turn up
off Liverpool way, a full description of my schooner and her probable
destination has been wired across the Atlantic, and that wherever I
attempted to land you, it would be for the port officials to step on
board and tap me on the shoulder with a kindly request to give an
account of myself?"
"I didn't think of that," said Fitz, slowly.
"No," said the skipper. "You thought that I could hail the first ship I
saw, or sail up to the side of a quay, pitch you ashore, and sail off
again. Why, Fitz Burnett, as soon as I came in sight I should be
overhauled, seized, delayed for certain, and in all probability end by
losing schooner, cargo, and my liberty."
"Surely it would not be so bad as that, sir?"
"Surely it would be worse. No, my lad; I am sorry for you. I regret
the ugly accident by which you were knocked over; but you are thinking,
as we said before, about your position, your duty. I have got to think
of mine. Now, here's yours; you came on board here, unasked and unseen
until the next morning when we had put a good many knots between us and
your gunboat. It was impossible to land you, and so we made the best of
it and treated you as well as we could. Time is money to me now, and my
coming up punctually means something much more valuable than hard cash
to the people I have come to see. To be plain, I can't waste, even if I
were so disposed, any time for sailing into port to put you ashore."
"Never mind that, then, sir," cried Fitz excitedly. "Speak the first
vessel you see, of any country, under any flag, and put me aboard
there."
"No, my lad," said the skipper sternly. "And I can't do that. I am
going to speak no ships. My work is to sail away and hold communication
with no one. I have no need to make all this explanation to you, my
boy, but I am doing it because we are sorry for you, and want to make
things as easy as we can. Now, look here, you are a sensible lad, and
you must learn to see your position. I can do nothing for you beyond
treating you well, until I have made my port, run my cargo of
knick-knacks, and cleared for home. By that time I shall have a clean
bill of health, and be ready to look all new-comers in the face."
"But how long will that be, sir?" cried Fitz excitedly.
"Dunno, my lad. It depends on what's going on over yonder. If all goes
smooth it may be only a month; if all goes rough, perhaps two, or three.
I may be dodging about a long while. Worse still, my schooner may be
taken, condemned, and my crew and I clapped in irons in some
Spanish-American prison, to get free nobody knows when."
"Oh!" groaned Fitz excitedly.
"I am being very plain to you, my lad, now that the cat's out of the
bag, and there's nothing to hide. I am playing a dangerous game, one
full of risk. It began when I was informed upon by some cowardly,
dirty-minded scoundrel, one who no doubt had been taking my pay till he
thought he could get no more, and then he split upon me, with the result
that your captain was put upon the scent of my enterprise, to play dog
and run me down in the dark. But you see I had one eye open, and got
away. Now I suppose the telegraph will have been at work, and the folks
over yonder will be waiting for me there, so that I shall have to hang
about and wait my chance of communicating with my friends. So there,
you see, you will have to wait one, two, perhaps three months, before,
however good my will, I can do anything for you."
"But by that time," cried Fitz, "I shall be disgraced."
"Bah! Nonsense, my lad! There can be no disgrace for one who boarded a
vessel along with his crew, and had the bad luck to be struck down.
Now, my boy, you know I'm a father. Let me speak like a father to you.
Your real trouble is this, and I say honestly I am sorry, and so's Poole
there, not so much for you as for your poor relatives. There, it's best
I should speak quite plainly. It's as well to know the worst that can
have happened, and then it generally proves to have been not so bad; and
that's what clever folks call philosophy. The real trouble in your case
is this, that by this time your poor relatives will probably know that
your number has been wiped off your mess; in short, you have been
reported--dead."
"What!" cried the boy, in a tone full of anguish. "They will have sent
word home that I am dead?"
"I am afraid so," said the skipper. "It's very sad, but you have got to
bear it like a man."
"Sad!" cried the boy passionately. "It's horrible! It will break her
heart!"
"You mean your mother's," said the skipper gravely, and he laid his hand
kindly on the boy's shoulder. "But it's not so bad as you think, my
lad. I have had a little experience of women in my time--wives and
mothers, boy--and there's a little something that generally comes to
them in cases like this and whispers in their poor ears. That little
something, my boy, is always very kind to us sea-going people, and it's
called Hope. And somehow at such times as this it makes women think
that matters can't be so bad as they have been described, or that they
can't be true. Now I'd be ready to say that in spite of the bad news
that's come to your mother about you, she won't believe it's true, and
that she's waiting patiently for the better news that will some time
come, and that it will be many, many months, perhaps a year, before she
will really believe that you are dead."
"Oh, but it's too horrible!" cried the boy wildly.
"No, no, no. Come! Pluck up your spirits and make the best of it.
Look here, boy. You must bear it for the sake of the greater pleasure,
the joy that will come when she finds that she was right in her belief,
and in the surprise to all your friends when they see you come back
alive and kicking, and all the better for your voyage. I say, look at
the bright side of things, and think how much better it has all been
than if you had been knocked overboard to go down in the darkness at a
time when it was every one for himself, and no one had a thought for
you."
Fitz turned away his head so that neither father nor son could see the
workings of his face.
"There, my lad," said the skipper, rising, "I was obliged to speak out
plainly. I have hurt you, I know, but it has only been like the
surgeon, to do you good. I am wanted on deck now, so take my advice;
bear it like a man. Here, Poole, I want you for half-an-hour or so, and
I dare say Mr Burnett would like to have a bit of a think to himself."
He gave the boy a warm pressure of his hand, and then strode out of the
cabin, his example being followed the next moment by Poole, whose action
was almost the same as his father's, the exception being that he quickly
caught hold of the middy's hand and held it for a moment before he
hurried out.
Then and then only did Fitz's face go down upon his hands, while a low
groan of misery escaped his lips.