JUST IN TIME.
We will now, with the reader’s permission, retrace our history to the
night on which the captain and passenger of the “Merry Maid” consigned
to the waves the body of the man whom they firmly believed to have
murdered.
The barque “Halcyon,” bound from Lisbon for Callao, was proceeding
quietly on her course and had, up to now, encountered nothing out of her
usual experience. The captain, contentedly smoking a big cigar, was
leaning idly over the rail and scanning the horizon, on the faint chance
of seeing something that would relieve the monotony of the scene. It was
a fine moonlight night, but now and again a cloud, carried along a
higher strata than that by which the movements of the “Halcyon” were
dominated, obscured the radiance of the orb of night, and enveloped sea
and sky in a temporary mantle of darkness, rendering invisible
everything but the distant lights of some vessel crossing the track
pursued by the “Halcyon.” Captain Quaco Pereiro, being of an adventurous
disposition, would have preferred more variety in the scenery. But he
was withal of a philosophical turn of mind, and never fretted for that
which was unobtainable. Being content, therefore, to accept his somewhat
isolated position uncomplainingly, he was nevertheless prepared to
welcome relief in any form, and followed with considerable interest the
course of a steamer, of which he obtained an occasional feeble glimpse,
and which he concluded, from the track pursued, to be bound for the
Mediterranean. Not that there was anything special about the steamer to
attract his attention. But it chanced to be the nearest object in sight,
therefore possibly the most profitable to observe.
But nothing occurred on board that he was near enough to distinguish,
and Captain Pereiro, having finished his cigar, and having bethought
himself that it would be as well to go below for a drink of wine, was
raising himself up from the rail against which he had been leaning, when
his eyes caught sight of a dark object bobbing quietly about on the
waters, offering no resistance beyond that inert resistance which is
inherent in any solid substance.
“H’m! what is that?” he questioned himself. “A log of wood? Yes--no--ah!
Sancta Maria! it is the body of a man! Holy Mother, preserve us!”
Such a sight always saddened Captain Pereiro, for it reminded him of
what might possibly be his own fate, and made him pray the more
fervently that the beloved wife and children whom he had left at home
might be long ere they were deprived of their bread winner. Imagining
that it was the body of some shipwrecked sailor that was now within a
boat’s length of him, he was about to turn away from the painful sight,
when his heart gave a startled bound on hearing a weird cry, as of some
human being in the depths of agony and despair.
“Mother of God!” he cried, crossing himself vigorously, “what was that?”
Convinced that the cry he had heard did not originate on board, Captain
Pereiro turned his gaze over the side again in the direction of the
weird object which had already impressed him painfully. With ears and
eyes strained to their utmost tension, he waited for he scarcely knew
what. Would the body float quietly past, with not a sign of life or
vitality about it? Or would his impressions be realised, and would it
turn out that the awful scream he had heard proceeded from that which he
had shudderingly looked upon as a corpse?
He was not left many seconds to conjecture, for once more the moonlit
air was rent with the desponding shriek of the dying, and this time all
doubt and superstitious fear were simultaneously removed from his mind.
For not only was it evident whence the cry proceeded, but the hands of
the supposed corpse were thrown up imploringly, yet feebly, as though by
one from whom the vital spark had nearly fled.
Others had now also both seen and heard what was going on, and it
scarcely needed Captain Pereiro’s sharp command to back the mainyard in
order to induce his sailors to bring about the end he desired. In an
incredibly short space of time the course of the “Halcyon” was arrested,
a boat was lowered, the drowning man secured, and preparations for
starting again made. As soon as rescuers and rescued were safely on
board, Captain Pereiro gave the order to brace the mainyard, and
speedily, with well-filled sails, the barque was being steered on her
course once more.
It seemed, however, that the fine fellows had wasted their energies in a
vain cause, for the stranger had relapsed into total unconsciousness,
which was so profound that for a long time it resisted every benevolent
effort to dispel it.
“The fates are against the poor fellow,” murmured the captain,
sorrowfully. “I fear we were too late to help him. And yet it is a shame
to be so cheated after all the trouble. Pedro, we will have another try,
and by the Virgin, I will renounce--I mean I will be angry with--my
patron saint if he does not help us to succeed in keeping this man’s
soul out of purgatory a while longer.”
Pedro, who, by the way, was the steward of the “Halcyon,” was already
fatigued by the vigorous exertions he had made. He was, moreover,
convinced that the thing upon which he had been operating no longer
contained a soul, and he felt a horror at the idea of pulling and
twisting a dead body about. But he dared not refuse to do as he was
told, so, invoking the aid of St. Peter as a corollary to the help St.
George had been asked to extend to the captain, he set bravely to work
once more, and soon became as full of faith and energy as Pereiro
himself.
Fortunately for St. George, the captain had no need to be angry with
him, for after a prolonged and fatiguing spell of rubbing, fomenting,
dosing, and artificial respiration, the stranger’s eyelids began to
quiver, and short, gasping sighs escaped his labouring breast. Thanks to
Pereiro’s clever treatment, he was already partially relieved of the
brine which he had perforce swallowed, but no sooner did the latter
realise that his efforts were being rewarded by success, than he
promptly administered another emetic, which proved thoroughly effectual,
and left the patient gasping with exhaustion, but on the high road to
recovery.
As the reader no doubt guesses, it was Hilton Riddell who was thus
miraculously saved from what appeared to be certain death. His would-be
murderers were so anxious to avoid observation on their own ship that
they had not noticed the proximity of the barque at right angles with
them, and felt as sure that they had compassed their desired end, as
that they themselves were alive and well.
Thus they sped on their course, hugging the belief that they had taken
the most effectual means of silencing an enemy, and feeling secure in
the reflection that, as the sea was not likely to give up its dead, they
were not likely to be confronted with Hilton Riddell again.
Meanwhile the latter was receiving every care and attention on board
the “Halcyon.” Captain Pereiro was greatly delighted to observe the
gradual recovery of the prey he had rescued from the ocean, all the more
so as he had already convinced himself that Hilton had been the victim
of foul play. The blow on the head had been a terrible one--so terrible,
indeed, that it threatened to kill him, many symptoms of concussion of
the brain showing themselves. Thus it was weeks before poor Hilton
recovered his wonted vigour, and, under God, it was due to the
unremitting care and attention with which Captain Pereiro nursed him
that he was enabled to evade death. Pedro, too, being of a generous
disposition, grudged no pains in the preparation of dainties likely to
stimulate the invalid’s for some time languishing appetite. Had Hilton
been their patron saint himself, he could not have been treated with
more care and tenderness, and his returning consciousness of what he had
been saved from invested them, in turn, with every saint-like attribute.
Short, stout, of stolid feature; black-haired, rough-bearded, and
carelessly shaven; with dark eyes, whose kindly light was almost
obscured by bushy, overhanging eyebrows; of the swarthiest complexion;
with big, coarse hands, and a rough gait, and with all the
eccentricities of his appearance accentuated by a sublime indifference
to the advantages of becoming attire, Captain Pereiro was not one to
strike the casual observer with enthusiastic admiration. The steward,
Pedro, did not come in a bad second as far as personal appearance went,
except that he was taller, thinner, and more pronouncedly ungainly. But
ask Hilton Riddell to this day to name the two finest fellows on earth,
and he will at once utter a verdict in favour of the captain and steward
of the Portuguese barque “Halcyon.”
It was at first a source of wonderment to his rescuers how he had kept
afloat so long, until they discovered that much of his apparent bulk was
caused by a life-saving waistcoat with which he had had the forethought
to provide himself.
“This man is English, and he comes from London. So much I can make out
from his speech, but no more,” said the captain, when talking things
over with the mate of his ship, who, though not taking an active part in
the nursing of the foundling, yet felt a considerable interest in his
progress towards recovery. “He is a beautiful man, as beautiful as the
fabled gods must have been; but I burn with curiosity to know how he has
been thrown on to our hands. He has met with foul play, that is sure,
and he has been among people whom he knew to be his enemies. That is
also sure. It is also evident that he was to some extent prepared for
the risk he ran, and that his enemies were ignorant of the fact.
Otherwise he would not have worn this waistcoat, ready for inflation,
under his shirt, or his enemies, after thinking they had killed him by
the blows on the head, would have removed the wonderful garment which
ensured his floating on the surface of the water.”
“But,” objected the mate, “he may have been wrecked, and the wound on
his head may have been caused by a blow from floating wreckage.”
“No, that is not so, for when I took a marlingspike, and pretended to
hit my own head with it, at the same time pointing to his, he nodded
vigorously, as much as to say that his wound was inflicted purposely. I
am sure he has a strange history, and, for the first time in my life, I
wish I knew how to talk English.”
“If he could talk Portuguese it would do just as well.”
“Yes; but he doesn’t talk Portuguese, so there’s an end of it. I will go
below again now, and see how he is getting on.”
Captain Pereiro found his patient very much better, and anxious to know
where he was, how he came there, and whither he was being taken. But his
eager questions, and the captain’s willing answers, only resulted in
their becoming more hopelessly befogged with each other. Neither could
elicit or communicate anything satisfactory. At last the captain was
seized with a bright idea, which induced him to rush to the chart-room
as quickly as his unwieldy body would let him, leaving Hilton wondering
what was the matter with him. Presently he returned with a triumphant
look on his face, bearing in his hands a large roll, which he laid
carefully on the locker for a while. Then he assisted Hilton into a
sitting position, piling behind him a pair of sea boots, some oilskins,
a camp stool, and sundry other things, upon which substantial foundation
he arranged various pillows in the dexterous manner which had become
habitual to him. Having thus made the patient as comfortable as
possible, he produced the roll from the top of the locker and unfolded
what proved to be a large chart.
Hilton smiled his sudden comprehension, and eagerly bent his eyes upon
the chart. The captain, seeing that his purpose was likely to be
understood, pointed first to Hilton, then to the chart, in effect asking
him to give as much information as he could. Very soon Hilton put his
finger on London and looked at the captain, who nodded comprehension.
Then he slowly traced the course of the “Merry Maid” on the chart until
nearly abreast Lisbon, when he stopped, feigned to go to sleep; to
strike his head with his eyes shut; to awake struggling in the water; to
withdraw a tube from his waistcoat pocket; and to inflate by its means a
concealed life-saving garment. The captain thoroughly understood this
pantomime, and clenched his fist in anger at those who had perpetrated
so dastardly a deed. Then, once more pointing questioningly to the
chart, he gave Hilton to understand that he wished to know whither the
“Merry Maid” was bound, whereupon the remainder of the route to Malta
was traced out for him. After this, being mutely questioned in his turn,
Pereiro made a start at Lisbon, Hilton following his movements with
breathless attention. Stopping near the spot indicated by the latter, he
gave a sharp cry, tossed his arms as if struggling in the water, made a
pantomimic rescue, and then began to rub himself vigorously, and to pump
his arms up and down to show that artificial respiration had been
resorted to. Hilton squeezed his hands gratefully, and murmured words of
thanks, of which Pereiro had no difficulty in grasping the import,
although they were uttered in a tongue of which he knew nothing but that
it was English. After this, anxiously watched, he slowly traced a course
which filled Hilton’s heart with dismay, for he never stopped until he
had rounded Cape Horn, and followed what seemed to his companion to be
an interminable coastline.
Finally, he stopped at Callao, and was astounded to see that his
information was received with every symptom of distress. For a time,
Hilton knew not what to do, for he felt stunned. To go all that
distance, and in a sailing vessel, too, was equivalent to being dead to
friends and foes alike for many months. Moreover, he was rendered
utterly useless, and could do nothing but fret and worry at the trouble
which would be felt at home on his own account.
“My mother will wonder why she does not hear from me. Those scoundrels
will forge some plausible tale to account for my disappearance, and poor
Harley will be doomed to undergo the whole of his horrible sentence in
prison, if, indeed, he lives so long. Between grief for Harley, and
grief for me, my poor mother will fret herself into the grave. And poor
Annie! My God! how everything is playing into the hands of those
villains! It seems unbelievable--and there is that bottle of papers I
threw overboard, too. Perhaps that will soon disclose the true state of
affairs, and Harley’s liberation may be effected without any further
help from me.”
Could he have foreseen the fate of the papers he had prepared so
carefully, his distress of mind would have been much greater than it
was. Fortunately, this knowledge was denied him, but he already suffered
enough to cause him to have a relapse, and for some time his condition
gave great anxiety to his nurses.
After many days he was sufficiently convalescent to come on deck, and
after that his physical progress was rapid. As he recovered his wonted
strength and vigour, the admiration of those around him increased
considerably. Some of them--indeed, all--used as they were to swarthy
skins, and dusky locks, looked upon his smart, upright physique, his
clear, fair skin, just relieved from effeminacy by being slightly
tanned, his finely-cut features, his wavy, flaxen hair, his expressive
grey eyes, and his small hands and feet, as the perfection of all that
was gallant and beautiful in man. By-and-bye they also began to admire
him for other than his physical qualities. For he was not disposed to be
the idle and ungrateful recipient of bounty, but lost no opportunity of
doing a service to his deliverers.
Ships are never overmanned. There is always room for the help of
another hand or two. And even then, in squally weather, it taxes
everybody’s energies to keep pace with the exigencies of the hour. Thus,
it often happened that Hilton proved himself invaluable, and though
Captain Pereiro, with whom he was fast learning to converse in broken
Portuguese, remonstrated with him for working so hard, he could not
renounce any part of the active life he was now leading. For it served
to save him from the despondency which he could not otherwise have
resisted.
Nevertheless, he counted the months, the weeks, the days that must
elapse ere he could obtain any news of what was transpiring at home, and
every spell of adverse weather caused him acute anguish, since it
lengthened the time during which he would have to remain inactive. But
as all things come to those that wait, even so did the last day of his
voyage dawn on Hilton Riddell, and it was with curiously mingled
emotions that he once more found himself ashore. True, it was in a
strange country, among a strange people, and thousands of miles away
from the place in which he was anxious to find himself.
But it was, at any rate, a civilised country, to which English news
might penetrate, and he was not without a faint hope that he might come
across an English paper containing some account of progress made on
Harley’s behalf. How fallacious this hope was will be apparent to the
reader, but one has to picture oneself in his destitute, lonely, and
desperate condition, to realise to what mere straws of comfort one can
cling for consolation. The “Halcyon” would be some weeks before it would
be ready to leave Callao, and Captain Pereiro, who by this time knew a
great deal of the Englishman’s story, very generously urged him to make
it his home until he could get himself transported back to England.
Being without money, and possessing no credit with anyone here, Hilton
took the only course open to him under the circumstances, unless he had
been willing to seek work, and remain here long enough to save money for
his passage. This he could not do, as he deemed his speedy presence in
England imperative, in Harley’s interests. He therefore went to the
British Consul, and represented himself as a seafarer, who had been
washed overboard in a squall. His reason for being thus uncommunicative
concerning what really occurred was that he feared that any report
should reach England through the Consulate, and find its way into the
English papers before he could arrive himself. He was fully alive to the
fact that news of his safety would be gladly welcomed by his mother and
friends. But he also knew that if his enemies were to suspect him to be
in the land of the living, they would be on their guard, and would,
perhaps, succeed once more in baulking him of the prey he meant to run
to earth, in spite of what appeared to be a malignantly adverse fate.
“The bitterness of my loss is past,” he said. “My people already mourn
me dead, and my enemies triumph over my removal from their path. I will
awaken neither the hopes of the one nor the fears of the other until the
right moment for striking arrives. My blow will then be more deadly and
sure, and I shall be able to work with much more freedom if my continued
existence is unsuspected.”
It was in conformity with this resolution that he gave fictitious names
to the consul, both of himself and the ship from which he was supposed
to have been washed overboard. Had there been much doubt expressed
concerning the matter, there was the evidence of Captain Pereiro and his
crew to show how he had come aboard the “Halcyon.” Asked what he wished
the consul to do for him, he replied that he was anxious to reach
England as soon as possible; that, if chance afforded, he would gladly
work his passage home; otherwise, he wished to be shipped free of charge
to himself, on board a London-bound steamer, this request being in
strict accordance with English usage and custom.
His request was looked upon as reasonable enough, and, upon the whole,
he was well treated. But there was no vessel in the port that was likely
to proceed to England immediately, and he was forced to submit to a
heart-breaking delay. By this time Pereiro was very much attached to
him, and would fain have persuaded him to wait until the “Halcyon” had
discharged her cargo and reloaded, in order to return in the barque to
Lisbon, thence to proceed by the quickest route to London.
“One of my sailors has asked me to let him off articles. He has come
across a chance of making money more quickly than would be the case at
sea. You can ship in his place, earn his pay, and have money to buy some
clothes, and take you home to London. You will also be more at home with
us than on another strange ship. Say the word, my friend, and make me
happy.”
But to this plan Hilton did not feel himself able to consent. The idea
of another long voyage in a sailing vessel filled him with horror. Yet,
as the weeks sped by, and no better opportunity offered itself, his
hopes sank to zero. At last, when he was feeling thoroughly weary and
despondent, another steamer bearing the English flag steamed into the
harbour. This was the “Lorna Doone.” Both officers and crew bore
evidence of having undergone great privations, and the story they had to
tell was enough to make anybody’s heart ache. Head winds and heavy seas
had delayed their outward passage, and sickness, in the shape of yellow
fever, had overtaken them at their discharging port. All in turn had
been seriously ill. Some of their shipmates had never recovered from the
grip of Yellow Jack. Water, provisions, and men were alike scarce, and
the captain, being in dire straits, had found it necessary to run into
Callao for relief, before proceeding on the return voyage to Liverpool.
In all this Hilton hailed his opportunity. No sooner was the quarantine
flag hauled down, than he boarded the “Lorna Doone,” and asked to be
shipped as an able seaman. Too sorely pushed to insist upon discharges
or references, the captain gladly engaged him, and in another day or two
the Blue Peter was flying on the foremast head of his new home.
It was with some regret, and many manifestations of sorrow, that the
parting between Hilton and his demonstrative benefactors took place. But
at last the painful scene was over; he was fairly installed on board the
“Lorna Doone,” and in a few hours more was being borne to the goal he
was so anxious to reach--England.