THE FOURTH DAY
JACK felt some one shaking him. He tried not to awaken; he tried to
hold fast to his sleep, but he felt that he was growing wider and
wider awake. Dred was shaking him. Then he sat up, at first dull and
stupefied with sleep. He did not, in the moment of new awakening, know
where he was—his mind did not fit immediately into the circumstances
around him—the narrow, hard space of the boat, the starry vault of
sky, and the dark water—then instantly and suddenly he remembered
everything with vivid distinctness. He looked around in the blank
darkness almost as though he expected to see the pursuing boat.
“Come,” said Dred. “I’ve let you have a good long sleep, but I can’t
let you have no more. We’ve got to take to the oars again, and that’s
all there is about it. I tried to row, but I couldn’t do it. And so
ever since you’ve been sleeping the boat’s been drifting. I’ll lend a
hand with one of the oars for a while. ‘Twill not be so hard on you as
if you had to pull both. But I couldn’t row by myself, and that’s all
there is of it.”
“How long have I been asleep?” asked Jack.
“A matter of four or five hours,” said Dred.
“Four or five hours!” exclaimed Jack. It seemed to him that he had not
been asleep an hour. He stood up, and stretched his cramped limbs.
There was not a breath of air stirring. The young lady lay dark and
silent in the stern, covered over with the overcoats and wraps, and
evidently asleep. She stirred just a little at the sound of their
talking, but did not arouse herself.
“Have you seen or heard aught of the sloop?” said Jack.
“No,” said Dred. “Go and take your place, and we’ll pull a bit. I’ll
take this seat here; you take the one amidships.”
Jack climbed over the thwarts to his place. He was still drunk and
half inert with the fumes of sleep. He took up his oar, and settled it
quietly into the rowlock so as not to disturb the young lady. “Do you
know what time ’tis, Dred?” he asked.
“I make it about two o’clock,” said Dred, “judging by the looks of the
stars.” He was leaning over his oar, opening the bag of biscuit. He
handed one back to Jack. “We’ll take a bite to eat and a drop to drink
afore we begin rowing,” said he. “Where’s the bottle? Oh, yes; here
’tis,” and again the young lady stirred at the sound of his voice near
her.
Jack’s hands were still sore and blistered from the rowing of the day
before. At first the oar hurt him cruelly, but his hands presently
got used to the dragging jerk, and he dipped and pulled in time with
the moving of Dred’s body, which he could dimly see in the darkness.
They rowed on in perfect silence. Now and then Jack’s consciousness
blurred, and he felt himself falling asleep, but he never ceased his
rowing. Then again he would awaken, looking out, as he dipped his
oar, at the whirling eddy it made in the water. Every stroke of the
oar drew the heavy boat perhaps a yard and a half onward. “A thousand
strokes,” said Jack to himself, “will make a mile.” And then he
began counting each stroke as he rowed. Again his mind blurred, and
he forgot what he was counting. “‘Twas three hundred and twenty I
left off with,” he thought, as he wakened again. “Maybe there’s been
twenty since then. That would make three hundred and forty. Three
hundred and forty-one—three hundred and forty-two—three hundred and
forty-three—there was a splash—that was a fish jumped then—three
hundred and forty-four—three hundred and forty-five.”
Dred stopped rowing. “I’ve got to rest a bit,” he said, almost with a
groan. “Drat that there fever! I don’t know what a body’s got to have
fever for, anyway.”
Jack rested upon his oar. It seemed to him that almost immediately he
began drifting off into unconsciousness, to awaken again with a start.
Dred was still resting upon his oar, and the boat was drifting. They
were enveloped and wrapped around by a perfect silence, through which
there seemed to breathe a liquid murmur.
* * * * *
Still there was no breeze, but there began to be an indescribable
air of freshness breathed out upon the night. The distant quavering
whistle of a flock of marsh-birds sounded suddenly out of the hollow
darkness above. It was the first spark of the newly awakened life.
Again the tremulous whistle sounded as if passing directly above their
heads. The young lady still lay darkly motionless in the stern. All the
earth seemed sleeping excepting themselves and that immaterial whistle
sounding out from that abysmal vault—the womb of day. Jack fancied
that there was a slight shot of gray in the east. Again the whistle
sounded, now faint in the distance. Then there was another answering
whistle; then another—then another. Presently it seemed as though the
air were alive with the sound. Suddenly, far away, sounded the sharp
clamor of a sea-gull; a pause; then instantly a confused clamor of
many gulls. There slowly grew to be a faint, pallid light along the
east as broad as a man’s hand, but still all around them the water
stretched dark and mysterious.
Dred was again resting upon his oar, breathing heavily. “‘Twill be
broad daylight within an hour,” he said, “and then we can see where we
be.”
His sudden speech struck with a startling jar upon the solitude of the
waking day, and Jack was instantly wide awake. “How far are we from the
inlet now, do you suppose, Dred?”
A pause. “I don’t just know. ’Tis maybe not more than fifteen mile.”
“Fifteen miles!” repeated Jack. “Have we got to row fifteen miles yet?”
“We’ll have to if we don’t get a breeze,” said Dred, still panting;
“and as we didn’t get a breeze to reach us to the inlet last night, we
don’t want it now. ‘Twill only serve to fetch them down upon us now if
a breeze do spring up.”
Again, for the third time, the sleeping figure in the stern stirred
a little at the sound of voices. The growing light in the east waxed
broader and broader. In that direction the distance separated itself
from the sky. Jack could see that they were maybe a mile from the
marshy shore, over which had now awakened the ceaseless clamor of the
gulls and the teeming life of the sedgy solitude. To the west it was
still dark and indistinct, but they could see a further and further
stretch of water. “I see her,” said Dred. “Well, she don’t appear to
have overhauled us much during the night, anyways.”
Jack could see nothing for a while, but presently he did distinguish
the pallid flicker of a spot of sail in the far-away distance. Had it
gained upon them? It seemed to Jack that, in spite of what Dred had
said, it was nearer to them.
The day grew wider and wider. The sun had not yet risen, but everything
stood out now in the broad, clear, universal flood of light that lit
up the heavens and the earth. The east grew rosy, and the distance to
the west came out sharply against the dull, gray sky, in which shone
steadily a single brilliant star. The boat was wet with the dew that
had gathered upon it.
The young lady roused herself, and sat up, shuddering, in the chill of
the new awakening. She looked about her. Then Dred stood up, and looked
long and steadily at the strip of beach to the east. “I don’t know much
about the lay of the coast up this way,” he said; “there ought to be a
signal-mast over toward the ocean side som’ers about here. But, so far
as I can make out, we be ten mile from the inlet. I thought we’d been
nigher to it than we are.”
The water was as smooth as glass.
* * * * *
Suddenly the sun rose, big, flattened, distorted, from over the
sand-hills, shooting its broad, level light across the water, and
presently the sail in the distance started out like a red flame in the
bright, steady, benignant glow. Again Jack and Dred were rowing, and
the boat was creeping, yard by yard, through the water, and leaving
behind them a restless, broken, dark line upon the smooth and otherwise
unbroken surface.
The sun rose higher and higher, and the day grew warmer and warmer,
and still not a breath of air broke the level surface of the water. It
was, maybe, ten o’clock, and the point of land they had been abreast of
an hour before, lay well behind. “That’s the inlet, where you see them
sand-hills ahead yonder,” said Dred.
“How far are they away?” said Jack.
“Not more’n three mile, I reckon.”
The pirates in the sloop were rowing steadily with the sweeps. Jack
could see, every now and then, the glint of the long oars as they were
dipped into the water and came out, wet and flashing, in the sunlight.
“They’re gaining some on us, Dred,” said he, after a while.
“That comes from a sick man’s rowing,” said Dred, grimly. “Well, they
won’t catch us now, if the wind’ll only hold off a little longer. But
I’m nigh done up, lad, and that’s the truth.”
“So am I,” said Jack. Again, as during the night before, the keen
sense of danger that had thrilled him seemed to be sunk into his utter
weariness—dulled and blunted.
They rowed for a while in silence. The sand-hills crept nearer.
Suddenly Dred stood up in the boat, holding his oar with one hand. He
did not speak for a moment. “There’s a breeze coming up down yonder,”
he said. “They’re cracking on all sail. They’ll get it, like enough,
afore we do. ’Tis lucky we be so nigh the inlet.” He took his place
again. “Pull away, lad,” said he; “I reckon we’re pretty safe, but
we’ll make it sure. As soon as we get to the inlet we can take all day
to rest.”
Jack could see that they were raising every stitch of sail aboard the
sloop. Then, presently, as he looked, he could see the sails fill out,
smooth and round. “They’ve got it now,” said Dred, “and they’ll be
coming down on us, hand over hand.”
The young lady was looking out astern. Jack managed to catch Dred’s
eye as he turned for a moment and looked out forward. He could not
trust himself to speak. Again that heavy weight of fear and anxiety was
growing bigger and sharper. Suddenly it swelled almost to despair. He
did not say anything, but his eyes asked, “What are our chances?”
Dred must have read the question, for he said: “Well, it hain’t likely
they’ll overhaul us now. If we’d only had wind enough to carry us to
the inlet last night we’d been safe; but the next best thing is no wind
at all, and that we’ve had. I reckon we’ll make it if we keep close
to the shore where ’tis too shoal for them to folly. Yonder comes the
breeze. By blood! we’ll get it afore I thought we would.” He drew in
his oar, and handed it to Jack. “You take this,” said he, “and keep on
rowing, and I’ll trim sail.” He went forward, and raised the gaff a
little higher. “Pull away, lad—pull away! and don’t sit staring.”
In spite of what Dred had said, Jack could see that the sloop was
rapidly overhauling them. It was now coming rushing down upon them,
looming every moment bigger and higher. In the distance Jack could see
a black strip lining the smooth surface of the water. It was the breeze
rushing toward them ahead of the oncoming sail. Suddenly, all around
them, the water was dusked with cat’s-paws. Then came a sudden cool
puff of air—a faint breath promising the breeze to come. The sails
swelled sluggishly, and then fell limp again. The line of oncoming
breeze that had been sharp now looked broken and ragged upon the nearer
approach of the wind. “Now she’s coming,” said Dred.
He was looking steadily over the stern. The sloop, every stitch of sail
spread, was making toward them. There was a white snarl of waters under
her bows. It seemed to Jack that in five minutes she must be upon them.
Suddenly there was another cool breath, then a rush of air. The boom
swung out, the sail filled, and the boat gave a swift lurch forward
with the ripple and the gurgle of water about them. Then the swift wind
was all around them, and the boat heeled over to it, and rushed rapidly
away.
Jack was still rowing. The motion had grown habitual with him, and now
he hardly noticed it. The sloop seemed to be almost upon them; he
could even see the men upon the decks. Dred sat grimly at the tiller,
looking steadily out ahead, never moving a hair. Jack thrilled as with
a sudden spasm, and everything about him seemed to melt into the fear
rushing down upon them—the despair of certain capture. It seemed to
him that he felt his face twitching. He looked at Dred. There were
haggard lines of weakness upon his steadfast face, but no signs of
anxiety. Again Dred must have read his look. “They can’t reach in
here,” said he; “the water is too shoal.” Suddenly, even as he spoke,
Jack saw the sloop coming about. He could hear the creak of the block
and tackle as they hauled in the great mainsail, and presently it was
flapping limp and empty of wind. Dred turned swiftly and looked over
his shoulder. “D’ye see that?” he said. “They’ve run up to the shoal
now. They’ve got to keep out into the channel, and that’s about as nigh
as they can come to us. They’ll run out into the channel again now.
What they’ll try to do’ll be to head us off at the inlet, but they’ve
got to make a long leg and a short leg to do that. Ay!” he cried,
exultantly, “you’re too late, my hearty!” And he shook his fist at the
sloop.
The sloop had now fallen off broadside to them. Its limp sails began to
fill again, and it looked ten times as big as it had done running bow
on. Suddenly there was a round puff of smoke in the sunlight, instantly
breaking and dissolving in the sweeping wind. There was a splash of
water; then another splash, and another, and at the same moment a
report of a gun. Boom! a dull, heavy, thudding sound, upon the beat of
which a hundred little fish skipped out of the water all about the boat.
At the heavy beat of the report, the young lady uttered an
exclamation like a smothered scream. The cannon-ball went skipping
and ricochetting across their bows and away. “Don’t you be afraid,
mistress,” said Dred; “there ben’t one chance in a thousand of their
hitting us at this distance; and, d’ye see, they’re running away from
us now. Each minute there’s less chance of them harming us. Just you
bear up a little, and they’ll be out of distance.”
She brushed her hand for a moment across her eyes, and then seemed to
have gained some command over herself. “Are they going to leave us?”
she asked.
“Why, no,” said Dred, “not exactly. They know now that we’re making for
the inlet. What they’ll do’ll be to run out furder into the channel,
and then come back on another tack, and along close in to the inlet so
as to head us off. But, d’ye see, the water be too shoal for them, and
they’re likely to run aground any moment now. As for us, why, we’ve got
a straight course, d’ye see, and our chance is ten to one of making
through the inlet afore they can stop us.”
Again there was a puff of smoke that swept away, dissolving down the
wind. Again came the skipping shot, and again there was the dull,
heavy boom of the cannon. It seemed to Jack that the shot was coming
straight into the boat. The young lady gripped the rail with her hand.
The cannon-ball went hissing and screeching past them. “By blood!” said
Dred, “that was a nigh one, for sartin. ‘Twas Morton hisself lay that
gun, I’ll be bound.” Another cloud of smoke, and another dull report,
and another ball came skipping across the water, this time wide of the
mark. The sloop was now running swiftly away from them, growing smaller
and smaller in the distance, her sails again smooth and round, tilting
to the wind. They did not fire any more. Jack bent to the rowing,
plunging and splashing the water in the tenseness of his apprehension
and fear. He no longer felt the smart of his hands or the weariness of
his muscles; it seemed to him that he had never felt so strong.
It was not until the guns had been fired that the young lady
appreciated the full danger they were in. Jack’s own feelings for the
immediate time had been too tense to notice her. Now he saw that she
was wringing her hands and tearlessly sobbing, her face as white as
ashes. “Come, come, mistress!” said Dred, roughly. “‘Twon’t do no good
for you to take on so. Be still, will you?”
The brusqueness of his speech silenced her somewhat. Jack saw her bite
at her hand in the tense suppression she set upon herself.
“How far is it to the inlet?” said Jack, hoarsely.
“Half a mile,” said Dred.
Jack turned his head to look. “Mind your oars,” said Dred, sharply;
“’tis no time to look now. I’ll mind the inlet. ‘Twon’t get us there
any quicker for you to look. By blood!” he added, “she’s coming about
again.”
The sloop was maybe a mile away; again it was coming about. “Now for
it!” said Dred. “’Tis they or us this time.” Jack swung desperately
to the oars. “That’s right—pull away! Every inch gained is that much
longer life for all on us.”
The water was now dappled with white caps, and the swift wind drove
the yawl plunging forward. The sloop was now set upon the same course
that they were, only bearing toward them to head them off. As for them,
their leeway was bringing them nearer and nearer the shore. Dred put
down the helm a little further so as to keep the boat off the shoals.
This lost them a little headway. Jack’s every faculty was bent upon
rowing. The sea-gulls rose before them in dissolving flight—the
cannon-shots had aroused them all along the shore, and Jack heard
their clamor dimly and distantly through the turmoil of his own excited
fears. His throat was dry and hot, and his mouth parched. He could hear
the blood surging and thumping in his ears. He looked at the young lady
as though in a dream, and saw dully that her face was very white and
that she gripped the rail of the boat. Her knuckles were white with the
strain, and he saw the shine of the rings upon her fingers. The sloop,
as he looked at it, seemed to grow almost visibly larger to his eyes;
it seemed to tower as it approached. He could see the figures of the
men swarming upon the decks. He looked over his shoulder—the inlet
was there. “Unship them oars,” said Dred sharply; “’tis sail or naught
now.” Then as Jack, unshipping the oars, tipped the boat a little, Dred
burst out hoarsely, “Steady, there, you bloody fool! what d’ye heave
about so for?” Jack drew in the oars and laid them down across the
thwarts, and again Dred burst out roughly: “Look out what ye’re doing!
You’re scattering the water all over me.”
“I didn’t mean it,” said Jack; “I couldn’t help it.”
Dred glared at him, but did not reply. Jack looked over his shoulder;
the broad mouth of the inlet was opening swiftly before them—the
inlet and safety. Suddenly the bottom of the boat grated and hung upon
the sand; and Jack, with a dreadful thrill, realized that they were
aground. The young lady clutched the rail with both hands with a shriek
as the boat careened on the bar, almost capsizing. Dred burst out with
a terrible oath as he sprang up and drew in the sheets hand over hand.
“Push her off!” he roared. Jack seized one of the oars; but before he
could use it the yawl was free again and afloat, and once more Dred sat
down, quickly running out the sheets.
Jack’s heart was beating and fluttering in his throat so that he
almost choked with it. Dred did not look at the sloop at all. Some one
was calling to them through a speaking-trumpet, but Jack could not
distinguish the words, and Dred paid no attention to them. There was
another puff of smoke, and this time a loud, booming report, and the
almost instant splash and dash of the shot across their stern. Jack
saw it all, dully and remotely. Why was Dred sailing across the mouth
of the inlet instead of running into it? “Why don’t you run into the
inlet, Dred?” he cried, shrilly. “Why don’t you run into the inlet?
You’re losing time! They’ll be down upon us in a minute if you don’t
run in!”
“You mind your own business,” shouted Dred, “and I’ll mind mine!” Then
he added, “I’ve got to run up past the bar, ha’n’t I? I can’t run
across the sand, can I?”
The sea-gulls were whirling and circling all about them, and the air
was full of their screaming clamor.
“About!” called Dred, sharply; and he put down the helm.
Jack could see straight out of the inlet to the wide ocean beyond. It
was a quarter of a mile away, and there was a white line of breakers.
There was a loud, heavy report—startlingly loud to Jack’s ears—and
a cannon-ball rushed, screeching, past them. He ducked his head,
crouching down, and the young lady screamed out shrilly. Dred sat at
the helm, as grim and as silent as fate. Again the bottom of the boat
grated upon the sand. “My God!” burst out Jack, “we’re aground again!”
Dred never stirred. The yawl grated and ground upon the sandy bar and
then, once more, it was free.
[Illustration: THE PIRATES FIRE UPON THE FUGITIVES.]
Then Dred looked over his shoulder. He looked back. Then he looked
over his shoulder again. “Get down, mistress!” he called out, sharply.
“Get down in the bottom of the boat! They’re going to give us a
volley.” Jack saw the glint of the sunlight upon the musket-barrels.
The young lady looked at Dred with wide eyes. She seemed bewildered.
“Get down!” cried out Dred, harshly. “Are you a fool? Get down, I say!”
Jack reached out and caught her violently by the arm and dragged her
down into the bottom of the boat. Even as he did so he saw a broken,
irregular cloud of smoke shoot out from the side of the sloop. He shut
his eyes spasmodically. There was a loud, rattling report. He heard the
shrill piping and whistling of the bullets rushing toward them. There
was a splashing and clipping. Would he be hurt? There was the jar of
thudding bullets. There was a shock that seemed to numb his arm to the
shoulder. He was hit. No; the bullet had struck the rail just beside
his hand. He was unhurt. He opened his eyes. A vast rush of relief
seemed to fill his soul. No one was hurt. The danger was past and gone.
No! some of the pirates were about to fire again. There was a puff
of smoke; then a broken cloud of smoke, a sharp report, another, and
another; then three or four almost together. The bullets were humming
and singing, clipping along the top of the water. One—two, struck with
a thud against the side of the boat. Jack saw, in a blinded sort of
way, that the sloop had come up into the wind; she could follow them
no further. There were half a dozen puffs of smoke altogether. O God!
would the dreadful danger never be past? Was there no way of escape?
“Ach!” cried out Dred, sharply.
Jack looked up with an agonizing, blinding terror. Was Dred hurt? No;
he could not be. There was no sign of hurt. Was that a little tear in
his shirt! O God! Was it real? Suddenly there was blood. O, it could
not be. Yes; there was a great, wide stain of blood shooting out and
spreading over his shirt! “O, Dred!” screamed Jack, shrilly.
“Sit down!” roared Dred. He put his hand to his stomach, at the side,
and then there was blood in his hand. Suddenly there was a broken swirl
and toss all around them. It was the broken ground-swell coming in past
the shoals. The boat pitched and tossed. There was a thundering splash
of breakers. Jack sprang up. “Steady!” cried out Dred. Jack’s blinded
eyes saw that the pirate sloop was far away in the distance. Were they
still shooting? He did not know. He saw everything with dizzy vision.
O God! Dred’s shirt was all soaked with blood. What was it now? There
was something. They were out in the ocean; that was it—the inlet was
passed. “Oh—h!” groaned Dred, “I’m hurt—I’m hurt!”