E. One hundred or more fish-hooks.
F. Nineteen nuggets of gold of various sizes--one immense nugget
weighed 149 pounds!
[The largest nugget ever found weighed over 180 pounds. It was dug up,
I believe, at Ballarat.--G.S.]
No wonder these two men were excited.
"I say, sir," said Chips, "I guess you'll splice the main-brace
to-night."
"That we will with pleasure," replied Halcott.
"And," cried Tom Wilson, "I'll fiddle as I've never fiddled before.
I'll make all hands laugh one minute, and I'll have them all crying the
next."
Poor Wilson! It was noted that this man never touched rum himself, but
invariably gave his share to another.
The main-brace _was_ spliced that night, and that, too, twice over. It
happened to be Saturday night.
It could not be called Saturday-night-at-sea, but it was Saturday night
on board a ship; and despite the fact that the vessel was but a wreck
and a hulk, it was spent in the good old fashion.
An awning was always kept spread over the fore part of the ship, and it
was under this that the crew smoked and yarned in the evenings.
To-night the officers had gone forward to hear Tom Wilson play.
He did make them laugh. I do not know that his pathetic pieces caused
many tears to flow, beautifully executed though they were, but late in
the evening--and ten o'clock was considered late on board the hulk--when
Halcott asked for a favourite air of his, Tom hesitated for a moment,
then took up the violin.
There was a beauty of expression and sadness about Tom's interpretation
of this beautiful melody that held everybody spell-bound; but when at
last the poor fellow laid his instrument on the table, and with bent
head burst into tears, the astonishment of every one there was great
indeed.
Jack, however, is ever in sympathy with sorrow, and Chips, rough old
Chips, got up and went round behind Tom Wilson.
"Come, matie," he said, patting him gently on the shoulder. "What is
it, old heart? Music been too much for you? Eh? Come, come, don't
give way."
Tom Wilson threw back his head and lifted his face now.
"Thank you, Chips; thank you, lad, and bless you. Nay, nay, I will not
tell you to-night the reason of my stupid tears. I'm not the man to
sadden a Saturday night. Come, lads, clear the decks. I'll play you
the grandest hornpipe you ever listened to."
And play he did. Every note, every tone was thrilling. A dance was
soon got up, and never before, not even in a man-of-war, did men foot
the deck more merrily than those shipwrecked Crusoes did now.
But the queerest group there was just amidships, where Janeira herself
and Fitz--all white eyes and flashing teeth--were madly tripping it on
the light fantastic toe; while little Nelda and that droll old crane
danced a fandango, that caused all hands, including even Tom himself, to
shout with laughter when they beheld it.
The very solemnity of the crane as he curved his neck, hopped, and
pirouetted, was the funniest part of the performance.
But next day all hands knew Tom's pathetic story.
"That air I played," he told them, "was my little daughter Fanny's
favourite. Fanny is dead. Georgie too. He was my boy. I was rich
once, but drink ruined me, and--oh, may God forgive me!--led indirectly
to the graveyard gate, where wife and children all lie buried!"
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Two long months more had gone by, during which the exploring party had
been busy enough almost every day at the distant hill, prospecting,
excavating here and there, and searching in every likely nook for the
cave of gold.
But all in vain.
During all the time they had now been on the island--more than six
months--never a ship had been seen, nor had any boat or canoe ventured
near the place.
"Surely, surely," they thought, "some day some ship will find us out and
rescue us."
One day as they were returning earlier in the afternoon than usual, for
it was very hot, and they were all somewhat weary and disheartened, they
went suddenly almost delirious with joy to see, on looking towards the
hill-top, that the ensign was hoisted upside down on the pole, and
little Fitz dancing wildly round it, and pointing seaward.
Tired though they all were, there was no talk now of returning to the
wreck. But straight to the hill they went instead.
To their infinite joy, when they reached the top at last, they could see
a brig, with all available sail set, standing in for the island.
I say all available sail, for her fore-topmast was gone, she was cruelly
punished about the bulwarks, and had evidently been blown out of her
course during the gale that had raged with considerable violence a few
days before.
Every heart beat high now with hope and joy, and as the vessel drew
nearer and nearer, they shook hands with each other, and with tears in
their eyes some even talked of their far-off cottage homes in England.
Nearer and nearer!
A flag was flying at her stern, but to what country she belonged could
not yet be made out. But they could now, by aid of the glass, see the
hands moving about the deck, and some leaning over the bows pointing
towards the island.
But, "Oh, cruel! cruel!" cried the poor men, and grief took the place of
joy, when the vessel altered its course and went slowly away on the
other tack.
So great was the revulsion of feeling now that some of the Crusoes threw
themselves on the ground in an agony of grief and disappointment.
They watched the ship sail away and away, hoping against hope that she
might even yet return.
They watched until the stars shone out and darkness brooded over the
deep, and then a strange thing happened: a great gleam of light was seen
on the distant horizon, and above it clouds of rolling smoke through
which tongues and jets of flame were flashing.
The brig was on fire and burning fiercely!
Her very masts and rigging were seen for a time, darkling through the
blaze.
No one thought of leaving the hill now; they would see the last of that
mysterious ship.
Yes, and the last came within an hour.
An immense fountain of fire rose high into the air, lighting the sea up
in one broad crimson bar from horizon to shore--then darkness.
Nothing more.
Nor were any signs of that unfortunate brig seen next day. No boat
floated towards the island, nor was a single spar ever picked up along
the beach.
It would be impossible to describe the feelings of the Crusoes as they
went slowly homeward through the jungle, guided by Fitz and Bob.
"The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away." That was all the remark
that James Malone made.
And the mystery of that unhappy brig none can ever unravel.
To the end of time it must remain one of the awful secrets of the sea.
Book 3--CHAPTER SEVEN.