While these scenes are passing upon the ocean, others of equally
exciting character occur upon that desert isle, where, by ill-starred
chance for themselves, the pirate crew of the _Condor_ made landing.
They are still there, all their efforts to get off having proved idle.
But how different now from that hour when they brought their boat upon
its beach laden with the spoils of the plundered vessel! Changed not
only in their feelings but looks--scarce recognisable as the same men.
Then in the full plenitude of swaggering strength, mental as bodily,
with tongues given to loud talk; now subdued and silent, stalking about
like spectres, with weak, tottering steps; some sitting listlessly upon
stones, or lying astretch along the earth; not resting, but from sheer
inability to stand erect!
Famine has set its seal upon their faces; hunger can be read in their
hollow eyes, and pale sunken cheeks; while thirst shows upon their
parched and shrivelled lips.
Not strange all this. For nine days they have tasted no food, save
shell-fish and the rank flesh of sea-fowl--both in scant supply. And no
drink, excepting some rain-water caught in the boat-sail during an
occasional slight shower.
All the while have they kept watch with an earnestness such as their
desperate circumstances evoked. A tarpauling they have rigged up by oar
and boat-hook, set upon the more elevated summit of the two--the highest
point on the isle--has failed to attract the eye of any one on the
mainland; or if seen, the signal has been disregarded; while to seaward,
no ship or other vessel has been observed--nought but the blank blue of
ocean, recalling their crime--in its calm tranquillity mocking their
remorse!
Repentant are they now; and if they could, willingly would they undo
their wicked deed--joyfully restore the stolen gold--gladly surrender up
their captives--be but too glad to bring back to life those they have
deprived of it.
It cannot be. Their victims left aboard the barque must have long ago
gone to the bottom of the sea. In its bed they are now sleeping their
last sleep, released from all earthly cares; and they who have so
ruthlessly consigned them to their eternal rest, now almost envy it.
In their hour of agony, as hunger gnaws at their entrails, and thirst
scorches them like a consuming fire, they reck little of life--some even
desiring death!
All are humbled now. Even the haughty Gomez no longer affects to be
their leader, and the savage Padilla is tamed to silent inaction, if not
tenderness. By a sort of tacit consent, Harry Blew has become the
controlling spirit--perhaps from having evinced more humanity than the
rest. Now that adversity is on them, their better natures are brought
out, and the less hardened of them have resumed the gentleness of
childhood's days.
The change has been of singular consequence to their captives. These
are no longer restrained, but free to go and come as it pleases them.
No more need they fear insult or injury; no rudeness is offered them
either by speech or gesture. On the contrary they are treated with
studied respect, almost with deference. The choicest articles of food--
bad at best--are apportioned to them, as also the largest share of the
water; fortunately, sufficient of both to keep up their strength. And
they in turn have been administering angels--tender nurses to the men
who have made all their misery!
Thus have they lived up till the night of the ninth day since their
landing on the isle; then a heavy rainfall, filling the concavity of the
boat's sail, enables them to replenish the beaker, with other vessels
they had brought ashore.
On the morning of the tenth, a striking change takes place in their
behaviour. No longer athirst, the kindred appetite becomes keener,
imparting a wolf-like expression to their features. There is a ghoulish
glance in their eyes, as they regard one another, fearful to
contemplate--even to think of. For it is the gaze of cannibalism!
Yes, it has come to this, though no one has yet spoken of it; the thing
is only in their thoughts.
But as time passes, it assumes substantial shape, and threatens soon to
be the subject not only of speech, but action.
One or two show it more than the rest--Padilla most of all. In his
fierce eyes the unnatural craving is clearly recognisable--especially
when his glances are given to the fair forms moving in their midst.
There can be no mistaking that look of hungry concupiscence--the cold
calculating stare of one who would eat human flesh.
It is the mid-hour of the day, and there has been a long interregnum of
silence; none having said much on any subject, though there is a tacit
intelligence, that the thoughts of all are on the same.
Padilla, deeming the hour has arrived, breaks the ominous silence:
"_Amigos_!" he says--an old appellation, considering the proposal he is
about to make--"since there's no food obtainable, it's clear we've got
to die of starvation. Though, if we could only hold out a little
longer, something might turn up to save us. For myself, I don't yet
despair but that some coasting craft may come along; or they may see our
signal from the shore. It's only a question of time, and our being able
to keep alive. Now, how are we to do that?"
"Ay, how?" asks Velarde, as if secretly prompted to the question.
"Well," answers Padilla, "there's a way, and only one, that I can think
of. There's no need for all of us to die--at least, not yet. Some
_one_ should, so that the others may have a chance of being saved. Are
you all agreed to it!"
The interrogatory does not require to be more explicitly put. It is
quite comprehensible; and several signify assent, either by a nod, or in
muttered exclamations. A few make no sign, one way or the other; being
too feeble, and far gone, to care what may become of them.
"How do you propose, Padilla?"
It is again Velarde who questions.
Turning his eyes towards the grotto, in which the two ladies have taken
refuge from the hot rays of the sun, the ruffian replies:
"Well, _camarados_! I don't see why men should suffer themselves to be
starved to death, while women--"
Harry Blew does not permit him to finish his speech. Catching its
significance, he cries:
"Avast there! Not another word o' that. If any o' as has got to be
eaten, it must be a _man_. As for the women, they go last--not first.
I, for one, will die afore they do; an' so'll somebody else."
Striker and Davis endorse this determination; Hernandez too, feebly; but
Gomez in speech almost firm as that of Blew himself. In De Lara's
breast there is a sentiment, which revolts at the horrid proposal of his
confederate.
It is the first time he and Harry Blew have been in accord; and being
so, there is no uncertainty about the result. It is silently
understood, and but waits for one to declare it in words; which Striker
does, saying:
"Though I hev been a convick, an' don't deny it, I an't a coward, nor no
way afeerd to kick up my heels whensoever I see my time's come. If that
he's now, an' Jack Striker's got to die, dash it! he's ready. But it
must be a fair an' square thing. Theerfor, let it be settled by our
castin' lots all round."
"I agree to that," growls Padilla; "if you mean it to include the women
as well."
"We don't mean anythin' o' the sort," says Blew, springing to his feet.
"Ye unmanly scoundrel!" he continues, approaching Padilla,--"Repeat your
dastardly proposal, an' there'll be no need for drawin' lots. In a
minnit more, eyther you or me'll make food, for anybody as likes to eat
us. Now!"
The Californian, who has still preserved much of his tenacious strength,
and all of his ruffian ferocity, nevertheless shrinks and cowers before
the stalwart sailor.
"_Carajo_!" he exclaims, doggedly and reluctantly submitting. "Be it as
you like. I don't care any more than the rest of you. When it comes to
facing Fate, Rafael Rocas isn't the man to show the white-feather. I
only proposed what I believed to be fair. In a matter of life and
death, I don't see why women are any better than men. But if you all
think different, then be it as you say. We can cast lots, leaving them
out."
Padilla's submissive speech puts an end to the strange debate. The
side-issue is decided against him, and the main question once more comes
up.
After a time, it too is determined. Hunger demands a victim. To
appease it one must die.
The horrid resolve reached, it remains but to settle the mode of
selection. No great difficulty in this, and it is got over by Striker
saying:
"Chums! theer's just twelve o' us, the even dozen. Let's take twelve o'
them little shells ye see scattered about, an' put 'em into the boat's
pannikin. One o' them we can mark. Him as draws out the marked shell,
must--I needn't say what."
"Die" would have been the word, as all understand without hearing it
spoken.
The plan is acceptable, and accepted. There seems no fairer for
obtaining the fiat of Fate on this dread question.
The shells--_unios_--lie thickly strewn over the ground. There are
thousands, all of the same shape and size. By the "feel" it would be
impossible to tell one from another. Nor yet by their colour, since all
are snow-white.
Twelve of them are taken up, and put into the tin pannikin--a quart
measure--one being marked with a spot of red--by blood drawn from
Striker's own arm, which he has purposely punctured. Soon absorbed by
the porous substance of the shell, it cannot be detected by the touch.
The preliminaries completed, all gather around, ready to draw. They but
wait for him who is on watch beside the spread tarpauling, and who must
take his chances with the rest in this lottery of life and death. It is
the Dutchman who is above. They have already hailed, and commanded him
to come down, proclaiming their purpose.
But he neither obeys them, nor gives back response. He does not even
look in their direction. They can see him by the signal-staff, standing
erect, with face turned towards the sea, and one hand over his eyes
shading them from the sun. He appears to be regarding some object in
the offing.
Presently he lowers the spread palm, and raises a telescope with which
he is provided.
They stand watching him, speechless, and with bated breath, their solemn
purpose for the time forgotten. In the gleam of that glass they have a
fancy there may be life, as there is light.
The silence continues till 'tis seen going down. Then they hear words,
which send the blood in quick current through their veins, bringing hope
back into their hearts. They are:
"_Sail in sight_!"