FELIX McGAVONTY ON WATCH
Mrs. Belgrave was so exhausted by the violence of her emotion during
the day, and by her sea-sickness, that she fell asleep almost in spite
of herself; and she knew nothing of what transpired on board of the
Maud during the evening. Louis had put his ear to the door of her room
every time he went near it; but hearing no sound to indicate that she
was awake, he had refrained from disturbing her.
Felix McGavonty was wide awake as soon as Louis called him. He had gone
on deck with his crony, and watched the boat till it disappeared in
the darkness. Then he walked the deck for a time, and all was as still
as death. The single sailor who was doing duty as anchor watch was
fast asleep on the windlass, as the other was in the forecastle. The
Milesian had nothing to do and nothing to think about. Mrs. Belgrave
was in her stateroom, and though he was in charge of her, he could do
nothing in the line of the duty he had promised to perform. It was
chilly on deck, and he went below.
He had assured Louis that he would keep on his feet while he was
absent, and he was sure he should fall asleep if he even sat down on
one of the divans. Faithful to his promise he marched from one end
to the other of the cabin, occasionally listening at the door of
Mrs. Belgrave’s room, to satisfy himself that she did not require his
services; but he could hear nothing, for she was sleeping soundly after
the fatigue of the day, which had been a time of severe trial to her.
Sea-sickness is a curious malady, and no one can tell why it attacks
some, and is not developed in others. Louis had never had the slightest
symptom of it, while his mother was extremely susceptible to it. In a
family of eight seven were always sea-sick even in smooth water, while
one was always as well and hearty in the heaviest sea as on shore. The
recovery is sometimes as curious as the malady itself, for an exciting
event has been known to cure the patient immediately; and this appeared
to be the experience of Mrs. Belgrave.
The gallant captain from the Park had attended to her at the table, and
she had partaken heartily of ham and eggs as well as tea and toast for
her supper. Doubtless the meal she had taken did something to incline
her to sleep, and she had not heard a sound since early in the evening.
She knew nothing whatever of the exploring expedition which had left
the vessel at about eleven o’clock, when the tide had been coming in
for a couple of hours.
Felix marched back and forth in the cabin. He had a duty to perform;
but for the present it seemed to consist solely in keeping awake,
for he could neither see nor hear the lady over whose safety he was
watching. He was an active young man of sixteen, fond of excitement,
and especially of fun, and something more stirring than the duty of an
idle sentinel would have suited him better. When he had been engaged
with Louis in any of his enterprises, he had been the shadow of his
friend, willing and obedient, seeking no other glory than to serve him
faithfully. But he was now alone, though Louis was not far off, and he
felt a sense of responsibility with which he had rarely been burdened.
After his return from his promenade on deck, Felix had made but a few
turns of his march in the cabin before something in the vicinity of
the prison stateroom of Scoble attracted his attention. He halted near
the after divan under the stern windows. He had a very great respect
and regard for the revolver he had carried in his hip-pocket for some
weeks, and he involuntarily grasped the handle of the dangerous weapon.
In the opposite pocket he had another and larger pistol of the same
kind, the one he had taken from the stateroom of the mate when sent by
Louis to search for arms.
Both of these weapons were loaded, and he was well supplied with
ammunition for each of them. But he remembered the solemn admonitions
of Uncle Moses and Louis, in which he had been prohibited in the most
positive manner from using the weapons he carried, unless it were to
save his own life, or that of Louis or his mother. The worthy squire
would not for some time assent to the carrying of these weapons, and
the possibility of an attack on the part of Scoble had alone changed
his refusal into a reluctant permission.
Felix was not a little startled when he saw the door of the captain’s
wooden cell slowly and cautiously opened. He had assisted in fastening
the arms of the prisoner behind him with a pair of handcuffs, and had
seen him made fast, with his ankles securely bound, to the front of
the berth. He had looked at Captain Ringgold when he locked the door
of the stateroom, and put the key in his pocket. He had observed the
embarkation of the exploring party, and was fully aware that Frinks had
been one of the four who went off into the darkness in the boat.
Under these circumstances if a ghost had accosted Felix as he made
his round in the cabin, he could hardly have been more startled and
mystified than he was when he saw the door of the starboard stateroom
opened. If he inherited any superstitions he had long since got rid
of them, under the instruction and raillery of the jovial lawyer with
whom he had lived from his earliest years. It did not occur to him,
therefore, that the door had been opened by any other than human agency.
He drew the smaller revolver from his pocket, and retreated to one side
of the cabin, where the curtains of one of the berths afforded him an
opportunity to conceal himself. He did not know who had opened the
door. Of the ship’s company the mate and the cook had gone with the
expedition to the shore, and only the two seamen remained on board,
with the prisoner in the stateroom. Felix felt his responsibility, and
he wished to be wise in his action if possible.
Behind the curtain of the berth he watched for further proceedings
on the part of the person who had opened the door. A lamp suspended
from a deck-beam over the table gave him abundant light. He was not
compelled to wait long for further developments, for presently he saw a
head thrust out at the door. It did not require more than a glance to
assure him that the head belonged to John Scoble, whom he had formerly
known for a couple of years under the name of Wade Farrongate.
How he had been able to remove the cords and the handcuffs with which
he had been secured was a mystery to Felix, for he had been fast asleep
on the divan while Frinks had made his visit to the room. It was Scoble
beyond the possibility of a doubt. He had often seen the man at the
Park, had often been to the old house where he lived; but he had no
acquaintance with him; in fact, he had hardly ever spoken to him in
his life. His presence in the cabin, and free from the bonds which
had confined him, made it painfully evident to him that the plans of
Captain Ringgold and Louis Belgrave had utterly failed.
No one but the mate could have released the captain of the Maud; and it
was plain enough to the Milesian that Mrs. Belgrave was again in the
clutches of him who still regarded her as his wife. He was sure that
something was about to happen, though it was possible that Louis and
the shipmaster had been able to outwit the mate who was with them in
the boat. He could only wait for further developments; and it was not
likely that he would have to wait a long time for them.
Felix felt that he was on board of the Maud as the guardian and
protector of Louis’s mother, and he felt the responsibility imposed
upon him to the deepest depths of his being. If Scoble attempted in any
manner to injure or meddle with Mrs. Belgrave, he was ready to use one
of the weapons in his pockets. In the face of both Scoble and the mate,
he realized his own weakness, and that it would be useless for him to
assume an offensive attitude. He could best watch over his charge by
keeping out of sight for the present, and until something occurred to
inform him more fully in regard to the actual situation on board. He
deemed it prudent to get into the berth behind the curtains of which he
had concealed himself. Looking out from behind the hangings in front of
him, he fixed his gaze upon the door of the prison stateroom. Scoble
was looking about the cabin, still showing only his head. Probably he
feared that Louis or Captain Ringgold was still on board. He continued
to explore the cabin with his eyes for some minutes, and it was evident
to the observer that he was also listening for sounds from the deck;
but there was nothing to be seen or heard.
The absence of all sights and sounds appeared to assure Scoble that
he had nothing to fear. He went back into the room for a short time,
and then came out into the cabin. He walked from one end of it to the
other, looking into all the berths, and then halted at the door of Mrs.
Belgrave’s room. Felix snored lustily while he was in the vicinity
of his berth, though Scoble doubtless knew that he was to be left on
board, and was not surprised when he discovered him apparently asleep
in the bunk.
Scoble listened at the door of the lady’s room; but she was still
asleep. Then he went to the pantry, took down one of the lanterns,
lighted it in the cabin, and then went on deck. Felix sprang from his
bed as soon as he had ascended the companion-way, and followed him as
far as the slide. He made the lantern fast in the main rigging, where
the party on shore had seen it. Felix readily understood that this was
a signal for the guidance of the mate on his return, and possibly to
assure him that his superior was on deck.
Scoble then went forward, roused the anchor watch, still asleep on the
windlass, and ordered him to call Bawkin, who was the man who had his
watch below. The captain came aft as soon as the other man appeared.
Felix retreated a few steps down the stairs; but returned to his
position as soon as he heard the voice of the master.
“Take off the stops of the mainsail!” said Scoble, in an ugly tone, as
though he was not in a happy frame of mind.
Felix was not sailor enough to know what this order meant, and did not
understand what a “stop” was; and it is often called a “gasket.” But in
a few minutes more he saw the men, the captain working with them, hoist
the mainsail, still reefed as when it had been furled. The foresail
was then set, and both of these sails were banging and pounding in the
gale, which could be felt to some extent behind the promontory.
Then the three men went forward, and the watcher followed them as
far as it was prudent for him to go. They manned the old-fashioned
windlass, and proceeded to heave up the anchor to a short stay, though
Felix did not comprehend the manœuvre in which they were engaged.
The hoisting of the foresail and the mainsail indicated that the
captain intended to go to sea again, and that he was ready to do so in
a hurry. These preparations convinced the Milesian that Louis and the
captain from the Park, as the latter expressed it, had been “euchred.”
As he understood it, the Maud was about to sail for Southampton again,
and without Louis or Captain Ringgold. He had all he wanted to think of
then, as though a hole had been made in the world, and he had dropped
out of it.
Captain Scoble seated himself on the companion, and Felix caught an
occasional glance at him. The watcher kept his eyes and his ears wide
open, and in less than half an hour he heard the dip and rattle of a
pair of oars. Something, that for which he had been waiting, was about
to happen. The boat came up to the gangway, and Frinks sprang to the
deck with the painter in his hand. The two men forward were called, and
ordered to hoist up the boat to the stern-davits.
“You come back alone, Mr. Frinks,” said the captain, in a dissatisfied
tone. “Where is Bickling?”
“I had to leave him on shore, or blow the whole thing,” replied the
mate.
“But we can’t get along without a cook,” added the captain sourly.
“We can get along as well as we did coming over,” returned Frinks.
“My wife is on board now.”
Frinks refused to say anything more, and insisted upon getting under
way at once.