A calm, boundless waste of sunlit sea. Three men, haggard, blear-eyed,
and staring, sat in dejected attitudes in a small, open boat. The
blazing noonday sun beat down mercilessly upon their uncovered heads,
reflecting from the water's unruffled surface, blinding them by its
intense glare.
There was not the faintest breath of wind, not a speck upon the
clearly-defined horizon--nothing but the wide, brilliant expanse of the
Pacific. Long ago all hope of rescue had been abandoned. One of the
ragged, unkempt trio was lashed tightly to the thwarts for, having
slaked his thirst with sea water, he had developed insanity, and his
companions had bound him fast where he sat, wide-eyed and dishevelled,
giving vent at frequent intervals to the drivel of an idiot, plentifully
punctuated with horrible imprecations.
The two others, thin-faced, careworn, and anxious, sat silent,
motionless, in blank, unutterable despair. Ever and anon their aching,
bloodshot eyes wandered wearily around in search of a passing sail, but
never once had a mast been sighted, for they were out of the track of
the ships. In dress each bore a resemblance to the other, inasmuch as
numbers were painted conspicuously on their backs, while the wrists of
the one who had become demented were still in bracelets of rusted steel,
although the connecting link had been broken. They were three bearded,
dirty, repulsive-looking criminals, who, having been so far successful
as to escape from New Caledonia, had discovered, to their dismay and
horror, that their bold dash for liberty had been in vain--that they had
escaped their taskmasters only to be ultimately overcome by thirst and
starvation.
The heat was awful. The blazing sun parched their mouths, and set their
brains aflame with fever. Though now and then they sucked the horn
hilts of their knives in an endeavour to alleviate the all-consuming
thirst, yet their throats were too dry to utter scarcely a syllable.
Rowing was useless, conversation was useless, hope was useless.
Abandoned to despair, they were patiently awaiting the moment when body
and soul would part. They suffered most because they still remained
sane.
Six days ago Hugh Trethowen and two fellow-prisoners had been told off
from the labour gang to convey stones from the seashore to a spot
several miles distant, where a road was being made through the forest.
Unaccompanied by the warder, they had made several journeys with the
ox-cart, when, on returning to the beach, they observed, to their
surprise and satisfaction, that a boat had been run ashore from a ship
lying on the opposite side of the headland, and that the crew had left
it, evidently proceeding inland in search of provisions.
The prospect of escape immediately suggested itself, and ten minutes
later the three men had embarked, and were rowing swiftly round another
headland, so as to avoid being observed by those on the ship. After
proceeding a couple of miles along a shore they well knew was deserted,
they turned the boat's head and made straight for the open sea. Excited
at the prospect of freedom, all three bent to the oars, exerting every
muscle, for they were compelled to get out of sight before their absence
was discovered, otherwise they would be pursued and most probably shot
down.
Onward they pulled, until the island was only just visible, a dark blue
line upon the far-off horizon: then after pausing for half-an-hour's
rest, they resumed rowing with courage and confidence inspired by
thoughts of the free life that lay before them.
The cool breeze of evening refreshed them, and through the long night
they struggled on, bending to their oars with a will, even singing
snatches of songs to the rhythm of the oars in the rowlocks. Never
since their transportation had they experienced such joy as during those
first few hours of freedom on the wide silent sea. But happiness does
not allay hunger, and when about midnight they thought of food, they
discovered to their dismay that there was not a morsel of anything
eatable or a drop of fresh water in the boat.
Deep gloomy forebodings succeeded their brief period of happiness, and
just before dawn the hungry, adventurous fugitives threw themselves down
in the bottom of the boat and slept. In the morning the wind dropped,
and there was a dead, breathless calm, that had since been unbroken.
Hugh Trethowen sat motionless and helpless, enduring in silence agony
indescribable. Whither they were drifting he knew not, cared not. He
knew his fate was sealed.
His companion was the man who had spoken to him on that evening when he
was hesitating whether he should abandon belief in an Almighty Power,
and now, as he leaned beside his fellow-convict, he was wondering which
of them would die first. His brain was on fire; he could not move his
eyes without acute pain, for their sockets felt as if they had been
filled with molten lead. The pains through his cramped limbs were
excruciating, yet he was in a drowsy lethargy--conscious and alive to
the fact that the bodily torture was fast sapping his life; that ere the
sun went down he would be dead.
The hours of furnace heat wore on more slowly than before: hunger,
thirst, and madness waxed fiercer.
With that strange faculty possessed by dying persons he seemed to live
the chief incidents of his career over again, each vividly and in rapid
succession. But in all his wife was the central figure. The thought
that he should never see her again--that now, when within an ace of
regaining freedom and returning to her, he was to be cut off--roused
him. Struggling against these gloomy apprehensions, he ground his teeth
and, resting his elbows on his knees, determined to conquer pain and
cheat the Avenger.
Taking the handkerchief from his forehead, he dipped it into the sea and
again bandaged his head.
The other man looked up and moaned. He had passed the active stage of
suffering. All grew more and more like a confused dream, in which he
saw nothing clearly, except, at intervals, the grave sadness of
Trethowen's face, as he sat awaiting insanity or death.
The groans of his fellow-sufferer did not escape Hugh. He groped about
and found a small piece of canvas to lay under the man's head; it was
all he could do to make him comfortable.
There was but little difference in the condition of all three now. Even
the madman's fit had passed away, and he was lying back motionless, with
bright, fevered eyes gazing aimlessly upward into the cloudless vault of
blue.
After a long silence, broken only by the gasps and agonised groans of
the suffering men, the convict by whose side Hugh was lying stirred
uneasily, and turned his wide-open, glassy eyes towards his companion.
"Tre--Tre--thowen!" he gasped hoarsely.
Hugh started up in surprise. All his strength came back to him in that
moment. It was the first time he had been addressed by name since his
transportation.
"How do you know me?" he inquired in French, regarding the prostrate man
with a new interest.
The other sighed as he pressed his hand to his burning brow.
"_Dieu_!" he cried, "this awful heat will drive me mad." Then, looking
round with wolfish eyes, he asked: "What was I saying? Ah, yes, you--
you don't recognise me? I cannot hide my identity any longer. I'm
dying. Does a beard make such a great alteration in a man's
countenance?"
"Recognise you! How should I?" asked Hugh, now thoroughly aroused from
his lethargy.
"Then you don't--remember--the Comte Chaulin-Serviniere--at Spa?"
"Count Lucien!--Valerie's cousin!" cried Hugh, in incredulous
astonishment, as he suddenly recognised the man's features. "Why--good
God! yes. Only imagine, we have been comrades so long, yet I failed to
recognise you. How came you to be sent to this infernal doom?"
"It was _her_ doing."
"Whose?"
"Valerie's."
He ground his teeth viciously, and his bright eyes flashed as he uttered
her name.
"How is that? Remember she is my wife?" Hugh exclaimed with wrath.
"Yes--alas for you?"
"What do you mean?" asked he, gazing at him fixedly, half inclined to
accept his words as the manifestation of approaching madness.
"You--you married her. Ah! I know how it was all brought about. It
was an evil hour, an accursed day, when you tied yourself to her, for
her murderous clique have made us both their victims. I meant to live
and escape, so that I could bring upon her that merciless judgment she
richly deserves, but I--I'm dying. _Dieu_! Give me water! Just one
drop!" he implored piteously. "For the love of heaven give me Something
to drink. My throat's on fire. Can't you see I'm choking?" he added in
a husky, intense voice.
Hugh looked into the dying man's face and shook his head sadly.
"Ah! none. I comprehend," he moaned. Then, with a sudden fierceness,
he cried: "I'm dying--dying. _Ciel_! I shall never have the
satisfaction of witnessing her degradation, of seeing her white neck
severed by Monsieur Deibler at La Roquette!"
"Tell me. What do you mean by victims?" inquired Trethowen
breathlessly.
The astonishment at discovering the identity of his comrade had given
him renewed strength.
Again the man passed his hand across his drawn, haggard face, and wiped
the death-sweat from his brow.
"I haven't the strength--to tell you all. Ah! water--for God's sake
give me water!"
His tongue, swollen and red, was protruding from his mouth as he lay
panting for breath and clutching at his parched throat in a paroxysm of
pain.