Edward Drake knelt down beside his brother, and to his dismay saw that
Lindsay was seriously wounded. The doctor came and the two injured men
were carefully carried to the sick bay.
The _Esmeralda_ was completely fitted up, and even contained a small
operating theatre to which Lindsay Drake was taken—unconscious and
groaning.
The doctor made a summary examination of both the patients and his face
was very grave when he came out.
“Mr. Gaunt is not badly injured; a splinter struck him on the head, and
perhaps there is some concussion of the brain, but there is no danger,”
he announced.
“But my brother?” Edward Drake asked hoarsely.
“I can do nothing, except to ease the pain,” was the reluctant answer.
“He will die?”
“Yes. Vital organs are injured, and it will be useless to operate.”
“I must go to him,” Drake said very quietly, but his face was white
and drawn. The doctor led the way, and then left the brothers alone.
Lindsay Drake opened his eyes and looked listlessly at his brother.
“I am done for, Edward,” he whispered.
“It is my fault. But for me you would never have come here.”
“The fortune of war, and I’m not sure that I am altogether sorry.”
Edward Drake had sunk on his knees and he spoke a simple prayer that
was eloquent of great sorrow.
“Doctor, shall I last long?” Lindsay asked faintly. “This pain is more
than I can bear.”
The doctor drew near and skillfully injected morphia.
“Ah! That is better,” the dying man said with a sigh. “How long have I
to live?”
“Captain, you are dying,” the doctor answered, and his voice shook.
“Please leave us. Thank you for your kindness. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, captain.”
Alone, the brothers looked at one another, overwhelming sorrow in their
eyes.
“You know my secret, Edward. Sometimes I thought that she cared for
me, but at others I was despondent, for what had I to offer to such a
woman?”
“Your love, Lindsay, and I believe that that would have meant
everything to Lady Ethel.”
“You think so?” he said, and his eyes brightened. “Wish her good-bye,
and ask her sometimes to think of me. Ah! Edward, I am very
sentimental—I suppose it’s the dying. It hasn’t been a bad life. I
don’t believe I’ve done many dirty actions. I’ve tried my best. But
it’s hard to think that I shall never hear her say that she loves me.”
There were tears in Edward Drake’s eyes as he bent his head and touched
his brother’s forehead with his lips.
“I know you’ll miss me, old chap. But perhaps my death won’t be
useless. Something tells me that you will win.”
And the eyes closed wearily, and his brow was puckered by a frown of
pain.
“Don’t let Ethel grieve. But perhaps she doesn’t care. If only I knew,”
he said wistfully.
There was a silence, broken only by his labored breathing, and Edward
knew not what to say to soothe his brother’s dying moments. But quickly
he bent his head to listen.
“Mother.”
And it was with the name of his parent on his lips and not that of the
woman he loved, that Lindsay died. For a long time Edward knelt there,
with a great sorrow in his heart. Gladly would he have given his own
life for his brother, but, alas, he had been able to do nothing.
At last he rose and gazed steadily at his brother’s face, and there
was something of awe in his eyes. Outside the doctor was waiting and
murmured a few words of sympathy.
“How is Mr. Gaunt?” Edward asked quietly, and his voice sounded strange
in his ears.
“Still unconscious. But there is no danger, so long as he is kept
quiet.”
Drake went on deck where he was immediately joined by Captain
Armstrong, who gripped his hand in silent sympathy.
“I have just pulled up another steamer,” the captain remarked
cheerfully; and that was his way of concealing his sorrow.
Life on board continued as though nothing had happened, but when the
sun rose in the morning, every man on the ship stood bareheaded on
deck. Wearing his robes of office, Edward Drake stood prayer-book in
hand, and in a steady voice read the words of the burial service over
his brother’s body, which rested before him, swathed in the flags of
his country.
His voice died away, and he turned, and the sound of the cleaving of
water struck his ears. His face was set and he gave a little cry when
he saw that John Gaunt was behind him.
“I told Mr. Gaunt that he must not come,” the doctor cried in great
distress.
But the millionaire smiled and held out his hand to Drake.
“I wish it had been I,” he said simply, and then fell back into the
doctor’s arms unconscious.
“This will probably delay the recovery for weeks,” the latter cried
angrily, as he helped to carry his patient back to his bunk.
When Drake looked round, he noticed that the flag was once more flying
from the top of the mast and he sighed wearily. He blamed himself for
his brother’s death, and a feeling of great despondency held him in
its clutches. All the sweetness seemed to have vanished from life, and
yet he could not have acted differently. Had God decreed his brother’s
death as a judgment upon him for attempting to right the wrong-doing
by force? And he sought the solitude of his cabin to wrestle with his
grief. It was not till the afternoon that he again appeared and then
his face was calm and resigned.
The Count de Chambord paid them another visit and was received by
Captain Armstrong, but asked to see Gaunt.
“He is injured and must not be disturbed,” the captain answered.
“It was reported to me that a shell had struck your ship. I presume
that you will now go about your business?”
“Not until we are compelled to,” was the brusque reply.
“It was also reported to me that a burial took place this morning from
the ship. From the ceremony which was observed, I wondered if it were
Gaunt himself who had been killed.”
“Mr. Gaunt is below and in no danger. Can I do anything for you? If
not——”
The captain paused significantly and the Count took his departure
without asking any more questions. During the rest of the day they
cruised around the mouth of the river, but nothing occurred to break
the monotony. The death of Captain Drake seemed to have subdued the
spirits of all on board, for he had made himself very popular among the
men.
After dinner Gaunt insisted on holding a conference with Captain
Armstrong and Drake, in spite of the protests of the doctor; and
their future policy was discussed at great length. They were in utter
ignorance of what was happening in Europe, so that they could do
nothing but wait events.
To the doctor’s consternation, Gaunt became feverish, and the fever was
diagnosed to be malaria. In fact, many of the men had begun to suffer
from the same disease, in spite of the quantities of quinine that had
been served out. Edward Drake was glad of the opportunity for action,
and busied himself in nursing the sick.
The following day the doctor announced that Gaunt’s temperature was
dangerously high.
“He has a strong constitution, but it’s the two things coming
together,” he said, and Drake could see that he was very anxious.
The heat was terrible although the ship was fitted with electric fans,
and as he sat in the sick bay, Edward Drake felt that he too was
reaching the end of his strength. But Gaunt’s voice sounded in his
ears, and he was compelled to listen to his delirious ravings.
It was of the vow that he spoke and of his love for his wife. He seemed
to be living again the last few weeks and for the first time Drake
really understood how great was his love for Lady Mildred, and what
tremendous strength of character he must possess to have been able to
keep the promise that he had made.
And Gaunt must die, ignorant of whether his sacrifice of self had
gained success or failure. At last the fever broke and the delirium
ceased, but the millionaire was very weak and would require careful
nursing.
Drake went to his cabin, but sleep was far away, for he was thinking
of his brother, and of Lady Ethel. How should he face her and tell of
Lindsay’s death? Now he believed that she loved his brother, and in his
imagination he could see the stricken look come into her eyes.
What were they doing? Lady Mildred must have known that they were
sailing on the _Saxon_ or she would not have gone to the wharf, and it
was natural to think that she would remember their talk of the Congo.
They had discussed the whole scheme in her presence. Surely she would
not remain inactive?
In the morning he was awakened by a summons from Gaunt and he went to
him immediately.
“I am much better this morning. I was wondering if we had done enough
for our purpose. They tell me that more of the men are sick. Wouldn’t
it be as well to steam away from this pestilential coast?” Gaunt asked
wearily.
“Are you going to weaken—now?” Drake asked reproachfully.
“I was not thinking of myself but of the men. If Europe is going to
intervene, she will already have done so. I don’t see what good we
shall do by remaining.”
“We must see it through. You are ill or I don’t think that you would
suggest that we should play the coward.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Gaunt answered with a sigh.
There is nothing more demoralizing than convalescence after malaria,
and at such moments a man is not really responsible for himself.
The next day Gaunt was much better and there was a look of shame on his
face when Drake entered.
“I must have been mad,” he said apologetically.
“Not mad—only ill,” Drake answered gently.
Captain Armstrong’s head appeared at the door.
“There’s a large yacht about five miles off. She’s evidently coming to
pay us a visit,” he announced.
“Describe her to me,” Gaunt cried quickly, and the captain obeyed.
“She’s mine. It’s evidently the _Heron_,” the millionaire cried and he
looked at Drake, but neither of them spoke.