WRECKED.
Percival cultivated acquaintance with the two sailors, and tried to
obtain from them some description of the passengers on board the
_Falcon_. But description was not their forte. He gained nothing but a
clumsy mass of separate facts concerning passengers and crew, which
assisted him little in forming an opinion as to whether Brian Luttrell
had, or had not, been on board. He was inclined to think--not.
"But he seemed to have a slippery habit of turning up in odd places
where you don't in the least expect to find him," soliloquised Percival
over a cigar. "Why couldn't he have stayed comfortably dead in that
glacier? Or why did the brain fever not carry him off? He has as many
lives as a cat. He, drowned or burnt when the _Falcon_ was on fire? Not
a bit of it. I'll believe in Mr. Brian Luttrell's death when I have seen
him screwed into his coffin, followed him to the grave, ordered a
headstone, and written his epitaph. And even then, I should feel that
there was no knowing whether he had not buried himself under false
pretences, and was, in reality, enjoying life at the Antipodes. I don't
know anybody else who can be, 'like Cerberus, three gentlemen at once.'
I shall nail him to one _alias_ for the future, if I catch him. But
there seems very little chance of my catching him at all. I've come on a
wild-goose chase, and can't expect to succeed."
This mood of comparative depression did not last long. Percival felt
certain that the other boat would be overtaken, or that Brian would be
found to have sailed in another ship. He could not reconcile himself to
any idea of returning to Elizabeth with his task half done.
They were nearing the Equator, and the heat of the weather was great. It
was less fine, however, than was usually the case, and when Percival
turned into his berth one night, he noticed that the stars were hidden,
and that rain was beginning to fall. He slept lightly, and woke now and
then to hear the swish of water outside, and the beat of the engines,
the dragging of a rope, or the step of a sailor overhead. He was
dreaming of Elizabeth, and that she was standing with him beside Brian
Luttrell's grave, when suddenly he awoke with a violent start, and a
sense that the world was coming to an end. In another moment he was out
of his berth and on the floor. There had been a scraping sound, then a
crash--and then the engines had stopped. There was a swaying sensation
for a second or two, and then another bump. Percival knew instinctively
what was the matter. The ship had struck.
After that moment's silence there was an outcry, a trampling of feet, a
few minutes' wild confusion. The voice of the captain rose strong and
clear above the hubbub as he gave his orders. Percival, already
half-dressed, made his appearance on deck and soon learned what was the
matter. The ship had struck twice heavily, and was now filling as
rapidly as possible. The sailors were making preparations for launching
the long boat. "Women and children first," said the captain, in his
stentorian tones.
The noise subsided as he made his calm presence felt. The children
cried, indeed, and a few of the women shrieked aloud; but the men
passengers and crew alike, bestirred themselves to collect necessary
articles, to reassure the timid, and to make ready the boats.
Percival was amongst the busiest and the bravest. His strength made him
useful, and it was easier for him to use it in practical work than to
stand and watch the proceedings, or even to console women and children.
For one moment he had a deep and bitter sense of anger against the
ordering of his fate. Was he to go down into the deep waters in the
hey-day of his youth and strength, before he had done his work or tasted
the reward of work well done? Had Brian Luttrell experienced a like
fate? And what would become of Elizabeth, sitting lonely in the midst of
splendours which she had felt were not justly hers, waiting for weeks
and months and years, perhaps, for the lovers who would never come back
until the sea gave up its dead?
Percival crushed back the thought. There was no time for anything but
action. And his senses seemed gifted with preternatural acuteness. He
saw a child near him put her little hand into that of a
soldierly-looking man, and heard her whisper--"You won't leave me,
papa?" And the answer--"Never, my darling. Don't fear." Just behind him
a man whispered in a woman's ear--"Forgive me, Mary." Percival wondered
vaguely what that woman had to forgive. He never saw any of the speakers
again.
For a strange thing happened. Strange, at least, it seemed to him; but
he understood it afterwards. The ship was really resting upon a ledge of
the rock on which she had struck: there was little to be seen in the
darkness except a white line of breakers and a mass of something
beyond--was it land? The ship gave a sudden outward lurch. There went up
a cry to Heaven--a last cry from most of the souls on board the
ill-fated _Arizona_--and then came the end. The vessel fell over the
edge of the rocky shelf into deep water and went down like a stone.
Percival was a good swimmer, and struck out vigorously, without any
expectation, however, of being able to maintain himself in the water for
more than a very short time. Escape from the tangled rigging and
floating pieces of the wreck was a difficult matter; but the water was
very calm inside the reef, and not at all cold. He tried to save a woman
as she was swept past him: for a time he supported a child, but the
effort to save it was useless. The little creature's head struck against
some portion of the wreck and it was killed on the spot. Percival let
the little dead face sink away from him into the water and swam further
from the point where it went down.
"There must be others saved as well as myself," he thought, when he was
able to think at all coherently. "At least, let me keep myself up till
daylight. One may see some way of escape then." It had been three
o'clock when the ship struck. He had remembered to look at his watch
when he was first aroused. Would his strength last out till morning?
If his safety had depended entirely on his swimming powers he would have
been, indeed in evil case. But long before the first faint streak of
dawn appeared, it seemed to him that he was coming in contact with
something solid--that there was something hard and firm beneath him
which he could touch from time to time. The truth came to him at last.
The tide was going down; and as it went down, it would leave a portion
of the reef within his reach. There might be some unwashed point to
which he could climb as soon as daylight came. At any rate, as the
waters ebbed, he found that he could cling to the rock, and then, that
he could even stand upon it, although the waves broke over him at every
moment, and sometimes nearly washed him from his hold.
Never was daylight more anxiously awaited. It came at last; a faint,
grey light in the east, a climbing flush of rose-colour, a host of
crimson wavelets on a golden sea. And, as soon as the darkness
disappeared, Percival found that his conjecture was a correct one. He
was not alone. There were others beside himself who had won their way to
even safer positions than his own. Portions of the reef on which the
ship had struck were now to be plainly seen above the sea-level; it was
plain that they were rarely touched by the salt water, for there was an
attempt at vegetation in one or two places. And beyond the reef Percival
saw land, and land that it would be easy enough to reach.
He turned to look for the remains of the _Arizona_, but there was little
to be seen. The tops of her masts were visible only in the deep water
near the reef. Spars, barrels, articles of furniture, could here and
there be distinguished; nothing of value nor of interest. Percival
determined to try for the shore. But first he would see whether he could
help the other men whom he had discerned at a little distance from him
on a higher portion of the reef.
He crept out to them, feeling his way cautiously, and not sure whether
he might not be swept off his feet by the force of the waves. To his
surprise, when he reached the two men, he found that they were two of
the survivors from the wreck of the _Falcon_. One of them was Thomas
Jackson, and the other was Mackay, the steerage passenger.
"It's plain you weren't born to be drowned," said Percival, addressing
Jackson, familiarly.
"No, sir, it don't seem like it," returned the man. "There's one or two
more that have saved themselves by swimming, too, I fancy. We'd better
make land while we can, sir."
"Your friend's not able to help himself much, is he?" said Percival,
with a sharp glance at the bearded face of the steerage passenger.
"Swims like a duck when he's all right, sir; but at present he's got a
broken leg. Fainted just now; he'll be better presently. I wouldn't have
liked to leave him behind."
"We'll haul him ashore between us," said Percival.
It was more easily said than done; but the task was accomplished at
last. Thomas Jackson was of a wiry frame: Percival's trained muscles (he
had been in the boats at Oxford) stood him in good stead. They reached
the mainland, carrying the steerage passenger with them; for the poor
man, not yet half-recovered from the effects of exposure and privation,
and now suffering from a fracture of the bone just above the ankle, was
certainly not in a fit state to help himself. On the island they found a
few cocoa-nut trees: under one of these they laid their burden, and then
returned to the shore to see whether there was any other castaway whom
they could assist.
In this search they were successful. One man had already followed their
example and swam ashore, but he was so much exhausted that they felt
bound to help him to the friendly shade of the cocoa-nut trees, where
the steerage passenger, now conscious of his position, and as deadly
white with the pain of his broken bone as the discolouration of his
scorched face permitted him to be, moved aside a little in order to make
room for him. There was another man on the reef; but he had been crushed
between the upper and lower topsails, and it was almost impossible to
get him to shore. Percival and Jackson made the effort, but a great wave
swept the man into a cavern of the reef to which he was clinging before
they could come to his assistance, and he was not seen again. With a lad
of sixteen and another sailor they were more fortunate. So that when at
last they met under the tree to compare notes and count their numbers,
they found that the party consisted of six persons: Heron, Thomas
Jackson, and his pet, the steerage passenger; George Pollard, the
steward; Fenwick, the sailor; and Jim Barry, the cabin boy. They stared
at each other in rather helpless silence for about a minute, and then
Heron burst into a strange laugh.
"Well, I've heard of a desert island all my life," he said, "but I never
was on one before."
"I was," said Fenwick, slowly, "and I didn't expect to get landed upon
another. But, Lord! if once you go to sea, there's no telling."
"You must feel thankful that you're landed at all," remarked Percival.
"You might have been food for the fishes by this time."
"I'd most as soon," said Fenwick, in a stolid tone, which had a
depressing effect on the spirits of some of the party. The lad Barry
began to whimper a little, and Pollard looked very downcast.
"Cheer up, lads," said Percival, quickly. It was wonderful to see how
naturally he fell into a position of command amongst them. "That isn't
the way to get home again. Never fear but a ship will pass the island
and pick us up. We can't be far out of the ordinary course of the
steamers. We shall be here a day or two only, or a week, perhaps. What
do you say, Jackson?"
Jackson drew the back of his hand across his mouth, and seemed to
meditate a reply; but while he considered the matter, the steerage
passenger spoke for the first time.
"Mr. Heron is right," he said, causing Percival a moment's surprise at
the fact of his name being so accurately known by a man to whom he had
never spoken either on board the _Arizona_ or since they landed. "We all
ought to feel thankful to Almighty God for bringing us safe to land,
instead of grumbling that the island has no inhabitants. We have had a
wonderful escape."
"And so say I, sir," said Jackson, touching an imaginary cap with his
forefinger, while Barry and Fenwick both looked a little ashamed of
themselves, and Pollard mechanically followed the example set by the
sailor. "Them as grumbles had better keep out of my sight unless they
want to be kicked."
"You're fine fellows, both of you," cried Percival, heartily. And then
he shook hands with Jackson, and would have followed suit with the
steerage passenger, had not Mackay drawn back his hand.
"I'm not in condition for shaking hands with anybody," he said, with a
smile; and Percival remembered his burns and was content.
"I know this place," said Jackson, looking round him presently. "It's a
dangerous reef, and there's been a many accidents near it. Ships give it
a wide berth, as a general rule." The men's faces drooped when they
heard this sentence. "The _Duncan Dunbar_ was wrecked here on the way to
Auckland. The _Mercurius_, coming back from Sydney by way of 'Frisco,
she was wrecked, too--in '70. It's the Rocas Reef, mates, which you may
have heard of or you may not; and, as near as I remember, it's about
three degrees south of the Line: longitude thirty-three twenty, west."
"I remember now," said Percival, eagerly. His work as a journalist
helped him to remember the event to which Jackson alluded. "The men of
the _Mercurius_ found some iron tanks filled with water, left by the
_Duncan Dunbar_ people. We might go and see if they are still here. But
first we must attend to this man's leg."
"It is not very bad," said Mackay.
"It's tremendously swollen, at any rate. Are you good at this sort of
work, Jackson? I can't say I am."
"I know something about it," said Jackson. "Let's have a look, mate."
He knelt down and felt the swollen limb, putting its owner to
considerable pain, as Percival judged from the way in which he set his
teeth during the operation. Jackson had, however, a tolerable knowledge
of a rough sort of surgery, and managed to set the bone and bind up the
swollen limb in a manner that showed skill and tenderness as well as
knowledge. And then Percival proposed that they should try to find some
food, and make the tour of the island before the day grew hotter. The
leadership of the party had been tacitly accorded to him from the first;
and, after a consultation with the others, Jackson stepped forward to
say that they all wished to consider themselves under Mr. Heron's
orders, "he having more head than the rest of them, and being a
gentleman born, no doubt." At which Heron laughed good-humouredly and
accepted the position. "And none of us grudge you being the head," said
Jackson, sagely, "except, maybe, one, and he don't count." Heron made no
response; but he wondered for a moment whether the one who grudged him
his leadership could possibly be Mackay, whose eyes had a quiet
attentiveness to all his doings, which looked almost like criticism. But
there was no other fault to be found with Mackay's manner, while against
Fenwick's dogged air Percival felt some irritation.
The want of food was decidedly the first difficulty. Sea-birds' eggs and
young birds, shell-fish and turtle, were all easily to be obtained; but
how were they to be cooked? Percival was not without hopes that some
tinned provisions might be cast ashore from the wreck; but at present
there was nothing of the kind to be seen. A few cocoa-nuts were
procurable: and these provided them with meat and drink for the time
being. Then came the question of fire. The only possible method of
obtaining it was the Indian one of rubbing two sticks diligently
together for the space of some two hours; and Thomas Jackson sat down
with stoical patience worthy of an Indian himself to fulfil this
operation.
Percival, who felt that he could not bear to be doing nothing, started
off for a walk round the island, and the rest of the party dozed in the
shade until the return of their leader.
When Heron came back he made his report as cheerful as he could, but he
could not make it a particularly brilliant one, although he did his
best. He was one of those men who grumble at trifles, but are unusually
bright and cheerful in the presence of a great emergency. The sneer had
left his face, the cynical accent had disappeared from his voice; he
employed all his social gifts, which were naturally great, for the
entertainment of his comrades. As they ate boiled eggs and fried fish
and other morsels which seemed especially dainty when cooked over the
fire that Jackson's patient industry had lighted at last, the spirits of
the whole party seemed to rise; and Percival's determination to look
upon the bright side of things, produced a most enlivening effect. Some
of them remembered afterwards, with a sort of puzzled wonder, that they
had more than once laughed heartily during their first meal upon the
Rocas Reef.
Yet none of them were insensible to the danger through which they had
passed, nor the terrible position in which they stood. Uppermost in the
minds of each, although none of them liked to put it into words, was the
question--How long shall we stay here? Is it likely that any ship will
observe our signal of distress and come to our aid? They looked each
other furtively in the eyes, and read no comfort in each other's face.
They had landed upon one of two islands, about fifteen acres each in
size, which were separated at high water, but communicated with each
other when the tide had ebbed. Both islands lay low, and had patches of
white sand in the centre; but there was very little vegetation. Even
grass seemed as if it would not grow; and the cocoa-nut trees were few
and far between.
The signs of previous wrecks struck the men's hearts with a chill. There
was a log hut, to which Mackay was moved when evening came on; there
were the iron tanks of which Percival had made mention, filled with
rain-water; there were some rotten boards, and a small hammer and a
broken knife; but there was no fresh-water spring, and there were no
provision chests, such as Heron had vainly hoped to find.
The setting up of a distress-signal on the highest point of the island
was the next matter to be attended to; and for this purpose nothing
could be found more suitable than a very large yellow silk-handkerchief
which Percival had found in his pocket. It did not make a very large
flag, although it was enormous as a handkerchief; but no other article
of clothing could well be spared. Indeed, the spareness of their
coverings was a matter of some regret and anxiety on Percival's part. He
could not conceive what they were to do if they were on the island for
more than a few days; the rough work which would be probably necessary
being somewhat destructive of woollen and linen garments. Jackson, with
whom he ventured a joke on the subject, did not receive it in very good
part. "You needn't talk as if we was to stay here for ever, Mr. Heron,
sir," he murmured. "But there's always cocoa-nut fibre, if the worst
comes to the worst."
"Ah, yes, cocoa-nut fibre," said Percival, turning his eyes to one of
the slim, straight stems of the palm trees. "I forgot that. I seem to
have walked straight into one of Jules Verne's books. Gad! I wish I
could walk out of it again. What a thrilling narrative I'll make of this
for the _Mail_ when I get home. If ever I do get home. Bah, it's no use
to talk of that."
These reflections were made under his breath, while Jackson walked on to
examine a nest of sea-birds' eggs; for Percival was wisely resolved
against showing a single sign of undue anxiety or depression of spirits,
lest it should re-act on the minds of those who had declared themselves
his followers. For the rest of the day the party worked hard at various
contrivances for their own welfare and comfort.
Firewood was collected; birds and fish caught for the evening meal. To
each member of the party a task was assigned: even Mackay could make
himself useful by watching the precious flame which must never be
suffered to go out. And thus the day wore on, and night came with its
purple stillness and its tropical wealth of stars.
The men sought shelter in the hut: Percival only, by his own choice,
remained outside until he thought that they were sleeping. He wanted to
be alone. He had banished reflection pretty successfully during the day;
but at night he knew that it would get the better of him. And he felt
that he must meet and master the thronging doubts and fears and regrets
that assailed him. Whatever happened he would not be sorry that he had
come. If he never saw Elizabeth's face again, he was sure that her
memories of him would be full of tenderness. What more did he want? And
yet he wanted more.
He found out what his heart desired before he laid himself down to sleep
amongst the men. He would have given a year of his life to know whether
Brian Luttrell was alive or dead. And he could not honestly say that he
wished Brian Luttrell to be alive.