NO LONGER A KING
The force of the bomb must have been tremendous. I believe it was hours
before I regained consciousness. When at last I did revive, I was dizzy
and deafened, the world about me was black, a storm was raging in the
heavens and the boat was heaving with a great commotion. Everything was
puzzling. Finally I remembered something of what had happened and knew
where I was.
“Dearest,” I said, giving the goddess the name which I had only dared to
call her to myself, “dearest—are you there?” and I crawled toward the
stern.
“Here—John,” said a faint, sweet voice, and then I found her hand and
knew that she too had been long unconscious, after that moment of
terrible things.
We were on the sea! Of that I was soon made sure. The wind was driving
us—the Lord only knew where; the waves were tossing the boat about as if
she had been but a thimble afloat; and the spray flung across us and
drenched us both repeatedly. This had doubtless fetched us around, the
goddess first, for she had been less injured than I by the explosion,
having been seated, while I was standing, at the fateful moment. The
tide had carried us straight out to the ocean, as we lay helpless in the
craft.
We crouched in the bottom of the boat and clung to the seat for an age.
The rain came driving down; the force of the gale appeared to increase,
and we scudded away into the black abyss which had for its limits the
ends of mighty ocean.
We were out of our prison, adrift on the boundless main. When morning
came, we raised our heads and searched that wilderness of water—in vain.
No island—no ship—nothing was there in sight, save tumbling mountains of
water. We were lost in that trackless jungle of billows.
Of the day and the night of physical and mental anguish that followed, I
have no desire to think. Two souls made one by sufferings long endured,
we sought and found our only consolation in the words of hope and
affection, which each could give to each.
What water remained, or had been collected from the downpour, in the
shell of the tortoise, got slopped out soon in the boat. It mingled with
the salt water, shipped from time to time, and swashing about, ruined
the meat and fruits, put out the fire and soaked the skins. Then the sun
and the scorching air played their tricks at parching and burning us up.
How useless and vain seemed the sack of gold, lying there in the wash!
I cut and broke the pole I had taken along, and lashing the shorter
piece across the boat, to the oar-lock pins, made the other stand
upright, with a bit of skin flapping idly, for a signal of distress.
Toward the evening of the second day we sighted a steamer. As we were
low to the water and they were high, this boat was comparatively near
before we saw her loom above the horizon. She made us out, at last, and
we breathed our thanks, to see her put about and bear down toward the
good old boat which had served so nobly.
Then it was that a surge of feeling welled up within me, thoughts of my
long exile, the friendly Links—who had saved my life,—and of poor old
Fatty, who had sacrificed himself like a hero at the end—poor old Fatty,
my loving and beloved friend.
“What is it, John?” said the goddess tenderly.
“Oh nothing,” I faltered, swallowing hard at the lump in my throttle,
“I—I was just thinking that now—that now I’m no longer King of the
Missing Links;—I’m just an ordinary man.”
END.
Transcriber’s Notes
--Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public
domain in the country of publication.
--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard (or amusing)
spellings, dialect, and idiosyncratic punctuation unchanged.
--In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the
HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)
End of Project Gutenberg's The Crystal Sceptre, by Philip Verrill Mighels