We contrived to keep afloat all that night, and, the stream running
strong with us, to glide a long way down the river. But, we found the
night to be a dangerous time for such navigation, on account of the
eddies and rapids, and it was therefore settled next day that in future
we would bring-to at sunset, and encamp on the shore. As we knew of no
boats that the Pirates possessed, up at the Prison in the Woods, we
settled always to encamp on the opposite side of the stream, so as to
have the breadth of the river between our sleep and them. Our opinion
was, that if they were acquainted with any near way by land to the mouth
of this river, they would come up it in force, and retake us or kill us,
according as they could; but that if that was not the case, and if the
river ran by none of their secret stations, we might escape.
When I say we settled this or that, I do not mean that we planned
anything with any confidence as to what might happen an hour hence. So
much had happened in one night, and such great changes had been violently
and suddenly made in the fortunes of many among us, that we had got
better used to uncertainty, in a little while, than I dare say most
people do in the course of their lives.
The difficulties we soon got into, through the off-settings and point-
currents of the stream, made the likelihood of our being drowned,
alone,--to say nothing of our being retaken--as broad and plain as the
sun at noonday to all of us. But, we all worked hard at managing the
rafts, under the direction of the seamen (of our own skill, I think we
never could have prevented them from oversetting), and we also worked
hard at making good the defects in their first hasty construction--which
the water soon found out. While we humbly resigned ourselves to going
down, if it was the will of Our Father that was in Heaven, we humbly made
up our minds, that we would all do the best that was in us.
And so we held on, gliding with the stream. It drove us to this bank,
and it drove us to that bank, and it turned us, and whirled us; but yet
it carried us on. Sometimes much too slowly; sometimes much too fast,
but yet it carried us on.
My little deaf and dumb boy slumbered a good deal now, and that was the
case with all the children. They caused very little trouble to any one.
They seemed, in my eyes, to get more like one another, not only in quiet
manner, but in the face, too. The motion of the raft was usually so much
the same, the scene was usually so much the same, the sound of the soft
wash and ripple of the water was usually so much the same, that they were
made drowsy, as they might have been by the constant playing of one tune.
Even on the grown people, who worked hard and felt anxiety, the same
things produced something of the same effect. Every day was so like the
other, that I soon lost count of the days, myself, and had to ask Miss
Maryon, for instance, whether this was the third or fourth? Miss Maryon
had a pocket-book and pencil, and she kept the log; that is to say, she
entered up a clear little journal of the time, and of the distances our
seamen thought we had made, each night.
So, as I say, we kept afloat and glided on. All day long, and every day,
the water, and the woods, and sky; all day long, and every day, the
constant watching of both sides of the river, and far ahead at every bold
turn and sweep it made, for any signs of Pirate-boats, or
Pirate-dwellings. So, as I say, we kept afloat and glided on. The days
melting themselves together to that degree, that I could hardly believe
my ears when I asked "How many now, Miss?" and she answered "Seven."
To be sure, poor Mr. Pordage had, by about now, got his Diplomatic coat
into such a state as never was seen. What with the mud of the river,
what with the water of the river, what with the sun, and the dews, and
the tearing boughs, and the thickets, it hung about him in discoloured
shreds like a mop. The sun had touched him a bit. He had taken to
always polishing one particular button, which just held on to his left
wrist, and to always calling for stationery. I suppose that man called
for pens, ink, and paper, tape, and scaling-wax, upwards of one thousand
times in four-and-twenty hours. He had an idea that we should never get
out of that river unless we were written out of it in a formal
Memorandum; and the more we laboured at navigating the rafts, the more he
ordered us not to touch them at our peril, and the more he sat and roared
for stationery.
Mrs. Pordage, similarly, persisted in wearing her nightcap. I doubt if
any one but ourselves who had seen the progress of that article of dress,
could by this time have told what it was meant for. It had got so limp
and ragged that she couldn't see out of her eyes for it. It was so
dirty, that whether it was vegetable matter out of a swamp, or weeds out
of the river, or an old porter's-knot from England, I don't think any new
spectator could have said. Yet, this unfortunate old woman had a notion
that it was not only vastly genteel, but that it was the correct thing as
to propriety. And she really did carry herself over the other ladies who
had no nightcaps, and who were forced to tie up their hair how they
could, in a superior manner that was perfectly amazing.
I don't know what she looked like, sitting in that blessed nightcap, on a
log of wood, outside the hut or cabin upon our raft. She would have
rather resembled a fortune-teller in one of the picture-books that used
to be in the shop windows in my boyhood, except for her stateliness. But,
Lord bless my heart, the dignity with which she sat and moped, with her
head in that bundle of tatters, was like nothing else in the world! She
was not on speaking terms with more than three of the ladies. Some of
them had, what she called, "taken precedence" of her--in getting into, or
out of, that miserable little shelter!--and others had not called to pay
their respects, or something of that kind. So, there she sat, in her own
state and ceremony, while her husband sat on the same log of wood,
ordering us one and all to let the raft go to the bottom, and to bring
him stationery.
What with this noise on the part of Mr. Commissioner Pordage, and what
with the cries of Sergeant Drooce on the raft astern (which were
sometimes more than Tom Packer could silence), we often made our slow way
down the river, anything but quietly. Yet, that it was of great
importance that no ears should be able to hear us from the woods on the
banks, could not be doubted. We were looked for, to a certainty, and we
might be retaken at any moment. It was an anxious time; it was, indeed,
indeed, an anxious time.
On the seventh night of our voyage on the rafts, we made fast, as usual,
on the opposite side of the river to that from which we had started, in
as dark a place as we could pick out. Our little encampment was soon
made, and supper was eaten, and the children fell asleep. The watch was
set, and everything made orderly for the night. Such a starlight night,
with such blue in the sky, and such black in the places of heavy shade on
the banks of the great stream!
Those two ladies, Miss Maryon and Mrs. Fisher, had always kept near me
since the night of the attack. Mr. Fisher, who was untiring in the work
of our raft, had said to me:
"My dear little childless wife has grown so attached to you, Davis, and
you are such a gentle fellow, as well as such a determined one;" our
party had adopted that last expression from the one-eyed English pirate,
and I repeat what Mr. Fisher said, only because he said it; "that it
takes a load off my mind to leave her in your charge."
I said to him: "Your lady is in far better charge than mine, Sir, having
Miss Maryon to take care of her; but, you may rely upon it, that I will
guard them both--faithful and true."
Says he: "I do rely upon it, Davis, and I heartily wish all the silver on
our old Island was yours."
That seventh starlight night, as I have said, we made our camp, and got
our supper, and set our watch, and the children fell asleep. It was
solemn and beautiful in those wild and solitary parts, to see them, every
night before they lay down, kneeling under the bright sky, saying their
little prayers at women's laps. At that time we men all uncovered, and
mostly kept at a distance. When the innocent creatures rose up, we
murmured "Amen!" all together. For, though we had not heard what they
said, we know it must be good for us.
At that time, too, as was only natural, those poor mothers in our
company, whose children had been killed, shed many tears. I thought the
sight seemed to console them while it made them cry; but, whether I was
right or wrong in that, they wept very much. On this seventh night, Mrs.
Fisher had cried for her lost darling until she cried herself asleep. She
was lying on a little couch of leaves and such-like (I made the best
little couch I could for them every night), and Miss Maryon had covered
her, and sat by her, holding her hand. The stars looked down upon them.
As for me, I guarded them.
"Davis!" says Miss Maryon. (I am not going to say what a voice she had.
I couldn't if I tried.)
"I am here, Miss."
"The river sounds as if it were swollen to-night."
"We all think, Miss, that we are coming near the sea."
"Do you believe now, we shall escape?"
"I do now, Miss, really believe it." I had always said I did; but, I had
in my own mind been doubtful.
"How glad you will be, my good Davis, to see England again!"
I have another confession to make that will appear singular. When she
said these words, something rose in my throat; and the stars I looked
away at, seemed to break into sparkles that fell down my face and burnt
it.
"England is not much to me, Miss, except as a name."
"O, so true an Englishman should not say that!--Are you not well
to-night, Davis?" Very kindly, and with a quick change.
"Quite well, Miss."
"Are you sure? Your voice sounds altered in my hearing."
"No, Miss, I am a stronger man than ever. But, England is nothing to
me."
Miss Maryon sat silent for so long a while, that I believed she had done
speaking to me for one time. However, she had not; for by-and-by she
said in a distinct clear tone:
"No, good friend; you must not say that England is nothing to you. It is
to be much to you, yet--everything to you. You have to take back to
England the good name you have earned here, and the gratitude and
attachment and respect you have won here: and you have to make some good
English girl very happy and proud, by marrying her; and I shall one day
see her, I hope, and make her happier and prouder still, by telling her
what noble services her husband's were in South America, and what a noble
friend he was to me there."
Though she spoke these kind words in a cheering manner, she spoke them
compassionately. I said nothing. It will appear to be another strange
confession, that I paced to and fro, within call, all that night, a most
unhappy man, reproaching myself all the night long. "You are as ignorant
as any man alive; you are as obscure as any man alive; you are as poor as
any man alive; you are no better than the mud under your foot." That was
the way in which I went on against myself until the morning.
With the day, came the day's labour. What I should have done--without
the labour, I don't know. We were afloat again at the usual hour, and
were again making our way down the river. It was broader, and clearer of
obstructions than it had been, and it seemed to flow faster. This was
one of Drooce's quiet days; Mr. Pordage, besides being sulky, had almost
lost his voice; and we made good way, and with little noise.
There was always a seaman forward on the raft, keeping a bright look-out.
Suddenly, in the full heat of the day, when the children were slumbering,
and the very trees and reeds appeared to be slumbering, this man--it was
Short--holds up his hand, and cries with great caution: "Avast! Voices
ahead!"
We held on against the stream as soon as we could bring her up, and the
other raft followed suit. At first, Mr. Macey, Mr. Fisher, and myself,
could hear nothing; though both the seamen aboard of us agreed that they
could hear voices and oars. After a little pause, however, we united in
thinking that we _could_ hear the sound of voices, and the dip of oars.
But, you can hear a long way in those countries, and there was a bend of
the river before us, and nothing was to be seen except such waters and
such banks as we were now in the eighth day (and might, for the matter of
our feelings, have been in the eightieth), of having seen with anxious
eyes.
It was soon decided to put a man ashore, who should creep through the
wood, see what was coming, and warn the rafts. The rafts in the meantime
to keep the middle of the stream. The man to be put ashore, and not to
swim ashore, as the first thing could be more quickly done than the
second. The raft conveying him, to get back into mid-stream, and to hold
on along with the other, as well is it could, until signalled by the man.
In case of danger, the man to shift for himself until it should be safe
to take him on board again. I volunteered to be the man.
We knew that the voices and oars must come up slowly against the stream;
and our seamen knew, by the set of the stream, under which bank they
would come. I was put ashore accordingly. The raft got off well, and I
broke into the wood.
Steaming hot it was, and a tearing place to get through. So much the
better for me, since it was something to contend against and do. I cut
off the bend of the river, at a great saving of space, came to the
water's edge again, and hid myself, and waited. I could now hear the dip
of the oars very distinctly; the voices had ceased.
The sound came on in a regular tune, and as I lay hidden, I fancied the
tune so played to be, "Chris'en--George--King! Chris'en--George--King!
Chris'en--George--King!" over and over again, always the same, with the
pauses always at the same places. I had likewise time to make up my mind
that if these were the Pirates, I could and would (barring my being shot)
swim off to my raft, in spite of my wound, the moment I had given the
alarm, and hold my old post by Miss Maryon.
"Chris'en--George--King! Chris'en--George--King! Chris'en--George--King!"
coming up, now, very near.
I took a look at the branches about me, to see where a shower of bullets
would be most likely to do me least hurt; and I took a look back at the
track I had made in forcing my way in; and now I was wholly prepared and
fully ready for them.
"Chris'en--George--King! Chris'en--George--King! Chris'en--George--King!"
Here they are!
Who were they? The barbarous Pirates, scum of all nations, headed by
such men as the hideous little Portuguese monkey, and the one-eyed
English convict with the gash across his face, that ought to have gashed
his wicked head off? The worst men in the world picked out from the
worst, to do the cruellest and most atrocious deeds that ever stained it?
The howling, murdering, black-flag waving, mad, and drunken crowd of
devils that had overcome us by numbers and by treachery? No. These were
English men in English boats--good blue-jackets and red-coats--marines
that I knew myself, and sailors that knew our seamen! At the helm of the
first boat, Captain Carton, eager and steady. At the helm of the second
boat, Captain Maryon, brave and bold. At the helm of the third boat, an
old seaman, with determination carved into his watchful face, like the
figure-head of a ship. Every man doubly and trebly armed from head to
foot. Every man lying-to at his work, with a will that had all his heart
and soul in it. Every man looking out for any trace of friend or enemy,
and burning to be the first to do good or avenge evil. Every man with
his face on fire when he saw me, his countryman who had been taken
prisoner, and hailed me with a cheer, as Captain Carton's boat ran in and
took me on board.