CAST ASHORE ON AN ISLAND
“Not a bit of land nor a sail in sight!”
Such were the disheartening words which escaped Larry’s lips when the
morning had dawned, and he had taken a long and careful look around,
as one wave and another lifted him up to the level of the dark green
mountains shifting around him.
The long stretches of the night, coupled with the fury of the elements,
had thoroughly exhausted him, and it took all the little will-power
left to keep from dropping over into a sleep which would surely have
ended in death.
The morning sun glinted over the waves, flashing and flaring in his
eyes, and then began to mount the skies and pour down those scorching
rays upon his uncovered head. Soon this brought to him the first of the
added perils of which he had thought――that of thirst. Never was he so
dry before――with millions of tons of water around him! He was almost
tempted to drink of the salty water, but resisted, knowing full well
that if he did so, his thirst would be tenfold increased.
Where would it end?
Over and over again he asked himself that question without being able
to devise an answer. Would not some friendly sail appear, or some tiny
coral island――one of those many of which the missionary had spoken?
Thinking of Mr. Wells made him think of the _Columbia_. Surely, surely,
his friends on board of her would not desert him. But then his cheeks
blanched as he thought of the storm and the fire. Had the gallant craft
fallen a prey to one or the other, after all? It might be, for ships
had been struck by lightning and gone down before.
Towards noon, with the fierce sun directly overhead, he felt that the
end must be near. His mind was in a whirl, and fearful visions came to
him: now he was battling with the sawfish, then the great snake was
coming through the water after him, and anon Oleson had him by the
throat and was choking him. The last vision seemed so real that he
cried out as loudly as his parched throat would permit, “Help! help!
somebody help me!”
What was that? an answering call? No, no, it must be another
hallucination. Yet he strained his ears eagerly, and screamed again.
No, it was no deception; the call was returned, and the voice sounded
sweetly familiar. He was down in a hollow, and waited eagerly to mount
the coming wave. Up he went, and still up, to come in contact with a
bit of wreckage――the fore-topmast of the _Columbia_, with its trailing
ropes. As he caught the end of the mast, he saw that the centre
supported a sailor’s body.
“Luke Striker!”
“Larry Russell! Is it possible!” came from the Yankee tar. For the
moment he could scarcely believe his eyesight. “How did this happen?
Did the _Columbia_ go down?”
“I don’t know about that,” answered Larry, moving closer to his friend.
“Oh, how glad I am that we have come together!” he exclaimed, his wet
face beaming with pleasure. “It’s awful to be alone.”
“So it is, Larry, and I was thinking just that same when I heard your
call. But how is it you are here if you don’t know about the fate of
the _Columbia_?”
“Oleson pitched me overboard. When you went over, I started to call for
help, and he turned on me like a flash; and here I am.”
“And you don’t know about the craft――if she is O. K. or not?”
“I am afraid something must have happened, for Captain Ponsberry
wouldn’t desert us like this, would he?”
“Cap’n Ponsberry was knocked out by the lightning――don’t you remember
Tom Grandon sayin’ so? But Tom wouldn’t desert us; I know him too well.
Yes, I’m afraid the ship has had a tough time of it, and maybe she’s at
the bottom of the China Sea this minit.” Striker drew a deep breath.
“We’re in a pickle, lad, jest about as deep as we can git!”
“I know I am dying for a drink. Oh, if only we could sight land
somewhere! Are we far from Formosa?”
“Formosa? Why, lad, we’ve been driving south’ard as fast as we could
for forty-eight hours. We are closer to some o’ the Philippines nor
anything――though I allow as they must be miles an’ miles away. Yet I’m
prayin’ myself we may strike some land afore we see Davy Jones’ locker.”
With some of the dangling ropes Striker had made himself a sort of seat
beside the mast, and now Larry went to work, on the opposite side,
to do the same for himself. This accomplished, he rested far more
comfortably than before. While he was at work, the Yankee sailor took
another rope which was slender, and began to twist and braid it into
a shell-like head covering, similar to one he had already made for
himself. The dampness and shade of the improvised hat made Larry’s head
feel much better.
Slowly the afternoon wore away. Towards evening the sun went behind a
dense mass of angry clouds, and it began to rain as before, while the
distant rumble of thunder crept closer and closer. An hour later the
storm was on them in all of its fury, and they found themselves driving
to the southwestward, over and through the boiling and lashing waves
which threatened to engulf them forever.
“I can’t stand much of this!” panted poor Larry, at about midnight. “My
chest is pounded so sore I can hardly breathe. Every time a wave breaks
over me I―― Oh, Luke, look!”
A broad spread of lightning had lit up the scene around them, causing
Larry to suddenly change his talk.
“What is it, Larry?”
“Land! just ahead of us! We are getting into the breakers already!”
He spoke the truth, and a second later another flash of lightning gave
Striker an opportunity to take in the situation.
“You’re right, my lad. Quick! unfasten yourself from that rope and
hold ready to let go, or you may be smashed to jelly between the mast
and the rocks. See, we are already passing over an outer reef. Look
out, and if your feet touch the beach run as hard as you can from the
undertow!”
Striker fairly screamed the last words, in order to make himself
heard, for the pounding of the surf was like the booming of cannons
around them. Up they went to the top of the last wave, and then down
and down until the feet of both touched some hard substance. The spray
was flying in every direction, while the brine was lashed into a thick
foam. Larry tried to keep his feet, but failed utterly, and rolled over
and over, he knew not whither. The mast, which had slipped from him,
bumped his arm, and, without thinking of what he was doing, he clutched
the tangled-up ropes. Then came a second rise, and he was swept in
closer than before. The receding waves left him but knee-deep in the
element. A flash of lightning showed him in what direction safety lay,
and he ran with all the power left to his legs. Once he went down on
his hands, and the next wave nearly caught him, but he was up again
in a trice, and in a moment more was safe on the rocks which arose
directly behind the storm-beaten beach.
“Luke! are you safe?” were the first words he uttered, as soon as he
could catch his breath.
“I am, and thank God for it!” came from the Yankee sailor, and
presently he appeared out of the darkness. “That was a close shave,
lad, wasn’t it? I came near to striking on my head.”
“It was a close shave,” answered Larry, and added reverently: “We have
much to thank Heaven for, haven’t we?” Somehow, that time of extreme
peril was deeply impressed upon his youthful mind.
“Yes, lad, God has been with us this night, no doubt of it. We couldn’t
have stood it much longer drifting in that sea. Let us get a little
further back, under the shelter of yonder overhanging cliff; and there
we can take it easy until morning.”
Both had dropped upon the rocks, too exhausted to stand, but now they
managed to reach the base of the cliff Striker had mentioned, and here
they found a sheltered nook. Close at hand was a pool of rain-water,
of which both partook eagerly.
Half an hour later found the pair asleep――sleeping the heavy sleep of
the over-tired,――undisturbed by the thunder in the skies or on the
beach. They knew not where they had landed, nor did they care. It was
enough to know they had struck land, and an island that was not barren,
but covered with tropical growth, as the flashes of lightning had
revealed.
Striker was the first to awaken in the morning. He opened his eyes to
find the storm cleared away and the sun shining brightly. Larry lay at
his side, the boy’s curly head resting upon his wet arm, slumbering as
soundly as ever.
“I’ll let him sleep until he wakes up――no use to ’rouse him,” thought
the Yankee sailor, and got up himself. He was stiff and sore, and it
was several seconds before he felt in the humor to set off on a tour
of inspection. Before going, he brought from one of his pockets a
water-proof match-safe, and was delighted to find therein eight matches
all in perfect condition.
A short walk along the cliff, below and above,――for the rocky shelf
was irregular, and not over twenty feet high,――convinced Striker that
no human beings were in the vicinity, to become their friends or their
enemies; and then the sailor set about obtaining some food, for he was
now nearly starved.
He felt certain that the storm had cast up upon the irregular beach
more or less fish, and in this he was not mistaken, for hardly had he
covered a distance of half a dozen rods than he heard a flapping, and
saw a winged coryphene trying vainly to reach the ocean, from which it
had been hurled.
“A dolphin!” he cried, making a mistake common to many sailors, who do
not distinguish the difference between the two creatures. In a second
he had the coryphene by the tail, and a blow upon the rocks ended the
wounded one’s misery and made the prize his own. The fish was over two
feet long, and weighed all of seven pounds. It was at first black and
brown, but its colors soon changed to olive and azure,――a peculiarity
which it shares with the true dolphin of other waters.
Fish in hand, Striker returned to where he had left Larry, and
commenced to gather such brush as he could find which was dry or
drying. It was no easy matter to discover wood dry enough to burn at
once; but the shelter under the cliff afforded a little, and with this
he started a blaze, and soon had a roaring fire, upon one edge of which
he erected a flat stone, which soon became hot enough to use for a rude
pan for his fish.
It was the welcome smell of something to eat which aroused Larry quite
as much as anything else. He sat up, rubbed his eyes in astonishment,
and leaped to his feet.
“A fire, and a fish frying!” he cried. “That is a welcome sight to a
fellow as hungry as I am! How did you catch him, Luke?”
“It was pure luck, Larry,” answered the sailor, and told his story.
“The fish will be done to a turn in a few minutes, and then we can
eat our fill; and I’ll warrant you’ll find it fine eating, and not
altogether because you’re so hungry, either.”
“I could eat anything,” was the reply. And when they sat down in the
shade,――for the sun was growing hot,――Larry declared he had never
tasted anything better. The flesh of the coryphene was as sweet as a
nut, and they ate and ate, until little more than the bones was left.