WHAT THE TIDE BROUGHT IN.
The stranded party was much in need of a leader till one of the
crew volunteered the information that some miles higher up the
coast there was a beche-de-mer station where they would probably
get some means of communicating with the rest of the world, and at
least find food, of which every one was much in need. Beche-de-mer
fisheries are a feature of the coast, the beche-de-mer being a huge
sea-slug, thought to be a great delicacy.
This particular station was owned by some half-caste Portuguese,
and worked by a mixture of aborigines and Malays, a most
unpromising and ruffianly-looking set. However, they received the
unhappy boatload quite civilly, promised that a messenger should be
dispatched across country to the nearest civilized centre, and
provided a good meal of salt junk, sweet potatoes, rice, and tea.
It did not matter to the exhausted men and women that they had to
eat off tin plates, drink out of tin pannikins, and that the food
was more roughly prepared and served than any they had ever tasted
before.
They camped under some trees for the meal; and many sad eyes
looked towards the great calm sea, where not a trace of last
night's tragedy was to be seen. In the distance there was the sail
of an outgoing vessel--one of the beche-de-mer boats off on a
several months' trip. Besides that, there was just one tiny speck,
not so far out as the sail, but much smaller.
"It's a boat," said the captain of the station, a swarthy
Portuguese. He had been watching the speck for some time through a
telescope. "So far as I can make out it is something of the same
build as yours."
There was instant excitement. Could it be another of the ship's
boats?
It seemed an eternity before the boat came close enough to discover
that she did indeed belong to the ill-fated _Cora_. The crowd on
the beach was speechless before she pulled in to shore and her
worn-out occupants were disembarked.
Amongst the anxious watchers were Mrs. Orban, with the fretful,
feverish Becky in her arms, and Nesta and Eustace. But though they
pressed forward and saw every man, woman, and child that landed,
there was no comfort for them. Miss Chase and Peter had not come.
There was but one interpretation to put on this--they had never
left the ship.
"Any more boats likely to come?" asked a woman whose husband was
missing.
"No, lady," said a sailor, shaking his head pitifully. "They only
got one more out, and she was overcrowded and swamped. There was no
time for anything."
There is no describing the misery of the day that followed--the
terrible blankness for many, the haunting recollection that all had
of the nightmare experience.
The men at the station were as kind as they could be in their rough
way. The sailors who had manned the boats set to work to arrange
some comforts for the women and children, improvising hammocks for
them to lie in, as sleeping in the grass was dangerous on account
of snakes and other disagreeables.
Poor little Becky spent a day of weeping, for her wrist was very
painful. She needed all Mrs. Orban's attention, which was perhaps
fortunate for the poor lady--it gave her less time for brooding
over her terrible loss. Nesta cried herself nearly silly, and then
fell asleep in a hammock that a kindly old sailor prevailed on her
to try.
Eustace was too restless to settle down. He spent his time hovering
about his white-faced, desolate-looking mother. The moment inaction
began to tell on him and make him feel sleepy he went away for a
while, and paced up and down by the water's edge to rouse himself.
However useless his presence, he could not bear to leave his mother
lonely and unwatched; it seemed heartless to forget her and her
sorrows in sleep when she could take no rest.
"She might want something, or perhaps she would like to speak," he
argued, "or she may cry presently; and there mustn't be no one to
comfort her."
But Mrs. Orban asked for nothing for herself, only water now and
then to bandage Becky's wrist. She took the food when it was given
her, but ate very little. Whatever she was thinking about, she did
not speak of her trouble, but inquired after Nesta, and whether she
and Eustace had had plenty of food and felt no symptoms of chill or
fever.
"I wish father or Bob would come quick," thought the boy
helplessly; "we're no good. She is only thinking about taking care
of us all the time; and I don't know how to look after her. It
would have been better if I had been drowned instead of Aunt
Dorothy; she would have known what to do."
He was doing one of his violent pacings up and down, and every turn
backwards or forwards he had to change his course, for the tide was
running in fast. The sea fascinated him; he could not help watching
it, especially now when all sorts of bits of wreckage were
beginning to float in--lengths of rope, a life-belt or two, and
things belonging to the _Cora's_ deck. The men from the station
were watching with the sailors and hauling things in to land.
"Any bodies that went down will be carried by the under current
into the next bay," Eustace heard the beche-de-mer owner explaining
to the _Cora's_ crew.
"Well, my name's not Swaine," said an old sailor with a telescope,
"if that isn't one coming now."
There was a thrill of excitement, an immediate demand for the
telescope, as every one pressed forward.
"It will be a broken spar," said the beche-de-mer captain. "I've
been here fifteen years and there's never such a thing happened
yet."
"I'm going out in one of the boats, mate," said the old sailor
resolutely. "Who is coming with me?"
There were many volunteers at once, and the boat was launched.
Eustace remained as if frozen to the spot. He could just see the
log-like thing lying upon the water, gently tossed by the tiny
waves that were slowly, slowly bearing it to shore. It certainly
looked no bigger than a broken spar, and very much that shape as,
the boat drawn up alongside, two sailors leant over and lifted it
in.
It was all Eustace could do to make himself stay until the boat's
return, and he covered his face as the burden was gently lifted
ashore.
"It's all right, youngster," said a kindly voice at his elbow, one
of the older sailors; "he is alive--only unconscious. It's a
miracle; but there, miracles do happen, say what you will."
The news made all the difference to Eustace, and he pressed round
with the rest.
"Here," said one of the _Cora's_ crew, catching sight of him
suddenly, "make way for this laddie--it's his own brother."
In utter bewilderment Eustace felt himself forced to the centre of
the crowd, and there, with a man kneeling beside him trying
restoratives, lay Peter, with a life-belt round him, his face
ashen, and his fair hair all sodden--but he was living. They said
he was alive, but certainly he did not look it.
Eustace turned, fought his way madly through the press, and dashed
up the beach straight to the trees where his mother sat bending
over Becky.
"Hush," she said warningly; "I am just getting her off to sleep."
The quiet voice pulled the boy up just in time, before he had
blurted out his news in all its crudeness.
"Mother," he said instead, "let me hold Becky--I can really. Peter
will want you."
Mrs. Orban neither started nor changed colour; she just stared at
Eustace curiously, and said inquiringly,--
"Peter?"
"Yes, mummie, Peter," Eustace said in a shaking voice. "He is
unconscious, but he will want you when he opens his eyes."
He held out his arms for Becky; and Mrs. Orban rose and went as if
she were dreaming, leaving him standing there with the baby.
It was a very long time before Peter knew that he wanted his
mother. Terror and the exposure in the water for so many hours had
done their work, and even when the little fellow recovered
consciousness he was too ill to realize anything at all.
Every one was very kind to the Orbans. The poor lady who had lost
her husband took entire charge of Becky; other fellow-passengers
offered to help with Peter, who needed nursing night and day. The
survivors from the wreck clung together, and found some comfort in
helping each other. The people of the station were very attentive
and good; but the relief party from Cooktown was hailed with
thankfulness, for there were of course many discomforts and
unpleasantnesses. The blacks had a disagreeable habit of prowling
about in the night and peeping at their guests as they tried to
sleep in the impromptu hammocks. The food was coarse and
monotonous; the men rough, and uncouth in their ways.
When Eustace saw his father he felt a great burden lifted from his
shoulders; his powerlessness to help his mother did not matter any
more; no one could comfort her like his father. Then there was Bob;
he would help the whole family to keep up in his usual splendid
way!
Fortunately Mr. Orban and Bob had not yet left Cooktown when the
news of the disaster arrived. They hastened to the beche-de-mer
station on getting Mrs. Orban's message, without the least
knowledge whom they would find of their own party; and after the
first explanations were over, no one could speak of the cloud
shadowing the joy of meeting. To Eustace's infinite surprise, Bob,
to whom he had looked for so much, failed him utterly--he could not
rouse himself, let alone other people.
The survivors of the wrecked _Cora_ were carried by steamer to
Cooktown, and Mr. Orban took his family to the best hotel, for no
plans could be made till Peter was better.
Alone with Eustace, Nesta gave vent to her feelings very often.
"Eustace," she said, "wasn't it queer Aunt Dorothy saying the very
day before we left she didn't feel a bit as if we were going to
England? Do you remember?"
Eustace replied with a kind of grunt. He had not words for every
emotion as Nesta had.
"And it seems so horrid," she proceeded chokily, "to know nothing
about what happened to her or even how it happened. If only some
one could tell us!"
"What's the good of talking when no one can?" said Eustace
gruffly. "I can't think why you do. You only make yourself cry."
The first person to speak of Miss Chase without tears was Peter. He
was lying in their private sitting-room, and suddenly he said,--
"I say, where's Aunt Dorothy?"
He had asked before, but in his weakness the subject had easily
been changed.
"She is not here, dear," said Mrs. Orban.
"That's funny," said Peter, in his old talkative way; "she
distinctly said she was coming."
Bob got up from a deep chair and stood, with his back to the room,
looking out of the window.
"Did she, Peter?" said Mr. Orban quickly. "When?"
"Why, on the boat," said Peter; "when she put the life-belt round
me."
"Oh, she put the life-belt round you, did she?" said Mr. Orban.
"And what did she say?"
Every one leant forward eagerly. It was the first time Peter had
shown any inclination to talk, and no one had guessed he could
possibly know anything of Miss Chase.
"She said," was his clear reply, "'That's right, Peter Perky. Now
mind you float; don't struggle, but lie on your back.'--Bob," he
broke off, "lucky you taught me to float, wasn't it?"
"Yes, yes," said Bob; "never mind about that. Go on about Dorothy."
Eustace stared at his back in wonder. For the first time in his
life he heard Bob irritable.
"She said," Peter went on obediently, "'Don't be frightened; I am
coming too.'"
"Well?" prompted Mr. Orban.
"Then she took me up, and we jumped overboard. I don't know what
happened next."
"Try to think," said Bob in a hard voice.
"I can't," said Peter; "everything was noise and blackness. Ask
Aunt Dorothy; she'll tell you."
There was a solemn hush--so solemn that Peter stared round in
amazement at the grave faces. Bob turned and walked heavily out of
the room. Nesta buried her head in her hands.
"Why, what's the matter?" asked Peter sharply.
He had to be told then, and he wept as if his heart would break;
but he could remember nothing after the jump into the sea. It
appeared that he was all by himself at the other side of the ship,
very unhappy because he thought it was all his fault Becky had been
hurt. Then came the crash, and he was terrified. He was wondering
what had happened, when Aunt Dorothy came running towards him,
crying, "Peter, Peter, where are you?" And then followed the
putting on of the life-belt. It was so easy to picture her talking
to him all the time, to reassure him, in that quick, cheery way of
hers.
"O Eustace," Nesta said afterwards, "wasn't she splendid? I guess
Bob must be sorry he teased her so now."
"Pooh," said Eustace, "that was only his fun. Aunt Dorothy knew
it."
But Nesta could not stand teasing herself, and was sure no one
liked or understood it.
"I don't know," she said; "she used to get red sometimes. And I'm
not so sure Bob did mean it all in chaff. He has a real
down-on-anything-English. I mean to ask him some day what he thinks
of English girls' pluck now."
"If you do," said Eustace, with sudden ferocity, "I'll never speak
to you again."
Nesta stared at him in dismay.
"Why ever?" she asked dully. "Wouldn't he like to talk about her?
Didn't he like her, really?"
"Like her!" Eustace exclaimed. "Oh, you little stupid! Didn't you
see him when Peter was telling us about her? Didn't you hear Bob
then? Can't you understand?"
Nesta stared in blank silence for some seconds.
"Oh, I say!" she gasped, "I didn't know! I never thought of that!
I--I wasn't looking at him."
"I wasn't looking at anything else," said Eustace; "but I guess he
wouldn't like to think any one knew, so we must hold our tongues.
But I couldn't have you going and asking him blundering questions."
"I won't," said Nesta, with unwonted meekness. "When did you
guess?"
"Only then," said Eustace; "but now I can remember lots of things.
Bob always liked talking to her better than any one. Bob didn't
want her to go. Bob asked her to come back."
He broke off short and slammed out of the room. It was as bad to
think of as it had been to bear his mother's helpless loneliness;
for as he could do nothing then for her, he could do nothing now
for Bob.
It was a matter of conjecture between the twins what was likely to
happen next. They really expected that, when Peter was well enough
for the rough journey, they would all go back to the plantation,
and settle down again for ever and ever.
A telegram had been dispatched with the bad news to Mr. and Mrs.
Chase. The reply was an urgent appeal for them all to go on as
first intended.
Leaving everything on the plantation in Bob's care, Mr. Orban
decided to take his wife and family home himself. It would not be
the joyful home-coming they had anticipated; and Mrs. Orban would
need him, he knew.
"We must do what we can for the poor dear old people," Mr. Orban
explained to Bob. "Dorothy was their baby. It is a terrible loss to
them."
"To every one," said Bob briefly.