ADRIFT.
The attack made upon our hero was so sudden and so rapidly executed, that
there was no opportunity for resistance. Before he well knew what had
happened to him he found himself struggling in the ocean. Instinct led
him to strike out. In response to his cry the plank was thrown overboard,
as we know. He saw it and swam towards it. Fortunately he was an expert
swimmer, and had no difficulty in reaching it.
He got upon the plank and supported himself by it. Then, for the first
time, he was able to look towards the Sea Eagle. It was speeding away
from him, not rapidly, for there was a light wind, but surely.
“Surely they will lower a boat for me,” thought our hero, anxiously.
He had heard Tom Patch’s shout of encouragement, and he knew Tom
would not let him perish, if he could help it. He did not suspect that
the captain would be inhuman enough to refuse assistance. So he gazed
anxiously, but still hopefully, at the receding ship, wondering why there
was such a delay in getting out the boat. But when five minutes had
elapsed, and, straining his eyes in the uncertain light, he could see no
preparations going forward for a rescue, the thought flashed upon him
in all its horror that he was to be left to his fate. And what a fate!
Thousands of miles from home, adrift on the vast ocean, with only a plank
between him and destruction. Could anything be more fearful?
At present the ocean was comparatively calm. There was little breeze,
and so no high waves were excited. He could float without any great
difficulty in clinging to the plank. But this could not be expected to
last. To-morrow the waves might sweep him from his sole refuge, and to
certain destruction. Besides, he had neither food nor drink. Even were
he able to cling to the plank, hunger and thirst would soon make his
condition insupportable. There was still another consideration. It would
not do for him to sleep. Should he lose consciousness, his hold of the
plank would, of course, relax, and he would be drowned.
All these thoughts crowded upon our young hero, and, hero though we call
him, a feeling of bitter despair came to him. Was this to be the end of
all his glowing hopes and bright anticipations of future prosperity? Was
he never to see his mother and his little sister Katy again? He felt at
this terrible moment how he loved them both, and, anxious as he was for
himself, with death staring him in the face, he could not help thinking
how his death would affect these dear ones, and anxiously considered how
they would be able to get along without him. When the property was gone,
how would his mother get along?
“Oh, if I could but live for mother and Katy!” thought the poor boy. “I
would work for them without a murmur. But it is horrible to die in the
wild ocean so for away from home.”
He was not troubled by drowsiness, for in the tumult of his feelings he
could not have composed himself to sleep under any circumstances. His
mind was preternaturally active. Now he thought of his mother, now of
his school-mates, and his happy school-days at the Vernon High School, of
the many good times he had enjoyed hunting for nuts, or picking berries,
or playing ball with the boys. Then he thought of Squire Turner, and
wondered how he would feel when he heard of his death. Would he be glad
that there was no more chance of his being exposed as the incendiary of
his own building? Harry hardly knew what to think. It never occurred to
him to suspect that Squire Turner was responsible for his abduction and
for his present condition.
So the night wore slowly away. When the first gray streaks of dawn broke
upon the ocean, the Sea Eagle was more than fifty miles away. Harry was
still wakeful. His intense mental action had kept sleep at a distance.
As soon as the light had increased a little he began to look about
anxiously in every direction. There was one chance of life, and he clung
to that. He might be seen from some approaching vessel and picked up.
This chance was small enough. The avenues of the ocean are so many and so
broad, that no ship can be depended upon to keep the course of another.
What chance was there, in the brief time Harry could hope to hold out,
that any vessel would come near enough for him to be seen and rescued?
But it is said that drowning men will cling to a straw, and Harry was
in immediate danger of drowning. His thoughts were fixed in all their
intensity upon the remote contingency of a vessel’s passing. He almost
forgot that he was hungry. But, as the morning advanced, the craving for
food made itself unpleasantly felt. There was a gnawing at his stomach
(for he had eaten but lightly the evening before), which there was
no chance of appeasing. Harry knew well that this feeling would grow
stronger and stronger, until it became so agonizing as to make life a
burden. But there was always one relief, though a desperate one. He could
release his hold of the plank, and sink down into the deep waves, which,
merciless as they were, were more merciful than hunger and thirst, for
while the first brings protracted agony, the last affords a speedy relief
for all trouble.
After a while, thirst as well as hunger began to torment him. The salt
meat, which affords the staple of a sailor’s diet, induces thirst more
rapidly than ordinary food. So by noon his throat was parched with
thirst. He felt the tantalizing character of his situation; “Water, water
everywhere, but not a drop to drink.” He was half tempted to taste of the
water in which he was immersed; but he knew that, so far from affording
relief, it would only entail additional suffering, and, strong though the
temptation was, he had the prudence and self-denial to forbear.
Then, besides, partly owing to his sleeplessness, his head began to
throb with pain, and, altogether, the poor boy’s situation was becoming
desperate. It seemed as if his career was likely to terminate very
speedily.
While our hero is in this precarious condition, we must, for a brief
time, change the scene.
Sailing steadily towards him, though he knew it not, was the Australian
packet-ship Rubicon, bound from Liverpool to Melbourne.
It was a pleasant day, and most of the passengers were on deck, enjoying
the calm weather. Some had been sea-sick; but even those who were most
inclined to be disturbed by this most disagreeable of maladies, could
find no good cause for keeping below on so pleasant a day. The sea was
tranquil, the movement of the vessel calm and steady, and as such days
are not often to be reckoned upon, the passengers determined to make the
most of this.
Among the passengers were David Lindsay, a gentleman of middle age, and
his daughter Maud, a bright, handsome girl of thirteen. Mr. Lindsay was
a London merchant, who, partly for the benefit of his health, which had
been affected by too great devotion to business, partly because he had
business interests in Australia, had decided to go out to Melbourne on a
visit. He had not at first proposed to take his daughter, considering her
too young; but she was an only child, and, as her mother was dead, had
been treated by her father more as a companion than is usual with girls
of her age. So, when her father mentioned his plan, Maud at once said
confidently, “Oh, that will be charming, papa! How much I shall enjoy it!”
“How much you will enjoy it,” repeated her father. “Well, Maud, I can’t
say that your remark is particularly complimentary to me.”
“Why not?” asked Maud, innocently.
“I tell you that I am going to Australia,—a journey likely to keep me
away from home a year at least, and you are so ready to part with me that
you say at once that it is charming.”
“But, papa,” said Maud, “we shall not be separated at all.”
“How do you make that out?”
“_Of course_ you are going to take me with you!” and Maud put a strong
emphasis on the first two words.
“You seem to be pretty confident, considering that such an idea never
entered my head,” said her father.
“What, papa! You don’t mean to say that you thought of leaving me here in
England?”
“Certainly, my child.”
“But you know, papa, I can’t stay away from you so long. I’m sure you’re
going to take me with you.” And she put her arms coaxingly around his
neck.
“But what is to become of your education in the mean time, Maud?”
“Oh, that can wait.”
“You dispose of that difficulty very easily,” said her father, amused.
“Why, you see, papa, I am not so terribly old I’ve got plenty of time
before me, so that I can spare a year well enough. Besides, I shall be
learning something from observation. My governess says that there are two
great sources of instruction: one of these is the study of books; and the
other, and perhaps the more valuable of the two, is the right use of the
faculty of observation.”
In saying this she imitated the prim, methodical tone of her governess,
an elderly spinster, at whose little peculiarities Mr. Lindsay had often
been secretly amused.
He laughed outright at the excellent imitation given of Miss Pendleton’s
manner, and Maud saw that her suit was half won.
“You ought to be a lawyer, Maud,” he said, “you are so good at special
pleading.”
“That means that I am going, I suppose, papa?” said Maud, promptly.
“Not so fast. I have got to think it over. I must ask Miss Pendleton what
she thinks of it.”
“If you do, papa, will you be kind enough to repeat that remark I made
about the two sources of knowledge?”
“No, Maud, I don’t think I shall venture upon such a thing. However, I
will take your request into consideration.”
“Into a _favorable_ consideration, papa.”
“As to that, I cannot promise.”
Maud, however, felt tolerably assured that she had gained her point, as
indeed she had. Mr. Lindsay had been dreading his Australian trip mainly
because it would separate him from his daughter. Now he began to look
forward to it with interest and pleasure. Strange to say, the thought of
taking his daughter had never before occurred to him. Yet there seemed
no good reason for not doing it. She was young, and there was plenty of
time to obtain an education, as she had herself said. Besides, the remark
of her governess had considerable truth in it. Observation would be a
valuable source of information.
He consulted Miss Pendleton, offering her a year’s vacation on half
salary, and found her very ready to accept it. It was many years that she
had been teaching in different families, and the prospect of a year’s
respite, with such pecuniary inducements as would relieve her from loss
or anxiety, was a pleasant one. It would enable her to visit the family
of a married sister, and renew the familiar intercourse which her mode of
life for many years had rendered impracticable.
So it happened that when the packet Rubicon sailed, in the list of
passengers were Mr. David Lindsay and daughter.
Mr. Lindsay was sea-sick a fortnight, Maud scarcely at all. The dismal
hours in which he was a victim to this disagreeable complaint were made
much less intolerable by the services and bright, cheerful companionship
of his daughter, so that the merchant more than once felt thankful that
he had yielded to her entreaties, and made her the companion of his trip.
Maud and her father were standing by the side of the vessel, looking
out at the broad waste of waters, without any definite object in view.
Suddenly Maud exclaimed, “Papa, look there, and tell me what you see!”
She pointed to the east. He shook his head. “Your eyes are better than
mine, Maud,” he said. “I can see nothing.”
“Papa,” she said, energetically, “I am sure I can see a boy in the water
supported by a plank.”
The captain was on deck with his spy-glass. Mr. Lindsay went up to him
and told him what Maud had said. He turned his glass in the direction
indicated.
“The young lady is right,” he said. “It is a boy adrift upon a plank.”