"Mr Rodd! Ahoy!"
"Here, Joe, here!" came in half-suffocated tones.
"Wheer, my lad?" cried the man excitedly.
"Here! Here! Help!"
"But where's yer _here_, lad? I can't see you.--Can any of you? Oh,
look alive, some on you! Get hold of the boy anywhere--arms or legs or
anything--and hold on like grim death."
There was a sharp rustling of leaves and twigs which pretty well drowned
Rodd's answer--
"I'm down here."
"Where's _down here_, my lad? Are you under the boat?"
"No, no. Hanging to a bough, with the water up to my chest, and
something's tugging at me to drag me away."
"Oh, a-mussy me!" groaned the sailor. "Why aren't it to-morrow morning
and sun up? Can't any of you see him?"
"No, no, no, no!" came back, almost as dismally as groans.
"Well, can't you feel him, then?"
"No."
"I am here, Joe--here!" panted the lad. "Higher up the river than you
are. A big branch swept me out of the boat."
"Ah, yes, we went under it," groaned Joe. "Well, lads, he must be the
other side of the tree. Here, where's that there boat? Can any of you
see it?"
"No; we are all on us in the tree?"
"Well, I don't suppose you are swimming," roared Cross savagely. "Do
something, some on you! Thinking of nothing but saving your own blessed
lives! Are you going to let the poor lad drown?"
"Here, coxswain, why don't you tell us what to do?" snarled one of the
men.
"How can I," yelled Joe, "when I don't know what to do mysen? Oh, don't
I wish that I had got the skipper here! I'd let him have it warm!"
"Joe! Joe!" came out of the darkness. "I can't hold on! I can't hold
on!"
"Yah, you young idgit!" roared the sailor. "You must!"
"I can't, Joe--I can't!" cried Rodd faintly, and there was a gurgling
sputtering sound as if the water had washed over him.
"Oh-h!" groaned Joe. "Don't I tell you you must! Hold on by your arms
and legs--your eyelids. Stick your teeth into the branch. We are
a-coming, my lad.--Oh my! what a lie!" he muttered. Then aloud, and in
a despairing tone, "Can any one of you get up again' the stream to where
he is?"
"No!" came in a deep murmur. "If we go down we shall be washed away."
"Same here," groaned Joe. "I'm a-holding on with the water right up to
the middle, and just about ready to be washed off. I can't stir. Oh,
do one of you try and save the poor dear lad! I wish I was dead, I do!"
"Joe!" came faintly.
"Ay, ay, my lad!"
"Tell Uncle Paul--"
The words ended in a half-suffocated wailing cry, and almost the next
moment there was a tremendous splashing of water, and the snapping of a
good-sized branch, followed by sounds as of a struggle going on upon the
surface of the rushing stream as it lapped and hissed amongst the
tangled boughs and twigs.
"Hold hard!" yelled Joe. "Anywhere.--Got him, boys--_urrrrr_!--"
It was as if some savage beast had suddenly seized its prey. Then there
was a loud panting and more crackling as of branches giving way, and
directly after, in answer to a volley of inquiries, Joe Cross panted
out--
"Yes, I've got him, my lads, and he's got his teeth into me; but I don't
know how long we can hold on."
"You must hold on, Joe!" shouted a voice.
"Stick to him, messmate! I'm a-trying to get to you."
There was more crackling in the darkness, and a peculiar subdued sound
as of men panting after running hard; but it was only the hard breathing
of excitement.
"Have you got him still, Joe?" came in gasps.
"Yes, my lad, but he's awful still and I don't know that he aren't
drowned.--No, he aren't, for he's got his teeth into my shoulder, and
he's gripping hard. But the water keeps washing right up into my ear."
"Hoist him up a little higher," panted the other speaker.
"How can I? I've got my arm round him, but if I stir it means let go.
What are you doing, mate?"
"Trying to get down to you, but as soon as I stir the bough begins to
crack."
"Steady, mate, steady! I can't see you, but I can hear, and if you come
down on us we are gone. Here, I say, it will be hours before it's
morning, won't it?"
There was a groan in reply--a big groan formed by several voices in
unison.
"But how long will it be before, the tide goes down and leaves us?"
There was no reply, and a dead silence fell upon the occupants clinging
to different portions of the tree, all of whom had managed with the
strength and activity of sailors to drag themselves up beyond the reach
of the water and at varying distances from where Joe Cross clung with
one messmate hanging just above his head.
"Well, look here, messmates," said Joe at last, "it's no use to make the
worst on it. I've got the young skipper all right, and he's growing
more lively, for he just give a kick. Now who's this 'ere? It's you,
Harry Briggs, aren't it?"
"Ay, ay, mate; me and water, for I swallowed a lot before I got out of
it."
"Now, look here; how are you holding on?"
"Hanging down'ards, my lad, with my hind legs tied in a knot round a big
bough; and I keep on trying to get hold of you by the scruff, but I
can't quite reach."
"Why, that's a-hinging like the bees used to do outside my old mother's
skep. Well, you mustn't let go, my lad, else down you come."
"Well, I know that, mate," growled the man. "But I say, can't you reach
up to my hands?"
"Yah! No!" growled Joe. "I've only got two. Can't you reach down a
little further and get hold of my ears, or something?"
"My arms aren't spy-glasses, and they won't reach within a foot of you.
Can any of you swarm out above us here?"
"No--no--no!" came in voice after voice, from points that were evidently
fairly distant.
"Oh!" groaned the sailor addressed as Harry. "Fust time in my blessed
life I ever wished I was a 'Merican monkey."
"What for, mate?" panted Joe.
"So as to make fast round this 'ere branch with my tail."
"Joe! Joe!" came in a low hoarse tone. "Where am I!"
"Well, you are here, my lad; but don't let go with your teeth. Take
another good fast hold, but more outside like. Keep to the wool of the
jumper--if you can."
"Hah! I recollect now. We are in the water, and I have got hold of
you."
"That's right, my lad, and I'd say take a good fast holt of my hair,
only Ikey Gregg scissored it off so short when it turned so hot that
there's nothing to hold. But can you hyste yourself up a bit higher?"
"I'll try, Joe; but the water drags at me so. But, Joe, what are you
holding on to?"
"What they'd call a arm of the tree, sir."
"But if I try to climb up you shan't I drag you loose?"
"Oh, I'm no consequence, my lad. If I'm washed off I shall get hold
again somewheres. Never you mind me. There's Harry Briggs up aloft
a-reaching down a couple of his hands. If you feel you've got stuff
enough in you.--Take your time over it, my lad--you see if you can't
swarm a bit up me and then stretch up and think you are at home trying
to pick apples, till Harry gets a big grip of your wristies; and then
you ought to be able to swarm up him. Now then, do you think you can
try?"
"Yes, Joe; I think so," panted the boy. "That's right, my lad. I'd
give you a lift, only I can't, for I'm in rotten anchorage, and we
mustn't get adrift."
About a minute passed, in which little was heard but the whishing of the
water through the leaves and twigs, and the sound of hard breathing.
Then Joe spoke again--
"I don't want to hurry you, my lad, but if you think you can manage it
I'd say, begin."
"I'm ready now, Joe," said the boy faintly. "But do you think you can
hold on?"
"Aren't got time to think, my lad. You go on and do it. That's your
job, and don't you think as it's a hard 'un. Just you fancy the
doctor's yonder getting anxious about you, and then--up you goes."
"Yes, Joe," panted Rodd.
"And once you get hold of Harry Briggs' hands he'll draw you up a bit.
He's a-hinging down like one of them there baboons, tail up'ards. Then,
once he hystes you a bit, you get a good grip of him with your teeth
anywhere that comes first. He won't mind. That'll set your hands free,
and then up you goes bit by bit till you gets right into the tree."
"Yes, Joe; and then?"
"Well, my lad, then I'd set down striddling and have a rest."
"Below there! Ready!" cried Briggs. "I can't reach no further,
youngster, but I think if you can climb up and grip we might manage it."
"Yes! Coming!" cried Rodd.
And then no one saw, and afterwards Rodd could hardly tell how he
managed it, but with the water pressing him closer as he clung face to
face with the partially submerged coxswain, he managed to scramble
higher, clinging with arms and legs, till he occupied a hazardous
position astride of the sailor's shoulder, holding on with his left hand
and reaching up with his right, snatching for a few moments at nothing.
"Where are you, my lad?" came from above.
"Here! Here!" panted Rodd, and then, "Ah, it's of no use!"
As he spoke he felt himself going over, but at that moment his fingers
touched the sleeve of a soft clinging jersey, a set of fingers gripped
hard at his arm, and in a supreme effort he loosened his other hand,
made a snatch, and then began swinging gently to and fro till another
hand from above closed upon his jacket and lightened the strain.
"Got you, my lad!" came from overhead. "Now look here; I'm not going to
hyste you up, 'cause I can't, but I am going to swing you back'ards and
for'ards like a pendulo till you can touch this 'ere bough where I am
hanging, and then go on till you can get your legs round it and hold
fast. Understand?"
"Yes," panted Rodd.
"Now then. Belay, and when you get hold you shout."
It was the work of an acrobat, such as he would have achieved in doubt
and despair.
The sailor began swinging the boy to and fro, to and fro, with more and
more force, till Rodd felt his legs go crashing in amongst the thick
twigs of the great bough that was drawn down by the weight of the two
upon it a good deal below the horizontal.
"Harder!" he cried, as he swung back, and then as his legs went well in
again he felt that a thick portion was passing between his knees, and
thrusting forward his feet with all his might he forced them upwards and
directly afterwards passed them one across the other in a desperate grip
which left him dragging on the sailor's hands.
"Fast, my lad?"
"Yes."
"Can you hold on?"
"Yes."
"Then good luck to you!" cried the sailor, as, relieved of the boy's
weight, he too swung head downwards for a moment or two, then with a
quick effort wrenched himself upwards, got hold of the branch with both
hands, and after hanging like a sloth for a few moments, succeeded in
dragging himself upon the bough, which all the while was swaying heavily
up and down and threatening to shake Rodd from where he hung, but at the
same time inciting him so to fresh desperate action, that with all a
boy's activity he too had succeeded in perching himself astride of the
branch.
"All right, my lad?" cried Briggs.
"Ye-es!" came gaspingly.
"Then you wait a bit and get your wind, my lad.--Joe Cross! Ahoy!" he
yelled, as if his messmate were half-a-mile away.
"Right ho!" came from below. "Where's the boy?"
"Here, Joe--here!" shouted Rodd, the sound of the man's voice seeming to
send energy through him.
"Hah-h-h!" came from the sailor, and directly after from different parts
of the tree there was a cheer.
"Now then, what about you, matey?" shouted Briggs.
"Well, I dunno yet, my lad; I'm just going to try and shape it round. I
want to know where some of the others are, and whether if I let go I
couldn't manage to make a scramble and swim so as to join a mate."
"No, no, no!" came in chorus. "Don't try it, lad. Aren't you safe
where you are?"
"Well, I don't know about being safe," replied the sailor. "Mebbe I
could hold on, but here's the water up to my chesty; and don't make a
row, or you'll be letting some of those crocs know where I am. Look
here, Mr Rodd, sir; are you all right?"
"Yes, Joe; I can sit here as long as I like.--That is," he added to
himself, "if the branch doesn't break."
"Well, that's a comfort, sir. And what about you, Harry Briggs?"
"Well, I'm all right, mate; only a bit wet."
"Wet! You should feel me!" cried Cross, quite jocularly. "How about
the rest on you?"
"Oh, we are up aloft here in the dark, mate," said one of the men. "I
dunno as we should hurt so long as we didn't fall asleep."
"Oh, I wouldn't do that, mates," said Cross. "You might catch cold.
You hang yourselves out as wide as you can, so as to get dry."
"But look here, Joe Cross," shouted Rodd, who was rapidly recovering his
spirits, "you mustn't sit there in the water. Can't you manage to climb
up?"
"Oh yes, sir, I can climb up easy enough, only it don't seem to me as
there's anything to climb."
"But doesn't the branch you are sitting on go right up to the tree?"
"No, sir; it goes right down into it, and I'm sitting in a sort of fork,
like a dicky bird as has been picking out a handy place for its nest."
"Then what are you going to try to do?"
"Nothing, sir, but think."
"Think?"
"Yes, sir--about what I'm going to say to the skipper if ever we gets
back."
"Why, what can you say?"
"That's what I want to know, sir. I know what he'll say to me. He'll
say, Look here, my lad, you were coxswain; I want to know what you have
done with my gig."
"Ah, the boat!" said Rodd. "Do any of you know what's become of the
boat?"
"I don't," said Briggs.
"Oh, she's half-way to South Ameriky by this time, sir," said Joe, "and
I shall get all the credit of having lost her."
"Never mind about the boat, Joe."
"Well, sir, if you talk like that, I don't. But it's the skipper who
will mind."
"It's nothing to do with him, Joe. It's uncle's boat; and it wasn't
your fault."
"Thank you, sir. That's a bit comforting like, and warms one up a bit;
but if it's all the same to you I'd raither not talk quite so much, for
I don't know as crocs can hear, but if they can it mightn't be pleasant.
Well, my lads, just another word; we have got to make the best of it
and wait for daylight, and I suppose by that time the tide will have
gone right down, and some on you will be getting dry."
There was silence then, and the men sat holding on to their precarious
perches, listening to an occasional sound from the river or the shore,
loud splashings right away out in the direction of what they supposed to
be the main current, and an occasional trumpeting wail or shriek from
the forest--sounds that chilled and produced blood-curdling sensations
at the first, but to which the men became more and more accustomed as
the hours slowly glided on.
"Look here," said Joe Cross, at last, "because I said I didn't want to
talk, that wasn't meant for you who are all right up above the water.
It's bad enough to be keeping a watch like this on a dark night, but
that is no reason why you chaps shouldn't tell stories and talk and say
something to cheer Mr Rodd up a bit. He had about the worst of it,
swep' out of the boat as he was. So let go, some on you. You've got to
do something, as you can't go to sleep. But I tell you one thing; you
chaps are all much better off than I am. I shan't fall out of my bunk
on the top of any of you. But look here, Harry Briggs, you always want
a lot of stirring up before one can get you to move. Now then; you have
got a bit of pipe of your own. Sing us a song. Good cheery one, with a
chorus--one that Mr Rodd can pick up and chime in. Now then, let go."
"Who's a-going to sing with the water dripping down out of his toes?"
"Why, you, mate," cried Joe. "There, get on with you. You chaps as
knows the best songs always wants the most stirring up, pretending to be
bashful, when you want to begin all the time!"
"I tell you I don't, mate. I'm too cold."
"Then heave ahead, and that'll warm you up. You tell him he is to sing,
Mr Rodd, sir. You're skipper now, and he must obey orders. It'll do
us all good."
"Well," said Rodd, "it doesn't seem a very cheerful time to ask people
to sing in the dark; but perhaps it will brighten us all up."
"Ay, ay, sir!" came from the rest.
"Am I to, Mr Rodd?" said the man appealingly; and after a little more
pressing he struck up in a good musical tenor the old-fashioned sea song
of "The Mermaid," with its refrain of--
"We jolly sailor boys were up, up aloft,
And the land lubbers lying down below, below, below,
And the land lubbers lying down below!"
right on through the several verses, telling of the sailors'
superstition regarding its being unlucky to see a mermaid with a comb
and a glass in her hand, when starting upon a voyage, right on to the
piteous cry of the sailor boy about his mother in Portsmouth town, and
how that night she would weep for him, till the song ended with the
account of how the ship went down and was sunk in the bottom of the sea.
It was a wild sad air, sung there in the branches of that tree amidst
the darkness and night mist, and in spite of a certain beauty in the
melody the singer's voice assumed a more and more saddened tone, till he
finished with the water seeming to hiss more loudly through the lower
branches and the inundated trunks around, and then there was a sharp
slapping noise on the surface of the stream that might very well have
been taken for plaudits.
Then there was a strange braying sound like a weirdly discordant fit of
laughter; and then perfect silence, with the darkness more profound than
ever.
"I'm blessed!" came at last from Joe. "Hark at him, Mr Rodd. He calls
hisself a messmate! Ast him, I did, to sing us a song to cheer us up.
Why, it was bad enough to play for a monkey's funeral march. It's all
very well for you others to join in your chorus about jolly sailor boys
sitting up aloft, but what about poor me sitting all the time in a cold
hipsy bath, as they calls it in hospitals, expecting every moment to
feel the young crocs a-tackling my toes? Why, it's enough to make a
fellow call out for a clean pocket-handkerchy. Here, some on you, set
to and spin us a yarn to take the taste of that out of our mouths."