The breeze continued fresh until about midnight, after which it lessened
a trifle, and came off from the larboard quarter. Daybreak found the
boat off the north-eastern extremity of the Isle of Pines, and about
five miles distant from that curious chain of islets called by the
Spaniards the Islas de Mangles, which curves out like a breakwater
across the northern face of the island. Their hunger, which had to some
extent been appeased by their last plentiful meal of wild raspberries,
and which had been altogether forgotten in the excitement of their
subsequent flight now returned to them in full force, and, the breeze
failing them, George determined to put the line overboard and try for a
few fish.
He was successful beyond his most sanguine expectations, half-a-dozen
fine but grotesque-looking fish speedily rewarding his efforts. The
idea of devouring them raw was rather repulsive, but as there was no
possible means of cooking them, they had either to do that or go without
breakfast; so, selecting the most tempting-looking, they cut it up, and,
after making a wry face over the first mouthful or two, managed to
satisfactorily dispose of it. That is to say, George and Tom did; but
poor Walford, on being offered a share, shook his head, murmured that he
was not hungry, and closed his eyes again in patient suffering. The
balance of the catch was carefully cleaned and strung up on the yard, in
the hope that it would dry in the sun.
Their great want now was _water_. Their hunger being satisfied, thirst
began to assert itself, and George would have landed upon the Isle of
Pines and endeavoured to find fresh water, but for the fact that he
caught sight of several people on the shore, who appeared to be watching
the boat with pertinacious curiosity. In this strait he tried the plan
of dipping his shirt into the sea, and putting it on again dripping wet;
and, to his great delight, he found that this proceeding had a very
sensible effect in mitigating thirst. Upon this, Tom tried the same
plan, with equally beneficial results, and then they well soused poor
Walford with sea-water, hoping that it would, to some extent, revive and
refresh him.
By mid-day the Isle of Pines was broad on their starboard quarter, the
last _Cay_ on the "Jardines" shoal had been passed, and they were fairly
at sea and in deep water. They might now reasonably look out for a
frigate at any moment; but, as it would not do to depend upon this
source of rescue alone, George continued to stand boldly to the
southward and eastward, hoping that by so doing he would not only
improve his prospects of falling in with a British frigate, but that he
would also--failing the frigate--meet with a friendly merchantman.
By sunset they were fairly out of sight of land, but, so far, nothing in
the shape of a sail had greeted their longing eyes. Once or twice a
white speck on the horizon had temporarily raised their hopes, but it
had vanished the next moment, being probably nothing more than the
sunlight flashing upon a sea-bird's wing.
George was hourly growing more and more anxious for a speedy rescue, not
so much on his own account as for Walford's sake, the condition of the
latter being such as to give rise to the liveliest apprehension. He had
eaten nothing since the previous day, pleading want of appetite, and as
the sun went down he watched its gradual disappearance beneath the
purple waves with wistful eagerness, murmuring, "The last time, the last
time!" Then as the solemn darkness swept down over the sea, and the
stars came out one by one in the great blue vault above, the little
consciousness of his surroundings which he hitherto retained left him,
and he fell to murmuring snatches of songs, mingled with babblings of
his childhood's days. The word "mother" was frequently upon his lips,
and once he burst into a passion of hysterical tears, murmuring,
child-like, that "he was very sorry; and that, if she would forgive him,
he would be a good boy for the future, and would never do it again."
This state of things gravely alarmed George, who began to fear that the
last great solemn change was at hand. It was therefore with a feeling
of intense relief that he heard a hail of "Sail, ho!" from Tom, whose
sharp eyes had at last caught sight of a genuine and unmistakable sail
broad on the boat's lee bow.
There was nothing, however, to be done but to carefully watch the helm
of the boat; she was already under canvas and steering the best course
possible for intercepting the stranger; the only thing, therefore, was
to steer _straight_, otherwise the chances were that the ship would be
missed, after all. The strange sail was steering about east-south-east,
being close-hauled on the larboard tack, and, from her position, George
thought it just possible that he might intercept her, or, at all events,
near her sufficiently to permit of her crew hearing his hail as they
passed.
As the night deepened, the breeze freshened, and by the time that the
strange sail had been in sight half an hour it was blowing so fresh that
it was as much as they could do to keep the lee gunwale above water.
Yet they dared not shorten sail, for the breeze which was threatening at
every moment to capsize them was also hurrying the stranger more rapidly
along, and consequently lessening their chances of intercepting her.
Thick clouds, too, began to gather in the sky, threatening more wind,
and, by obscuring the light of the moon, rendering it just so much the
more unlikely that the crew of the approaching vessel would see them.
At last a heavy squall burst about a mile to windward of them, and
George was reluctantly compelled to order Tom forward to shorten sail.
Unfortunately the halliards had somehow got jammed aloft in the sheave,
and the sail would not come down. Tom tugged and tugged at it
desperately, but all to no purpose; there it stuck, with the squall
rushing down upon them like a race-horse.
"Cast off the tack, Tom, and let the sail fly!" shouted George, and the
lad had scarcely time to obey the order when the squall burst furiously
upon them. The sail streamed out in the wind like a great banner from
the top of the mast, lashing furiously, and shaking the boat to her
keel. The crazy craft careened gunwale-to, notwithstanding that George
had put his helm promptly up, and in another moment she would
undoubtedly have gone over with them; but just as the water was
beginning to pour in over the gunwale, _crack_! went the mast and the
thwart with it over the side. The boat was nearly half full of water,
and in their anxiety to free her, and get her before the wind, the mast
and sail parted company from the boat, and they never saw them again.
The squall lasted about five minutes, and then passed off, leaving only
a gentle breeze behind it. As soon as this was the case, they had a
look round for the strange sail, and made her out--a topsail-schooner--
about a mile and a half distant. George saw that there was still a
chance for them, so they out oars and pulled vigorously. All was going
well, when, to their intense surprise, the craft, after approaching to
within little more than a quarter of a mile of them, suddenly put up her
helm, and, wearing round, stood away upon a south-westerly course. With
one accord George and Tom started to their feet and shouted lustily and
repeatedly, "Ship ahoy! _Ship ahoy_! Ship ahoy!" until their throats
were so strained that their voices failed them, and they became unable
to utter another sound. It was all to no purpose; their cries attracted
not the slightest notice; the schooner ran rapidly away from them and at
last George in despair laid in his oar, flung himself down in the
sternsheets, and covered his eyes with his hands, to shut out the
tantalising sight.
Half an hour afterwards the reason for this extraordinary conduct on the
part of the schooner became apparent, the upper canvas of a large ship
under a heavy press of sail appearing in the south-east quarter. That
this ship was a man-o'-war was evident at a glance, from the cut of her
sails; and the course which she was steering, together with her large
spread of canvas, showed that she was in pursuit of the schooner.
The first impulse of those in the boat was to out oars and pull toward
her, but five minutes' work sufficed to show them that their chance was
almost hopeless; the frigate would pass them at a distance of about six
miles, and with every eye on board her intently fixed upon the chase,
what prospect was there, in that uncertain light, of so small an object
as the boat being seen at so great a distance? Nevertheless, they
toiled on with dogged perseverance, and did not abandon their efforts
until the frigate had passed them, and her topsails had sunk below the
horizon. Then indeed they laid in their oars, and directed their whole
attention to Walford, whose condition became more alarming every moment.
Not that he made any complaint. The poor fellow indeed seemed to be
quite unconscious of his pain and weakness; but his ghastly pallor, his
laboured breathing, and the convulsive shudders which agitated his frame
from time to time were to George a tolerably clear indication that
dissolution was near at hand.
He was still quite light-headed, his mind wandering in feverish haste
from scene to scene of his boyhood, as was evident from the rapid
disjointed sentences which poured uninterruptedly from his lips. George
was able to gather pretty clearly from them that, even as a lad, Walford
had been wilful, headstrong, and obstinate, prone to go his own way
without much consideration for the wishes of others, and there were
occasional wild words and broken exclamations which seemed to indicate
that, even whilst little more than a mere child, he had allowed himself
to be betrayed into actual crime. And as he lay there, gasping his life
away, the follies of boyhood and the graver offences of more recent days
seemed to be in some way jumbled up hopelessly in his disordered mind
with a confused idea of the urgent necessity for speedy repentance of
both. There could be no doubt that, notwithstanding the disordered
state of the unhappy man's intellect, conscience was busily at work with
him; that he was already beginning to dimly see the error of his ways
and the hollowness--the utter unprofitableness--of his past life, and
possibly also the critical nature of his position. But the mind was too
completely shattered to avail itself of these promptings, and the
remorse and regret which had tardily come to him found expression only
in the simple pleadings for pardon which a child offers to its grieved
parent. This distressing state of things lasted at intervals all
through the night and well into the following day, when the dying man,
utterly exhausted, sank into a fitful, troubled sleep.
The pangs of hunger and--still worse--of thirst again making themselves
felt, George once more put the fishing-line over the side, and, after
waiting patiently for nearly an hour, had the satisfaction of feeling a
smart tug at it. He gave a sharp jerk, to strike the hook firmly into
his fish, and at once began to haul smartly in, but he had only gathered
in a foot or so of the line when there came a terrific pull at it, which
sent the cord flying through his fingers in spite of all his efforts to
hold it. He promptly called Tom to his assistance, but even with this
aid he was unable to hold the fish; and, as a last resource, he threw a
couple of turns round one of the thowl-pins. The result was disastrous;
the line snapped short off at the pin, and when they came to investigate
further, they found that they had lost the whole of it, except a bare
fathom, which still remained in the boat.
This was a misfortune indeed, as it deprived them of their only means of
obtaining that sustenance which was now becoming so urgent a necessity
to them. But sailors are not easily disheartened, and they forthwith
set to work to manufacture a new line out of the rope which they still
had in the boat; Tom carefully unlaying the strands and jointing the
yarns, whilst George tried his best to manufacture a hook out of a nail
drawn from the gunwale of the boat. This task occupied them for the
remainder of the day, and when it was completed the hook and line
together constituted such a very make-shift, hopeless-looking affair
that George, in spite of his hunger, could not repress an incredulous
smile at the idea of any fish with his wits about him being beguiled by
it. They tried it, however, but it was an utter failure; they could not
secure even the barren encouragement of a nibble; and at last the
attempt was given up in despair.
Shortly before sunset Walford once more opened his eyes, and began to
stare blankly about him. For a minute or two there was a look in his
eyes which encouraged George to hope that reason was returning to her
abandoned throne, but the look quickly passed away, and the incoherent
mutterings recommenced. The sun went down, night's mantle of darkness
once more descended upon the sea, and then the full moon in all her
queenly beauty rolled slowly into view above the horizon, flooding the
scene with her silvery light, and investing it with a magical beauty
which was not without its influence even on those poor famine-stricken
creatures, who were watching with such sympathetic solicitude beside
their dying companion.
Suddenly Walford's mutterings ceased, an expression of joyous surprise
lighted up his ghastly wasted features, he seized George's hand with a
firm clasp in one of his, and, raising the other, exclaimed--
"Hark! what was that?"
"I heard nothing, Ned," answered George tremulously; he knew
instinctively now that the last dread moment was close at hand,--"I
heard nothing; what was it?"
"My mother," answered Walford,--"my mother calling to me as she used to
call me, when I was a little innocent child, when she--ha! there it is
again. It is her own dear, well-remembered voice. She is calling me to
go to her; I must not stay out at play any longer; I did so last night,
you know, and it grieved her. She said I was a naughty, disobedient
boy, and I made her cry. But she forgave me and kissed me after I had
said my prayers, and--and--`Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be
Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is done in
heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; _and forgive us our
trespasses_.'"
As the first words of this simple, beautiful prayer issued from
Walford's dying lips, George and Tom threw themselves upon their knees
in the bottom of the boat, their hands clasped, their heads bent, and
their hearts earnestly uplifted to Him who was thus mercifully taking
the poor sufferer to Himself. The first sentence was spoken with
child-like simplicity, but, after that, every word was uttered with
increasing fervour and an evident conception of its momentous import,
until the clause was reached, "and forgive us our trespasses," which was
breathed forth with a solemn intensity that thrilled the very souls of
the listeners. Then the voice suddenly ceased, and as George looked up
with startled eyes he saw Walford's lips tremble, a radiant smile parted
them for an instant, and he sank heavily back on the boat's thwart--
dead.
George gazed long and earnestly in the face of the dead man, his
thoughts travelling rapidly back to that eventful evening when they two
met--the one going humbly and doubtingly to declare his love, the other
hurrying triumphantly away from a successful wooing; and Leicester
grieved, as he pictured the sorrow of that loving woman's heart, when
the news should be taken to her of the sad event just past. He thought,
too, of the strange meeting in mid-ocean, of the helpless state in which
Walford had remained since then, of his own vow, and all that it had
cost him, and as he reverently gathered the folds of canvas about the
lifeless form he felt comforted with the reflection that, though he had
failed, he had honestly done his best to keep that vow.
He did what he could to dispose the corpse decently and to prepare it
for its last long sleep beneath the waves; it was not much that he was
able to do, but he did what he could, "for Lucy's sake," as he kept on
muttering to himself; and when all was ready he turned to Tom. The poor
lad, utterly worn-out, had sunk down in the bottom of the boat, and,
with one arm supporting his head on the thwart, was fast asleep.
"Well, better so," thought George to himself; "he is enjoying at least a
temporary respite from his miseries; I will not disturb him;" and,
murmuring a short but earnest prayer, he raised the body in his arms,
lifted it over the side of the boat, and allowed it to pass gently away
from his grasp into the peaceful depths below. "God have mercy on his
soul," he murmured, and with clasped hands stood and watched the
shrouded form passing slowly out of sight for ever.