ANOTHER DANGER.
"DAR'S one thing I want you to do 'fore you go projectin' off," said
the little negro. "I wants you to cut me some ob dem palmetto buds.
I'se goin' to braid you a hat. Hit's a plum wonder dat you ain't got
sun struck goin' bareheaded like you is."
"I ain't had time to remember that I lost my hat when we were wrecked.
I'se been so worried an' busy," said the captain. "Now you speak of it,
my head does feel sort of dull an' heavy. I hope the boys will think to
cover their heads with something--this sun does beat down right hot."
"Mass Charley will sho' rig up some kind ob hat," Chris declared,
confidently. "'Sides dey's both young an' can stand a heap more sun den
what you kin. You jes' be mighty careful dis mornin' an' by noon dis
nigger will hab a fine hat fixed for you. I'se done made lots ob dem on
Cat Island."
There was a few young cabbage palms scattered over the island and
the captain cut out several of the buds with his sheath knife and
placed them beside the little negro, then, knotting up the ends of his
bandanna handkerchief to form a turban, he took his spear and started
for the shore.
Chris watched his slow, faltering, painful steps until he was out of
sight then began on his proposed task. The buds were really young fresh
leaves yet unfolded, soft and pliable, yet very strong. He shredded
them into strips about half an inch in width until he had accumulated
quite a pile; then, taking four of the pieces at a time, with deft,
skillful fingers, he wove them into a braid about an inch in width.
In a couple of hours, he had a string of braid several yards long.
The fashioning of the braid into a hat, without needle and thread and
while lying flat on his back was a more difficult task, but he attacked
it with cheerful energy, using the point of his knife for a needle and
small strips of palmetto for thread. At last, his task was completed,
and, although the hat was grotesque in shape and appearance, it was
soft, strong, and light, and would prove an effective protection from
the fierce rays of the tropic sun. The little worker was not yet
satisfied but at once set about the manufacture of a basket from the
same material realizing how useful it would be for the carrying of
clams, fish, and other things.
He was still engaged upon it when the captain came stumbling into
camp bearing a large fish and several dozen more of the clams. The
old sailor's face was red, his movement weak and uncertain, and his
breathing heavy and labored, while he was trembling violently from head
to foot. He sank down in the cedar's shade and wiped his flaming face.
"I reckon, I've got a touch of the sun," he said, feebly. "I feel weak
and dizzy. I'll lie down in the shade for a bit an' it will pass off.
Don't be worried, lad, it will pass off in a jiffy."
But pass off it did not. By the end of half an hour the sturdy old
seaman was lying unconscious, his breath coming in short, wheezy gasps.
Chris watched him for a while in anxiety and fear. He knew that it
might be dangerous for him to move his wounded leg but all thought
of his own danger was lost in the fear that the stricken old sailor
was dying before his eyes. He attempted to pull his leg out from the
mound but could not move it. The heat of the stones had baked the mud
hard. With great effort he raised himself into a sitting position,
and, with his sheath knife cut and dug away frantically at the baked
mud until he had the leg uncovered, then, severing the bandage above
his knee, he attempted to rise but could not move the injured limb. He
fell back and viewed it with frightened dismay. It was not a pretty
sight for it was a mass of blisters where the hot mud had clung, and a
large bluish swelling marked the place where the stingaree's horn had
entered. The tight bandage, shutting off the blood supply for so long,
had rendered it paralyzed and useless. Although the breaking blisters
caused him exquisite pain, he fell to rubbing the numbed limb briskly
with both hands until the blood crept slowly back into the veins. At
last, he was able to gain his feet and by resting most of his weight
on his uninjured leg managed to limp over to the unconscious sailor.
Luckily, he had been raised in a torrid country where sunstrokes were
of frequent occurrence. He knew just what to do and he did it quickly
and surely. His first act was to raise the unconscious man's head and
place a high pillow of twigs beneath it. Then, stirring the smouldering
fire, he placed several large stones in the glowing coals. While they
were heating he removed the captain's shoes and bathed his hot head
and flushed face with cool water, and tearing his shirt to pieces, wet
it and bound it around the sufferer's head. By the time this was done,
the stones were hot, and, rolling a couple up in his jacket, he placed
them at the captain's feet, then, seated by his side, he awaited the
result with fear and trembling. A terrible dread gripped his heart that
the remedies had been applied too late, for the old sailor had all the
appearance of a dying man. Thirty minutes dragged slowly away without
apparent change, then, slowly, the old sailor's breathing grew less
labored and his face began to lose some of its fiery hue. Chris hailed
these favorable signs with joy as indicated that the crisis had been
safely passed, but his joy was somewhat dampened when the hours passed
by without the stricken man showing signs of consciousness. He seemed
to pass from his stupor to a deep sleep from which the little negro
dreaded awakening him. It was evident that the old seaman was in for a
long spell of weakness from the heat stroke he had suffered. There was
nothing more his little companion could do to relieve his sufferings
and he remained seated by his side watching him anxiously until the
waning of the afternoon warned him that it was time to partake of food
and make preparations for the night. He had eaten nothing since the
night before and he was conscious of a sense of growing weakness. The
fish the captain had caught was already tainted from the heat and the
little negro felt too weak as yet to venture forth to secure more, so
he dug up a few of the cassava roots which he roasted in the coals.
These, together with a handful of palmetto berries, constituted his
supper. As soon as it was finished he began his preparations for the
night. Slowly and painfully, he gathered together broken limbs to keep
the circles of fire going until daylight came again. By the time this
was accomplished and the fires lit he was weak and trembling from pain
and exhaustion and was glad to crawl onto his couch by the captain's
side. The old sailor roused into momentary wakefulness at the noise of
the snapping twigs.
"How you is, Massa Capt.?" demanded the little negro, eagerly.
"Weak, mighty weak. Feel as though I couldn't lift my hand to my head,
but I will be all right by morning, I reckon. I guess, we have got no
cause to worry now. The boys will be back to-night or early in the
morning at the latest. How do you feel, lad?"
"Fine," lied the little negro, cheerfully. "Jes' you go back to sleep
again. I'll keep de fires up all right."
With a sigh of satisfaction, the captain closed his eyes and was
soon sound asleep again, but there was no such rest for his little
companion. Twice Chris hobbled out and renewed the fires. The third
time he had to crawl forth on hands and knees. His wound was again
swelling rapidly and he could no longer bear his weight on the injured
limb. He tried vainly to sleep. The wounded leg throbbed with intense
pain which gradually crept over his whole body, making him feel sick
and faint all over. He understood the reason for his sufferings. Some
of the poison still left in his wound had, with the removal of the
tight bandages from his leg, found its way back into the blood and was
coursing through his little body poisoning as it went.
"Golly!" he remarked, grimly, to himself, "if dem white chillens doan
get back wid help an' medicine by mornin', I reckon dis nigger ain't
agoin' to see Cat Island and his old mammy no moah. An' if Chris gits
plum helpless what's goin' to become ob Massa Captain wid no one to
tend to him. He tinks he'll be all right in de mornin' but hits goin'
to take a powerful long time for him to get real peart again."
The long night dragged slowly away. Occasionally the little negro crept
forth and replenished the fires, the balance of the time he lay quiet
listening for cry or sound that would tell of the boys' return, but
nothing fell upon his strained hearing but the croak of frogs, the
bellowing of alligators and the strange night noises of the marsh.
At daylight the captain awoke and attempted to rise, but, although he
was greatly improved, he was yet too weak to stand erect.
"You jes' lie still," Chris counseled him, "dar ain't no call for you
to go projectin' around none. I'se goin' out an' git somethin' for us
to eat."
Although it cost him intense pain, the little negro managed to walk
erect until he was out of the old sailor's sight, then he dropped down
on hands and knees and crawled painfully down to the shore.
The touch of the cool salt water helped the throbbing pain in his leg
and he succeeded in wading out to the rocks where he was not long in
spearing a large, fat mackerel. With this, he returned to the camp,
for he did not dare in his growing weakness to search for clams or
other food. He found the old sailor asleep again, and, cleaning the
fish he broiled it over the coals. As soon as it was done he awakened
the sleeper.
"Hyah is youah breakfas' all nice an' hot," he announced. "You want to
eat a plenty ob hit. I'se agoin' to lay down a spell. I didn't sleep
berry good last night."