THE RELAPSE.
CAPTAIN WESTFIELD ate heartily of the delicious fish. Much to his
delight, he found that, except for the extreme weakness following his
heat prostration, he felt unusually well. He wisely decided not to
invite a relapse by getting up at once, and, as soon as he had finished
eating, he lay back upon his couch and quietly fell asleep again. It
was midday when he awoke feeling much better and stronger. The first
thing that met his gaze as he gained a sitting position was Chris lying
in the same position in which he had first flung himself. He called
to him several times but the little negro lay still and motionless.
Thoroughly alarmed, he crawled over and surveyed the unconscious lad.
The sight of the enormously swollen leg and a few minutes' fingering
of the dark little wrist told him what was the matter. The slow pulse
beats showed that the subtile poison, released from its confinement by
the removal of the bandage, had found its way to the plucky, loyal,
little heart.
The captain sat down by the little fellow's side and dashed the
stinging tears from his eyes.
"He's killed himself for me," he moaned. "If he had laid still just as
he was he would have been all right. But, God bless him, he risked his
life for a poor, old, worthless hulk like me. An' thar ain't nothing I
can do to save him now."
Although he had but small faith that it would do any good in such a
desperate case, he hastily crushed out a cupful of juice from the
palmetto berries and forced it down Chris' throat, then, resuming his
seat by his side, he watched to see if the powerful stimulant would
have any effect.
As the hours dragged slowly away he rejoiced to see that the lad's
condition apparently grew no worse. Encouraged, he crushed out more of
the juice and administered it at regular intervals. "I believe he's got
a good fighting chance to pull through. If the boys would only get back
with some whiskey an' drugs, now, I reckon, we could save him. I wonder
what can be keepin' them so long. They've had plenty of time to make
Judson and back."
But the afternoon wore away without sign of the rescuers, and a new
fear crept into the old sailor's worries. Something must have happened
to the two boys. Late in the afternoon, he left Chris long enough
to hurry down to the shore in quest of fish or clams for supper. He
found the rock from which he had fished completely submerged and a
heavy surf thundering far up into the marsh. Under such conditions
it was impossible to secure fish or clams, and he returned to camp
hungry, disappointed, and with further cause for worry. The heavy surf
indicated another storm in the Gulf which might reach where they were.
If it did, it would render their position still more uncomfortable and
dangerous. A heavy blow would continue to cut off their supply of fish
and clams and would likely flood the low-lying marsh shutting them in
on their little island. If Chris had been well enough to walk, the
captain would have at once moved camp to the mainland, but that was
impossible now. By sunset his fears were in a fair way to be realized.
The wind was steadily increasing in force, and, blowing out of a clear
sky, gave promise of still greater violence. Supperless and worried,
the old sailor watched the night fall with but one thing to cheer his
drooping spirits--Chris was evidently slowly improving. Likely much of
the poison had been drawn out from his wound by the hot mud and the
balance remaining had been overcome in its paralyzing effects by the
powerful stimulant. The lad's pulse was slowly growing stronger and it
was clear that the crisis had been safely passed.
The old sailor was too worried about the absent lads to compose himself
to sleep. Already, the surf was sending up small wavelets far into the
marsh. If the boys were returning the way they went, their journey
would be fraught with perils.
The sky was covered with fleecy clouds but they disappeared with the
rising of the moon and by its bright light he could see far out on the
water where the huge waves broke foaming white on the outer bar.
Suddenly he gave a shout that made Chris stir in his stupor; "The boys!
The boys!" he cried in delight.
In the broad path of moonlight, a small schooner appeared feeling her
way through a passage in the reef under close-reefed sails.
"They must have someone aboard that knows the reef," he mused as he
watched the little ship cautiously weaving her way in between the
dangerous rocks.
She held steadily for the shore until she was scarce two cable lengths
from it, then, she shot up into the wind, her anchor was dropped, and
her sails lowered.
The captain was down on the shore, heedless of the flying spray, when
the anchor hit the bottom.
"Walt! Charley!" he roared at the top of his voice.
There was no answer and he hailed again.
"Ahoy! Shore!" came an answering hail from the schooner. "Who air yo'
and what do yo' want?"
The captain was silent for a moment with disappointment. It was not the
boys after all, but any help was welcome at such a time and he made
haste to reply.
"We're two shipwrecks in bad shape an' need help. Who are you?"
"The Hattie Roberts, sponger, from Key West. Stan' by, an' we'll send a
boat."
While the strangers were launching a boat, the captain had time to
observe that the schooner's decks were piled full of small boats and
that, small as she was, she carried a crew of at least thirty men.
"An old style, pole an' hook sponger," he decided. "I didn't reckon
there was any of them left. I 'lowed the Greeks had run 'em all out of
business."
Manned by half a dozen men, the little boat came tearing through the
waves towards the shore. Flung up by a huge roller, she grounded almost
at the captain's feet. The instant she touched bottom, her crew sprang
over the side and drew her up safely beyond the reach of the next
roller. Even by the dimmed light of the moon, the old sailor could see
that the new-comers were dark-skinned men with heavy coarse features.
He recognized them without the aid of the peculiar accent as Conchs,--a
kind of mixed race belonging to the Florida Keys.
"Whar's yo's companion?" demanded one, who from his air of authority
was evidently the captain.
"He's on a little island just a little ways from here. I'll have to get
one of your men to help me down with him."
"All right, Sam here will go with yo'. Step lively, we have got to pull
out from hyar quick. There ain't as good anchorage as I 'lowed to find
behind the reef. We'll have to make foah a better harbor."
The captain, with the sailor detailed to help him, was hurrying off on
their mission when the Conch's skippers curiosity caused him to stop
him in spite of the preciousness of time.
"How did yo's git hyah in such a fix," he demanded.
"Been sponging with a Greek crew. Crew mutinied. We escaped in a diving
boat. Got wrecked in the night on the reef out thar," replied Captain
Westfield, briefly.
"Sponging with the Greeks!" snarled the Conch with an oath. "Then the
Greeks can help yo' out of yo'r fix, by all that's Holy, I won't. Hyah,
Sam, jump aboard with yo'."
"You are not agoin' to desert us?" cried the captain in bewildered
consternation. "For the love of humanity, man, what do you mean?"
"I mean that I won't raise a finger to help any mons who deals with
the Greeks--blast 'em," cried the Conch, fiercely. "They've ruined
us an' our people. We used to be a happy an' prosperous race a'fore
they came with their diving suits an' tramped all over the bottom of
the Gulf. Killing the little baby sponges with their iron shoes, an'
stripping the bottom clean as a Conch's floor. We've been run out of
the business, an' they did it. We've lost our homes, an' they caused
it. Our families don't have enough to eat an' wear any more, an' they
are the reason--curse 'em, curse 'em, curse 'em."
"But you are leaving us to certain death, man!" pleaded Captain
Westfield, "The water is rising over the marsh, already."
"An' it will be flooded inside of ten hours," declared the Conch with
cruel satisfaction. "All aboard mons an' shove off."
Captain Westfield grasped the gunwale of the boat and tried to hold
it while he reasoned and argued with the fanatical Conch, but the
infuriated man rapped his knuckles with an oar and gave him a shove
with the blade that sent him struggling backwards. By the time the old
sailor recovered his balance, the boat had been shoved off and was out
of his reach. He shook his clenched fist at the Conch's receding figure.
"You'll pay for this," he shouted. "No good will come to you after such
a trick." But it is doubtful if the Conch even heard his voice above
the roar of the wind.
The captain stood watching grimly until the boat reached the
schooner's side, and her close-reefed sails were hoisted, her anchor
broke and she headed to the South inside the line of reef. When she
had faded away into the night, he turned back for the camp filled with
disappointment and dismay.