THE FLOATING HATCH.
THE castaways lost no time in rejoicing over their good fortune. The
Captain hastily kindled a fire while Chris, with his sheath knife,
proceeded to butcher the smallest of the two turtles. Much experience
had made the little negro expert at the work and in a few minutes he
had severed the two shells and cut off several thick steaks from one
of the hind flippers. Then, squatting before the fire, each impaled a
steak on the end of a pointed stick and toasted it over the coals.
How good the steaming juicy meat tasted to the two hungry ones. Steak
after steak was broiled and eaten before their ravenous appetites were
satisfied and they could eat no more.
"Midnight is a sorter unusual hour for a feed," Captain Westfield
observed, "but, I reckon, we will sleep none the worse for it. I 'low,
we ain't got to lay awake none worryin' about food now. Thar's meat
enough to last us for two weeks at least."
"An' maybe, Ole Mister Gale will blow hisself out," said Chris,
hopefully, as, yawning sleepily he stretched himself again on his couch.
It was broad day when the castaways awoke from the heavy slumber which
had followed their hearty midnight supper. They found the gale still
blowing with undiminished violence and the sky still brightly blue. One
thing, however, gave them great satisfaction, the water had ceased to
encroach upon their little knoll. It had evidently reached its height.
After a hearty breakfast of turtle steaks, the two proceeded at once
to dress and cure the turtles, for they well knew that under the sun's
heat the fresh meat would soon spoil.
They had neither salt nor smoke house with which to cure it, but they
went at the task with sure confidence in the result. The meat was first
cut away from the shells and skinned, care being taken to remove every
particle of the greenish-colored fat. Then, cutting across the grain,
the meat was divided into thin strips and spread upon leaves to dry in
the hot sun. It only remained for them to protect it from the dews of
night and chance rains and a few days would see it thoroughly cured and
capable of keeping sweet and good so long as it was kept dry.
With some hazy idea that they might be of some future use, the captain
cleaned and washed out the two, great, trough-like, upper shells of the
turtles.
"Dat looks like a lump of wreckage out dar by de reef, Massa Cap,"
Chris observed as he straightened up from his task of spreading out the
meat. "Pears like de tide is settin' hit in dis way."
"It is a bit of wreckage or a clump of seaweed," the captain agreed
after a brief survey. "It's drifting in all right, but it's going to
miss the island by a good hundred yards."
The two suspended work while they watched the drifting object slowly
near their island.
"It looks like a hatch with something like a stack atop of it," he
observed to the captain as the object drew close.
"Hit's a man or 'ooman atop ob hit," cried Chris, whose eyes were
keener than the old sailor's. "He's layin' plum still, jes' like he was
dead."
Closer approach of the object convinced the captain that the little
negro was correct. There was beyond doubt a motionless body lying on
the low floating hatch. It was evident too that the hatch with its
burden would pass the island at a distance of at least one hundred and
fifty yards. To venture out and attempt to tow it in was to assume
a terrible risk. The water between it and the island was raging and
tossing over dozens of dangerous hidden rocks. Only the strongest
swimmer would have the slightest chance of success, and, even should he
succeed, it might be to find that he had risked his life to rescue a
corpse. But the ocean breeds in its followers a brotherhood that leads
them to deeds of quiet heroism. They never know when they may be in
need of a rescuing hand and it is seldom that one turns aside from the
rendering of service, no matter how dangerous it may be to himself.
When the hatch with its burden was nearly abreast of the island Chris
began to strip off his clothes, but the Captain stopped him.
"You're still too weak to attempt it, lad," he declared. "You couldn't
make it thar an' back, I reckon I can fight it out all right. I've
mighty nigh got back all my strength."
Hastily stripping off the pants and shirt in which he was clothed, the
old sailor slipped off into the water and struck out for the wreckage
with long steady strokes, warily avoiding the foaming spots which
marked the positions of the larger rocks. The swim was not difficult
for so experienced a swimmer. The struggle would come when he attempted
to return with his burden. In a few minutes, he reached the wreckage
and, resting his hand upon the hatch gazed down at the burden it bore.
He saw a man, apparently about forty years of age, attired in rough
seaman's garb, his face bronzed and seamed from long years of exposure
to wind and weather. The stranger was lying flat on his back on the
hatch, his legs dangling over the end. A rope passed around his body
and under the wood work prevented the larger seas from washing him off
his frail support. He was unconscious and the captain reached over and
placed his ear close to his chest. He could detect a faint beating of
the heart. It was slow and feeble but still it was beating,--the man
was alive.
Once satisfied of this fact, the old sailor quickly shifted to the end
of the hatch, and, resting one hand upon it, and striking out with the
other hand and both feet, strove to force it back to the island. He had
not accomplished half the distance with his burden when he saw that
he could not hope to succeed. The tide was slowly but surely sweeping
him in past the island direct for the mainland. Still, he battled
desperately on, swimming with all his strength. Suddenly the little
raft seemed to move forward with increased speed.
"Take it easy, Massa Cap," sounded Chris' voice close to his elbow. "We
can make it togedder all right." The plucky little negro had been quick
to see the danger and equally quick to come to the rescue.
Between the two, after half an hour of heartbreaking battling with
the current, they managed to shove the raft ashore, where they sank
exhausted and panting upon the sand.
As soon as they were able to move, they unlashed the unconscious sailor
from the hatch, and, carrying him up, laid him upon the captain's
couch. The man seemed nearly dead, and for hours the two, wet,
exhausted castaways worked over him, struggling to coax the spark of
life into a flame. At last they were rewarded by seeing a tinge of
color creep into the bronzed face. At length the sailor sighed and
opened his eyes.
"Water," he gasped, faintly.
"Golly! I should reckon he's had 'bout enough water," Chris exclaimed.
"Get some for him quick," Captain Westfield commanded. "The salt brine
he has swallowed has parched his throat and stomach."
The sailor took only one mouthful of the proffered water, then spat it
out with his face twitching.
"Salt, salt," he murmured.
A horrible fear seized the captain. He snatched the shell from Chris'
hand and took a swallow of the water. His fear was confirmed, it was
salt. The Gulf had risen close enough to their little well to percolate
through the sand into it and render it as salt as itself.
The little negro divined the situation from the captain's face. "Golly!
dat's bad," he cried. "Doin' widout water is a heap wurser den doin'
widout food."
"Water, give me water," pleaded the rescued man. "My throat's parched,
parched."
"You shall have some water as soon as we can get it," Captain Westfield
assured him. There was something vaguely familiar to the old sailor in
the man's queerly accented speech. It was more puzzling as he had no
recollection of ever having seen the man before.
Considering his low condition the sailor recovered his full senses
and a measure of his strength with astonishing rapidity. It was plain
that he had not been deprived of either food or water for any great
length of time. He was soon able to sit up and take notice of his
surroundings. A curious look stole over his bronzed face as his gaze
took in the two castaways.
"How did I get hyah?" he demanded.
Captain Westfield related the story of the rescue briefly.
The sailor's rough features worked with emotion. "I remember part," he
cried. "Our vessel struck on Needle Rocks in the darkness an' went down
like a stone. I had just time to throw myself on the hatch an' pass
a rope around my waist. The crew," he shuddered--"must have all been
dashed to pieces against the rocks. God knows how I escaped. An' yo'
risked yo'r lives to save mine, yo' an' that boy. Mon, how could yo'
forgive me enough to do such a deed?"
"Forgive you?" echoed the captain, puzzled. "I had nothin' to forgive."
"I am Rufus Sanders, the Key West sponger who refused yo'r appeals for
help an' left yo' to yo'r fate," cried the man, excitedly.
"I did not know that, but it would have made no difference," said the
captain, gently. "You were a helpless, shipwrecked man." He checked the
flood of thanks on the sponger captain's lips. "You have nothing to
thank us for," he declared. "We have only saved you from one fate to
suffer a worse with us. We are hopelessly imprisoned on this island,
an' we have no water. All we can do is endure, pray an' hope."