Kitabı oku: «The Ruined Cities of Zululand», sayfa 18

The brig rolled awfully, and with four men at the wheel, yawed wildly. The great thing in scudding is to keep the vessel going, with a velocity superior to the following wave. If this be not effected, then she is pooped, the seas overtaking and flooding her, whereas if she be not kept dead before the wind, and continually met with the helm when yawing to starboard or port, the scudding vessel broaches to, and down she goes at once.

Towards evening the gale broke, the main-topsail was set closely reefed, and the clank of the chain pumps was heard, in the stillness of the night, telling their own tale. The haze cleared away, the wind gradually fell, and with it the sea, but even yet the brig rolled fearfully.

On deck Hughes and the missionary were working with the men, encouraging them at the pumps, for there is no duty a seaman dislikes more than that. The captain, fairly worn out, had rolled himself in a great coat, and was sleeping heavily, coiled up against the rails of the quarter-deck. His mate was standing near the wheel, and the brig was dragging slowly and heavily through the seas. Above the clear blue sky and the bright stars, and around the ocean, with its surging waves, while on the stillness of the night came the sharp clank of the chain pumps: Towards morning the reefs were shaken out, and Hughes came aft.

“The water is gaining on us,” he said, moodily, addressing the mate. “Had the captain not better be roused?”

“What’s the use? we cannot do more than has been done. We shall sight land by daybreak, and I hope run into Port Natal, if the wind holds.”

“Have you heard anything of Dom Maxara?” anxiously asked Hughes.

“Nothing; but he got a terrible mauling. When I saw him, he was lying between the pump and the mainmast with his thigh broken.”

“Is there any one else hurt?”

“Yes,” returned the mate; “poor Stapleton has been severely crushed. That huge sea dashed them both on deck and stove in all our boats.”

“Is not that day breaking, away to the eastward?” asked Hughes.

“Yes; and if the wind will only hold, we shall soon sight the land, for with the leak gaining on us, short-handed, and nearly dismasted, the sooner we make a port the better,” answered the mate, as, wearied and moody, the soldier turned, and went below.

The Raft

Through the dim, grey light, Hughes took his way down the companion, entering the brig’s little cabin. If things had seemed gloomy on deck, where the cool morning breeze was blowing, and the dying gale moaning through the broken rigging, how much more desolate all seemed here as he paused and looked about him. The hatches were on, the deadlights shipped, and a lamp, with its long wick unsnuffed, swung wildly to and fro. Down the companion came the first faint sickly streaks of the coming day. The soaked carpets, the crimson seats drenched with salt-water, and the broken cabin furniture, were the natural results of the few minutes the brig had been lying on her beam ends. A small table had broken from its lashings and, fetching way, pitched right into a large mirror, and there it lay broken among the shivered glass. The crew were now so short-handed that the steward was working at the pumps, whose metallic clanking sound was plainly heard all over the vessel.

Pausing a moment as he glanced around, Hughes realised the scene, and then, passing on, knocked at the door of a small cabin.

The knock was low and timidly given. It produced no reply, so, turning the handle, he entered.

He stood in the Portuguese noble’s private cabin, and he became at once aware that the injuries which Dom Maxara had received were of a graver character than the mate had led him to suppose. In point of fact, the broken thigh caused by being jammed in between the pump and the brig’s mainmast was not all, for several ribs had been broken, by the heavy blocks which had been rolled to and fro, and some severe internal injury had been received. What was even worse was that there was no doctor on board, and so there on the tumbled bed lay the injured noble, his grey hairs falling on the pillow, while by the bedside, her face buried in the clothes, sat Isabel fast asleep. Several large stains of blood marked the sheet, and the sick man’s eyes, though closed, seemed sunken, and the lips deadly white. The morning was breaking fine and calm.

Kneeling down beside her, after carefully closing the door, Hughes passed his arm gently round the sleeping girl’s waist. She awoke with a start, glancing round her with a terrified look, as she pushed back the long hair from her face and forehead. For a few moments, so deep had been the sleep of fatigue and exhaustion, she knew not where she was or what had happened, but as her startled gaze fell on the narrow bed, the whole of the sorrowful present returned to her. Dom Maxara was breathing very heavily, and with great difficulty.

“Oh, Enrico, how wicked I have been,” she exclaimed. “How could I go to sleep?”

“How could you avoid it, dear Isabel, after such a time of mental and bodily fatigues. Has he spoken?” asked Hughes, looking up into her face.

“No, he has never moved, never opened his eyes; but I don’t know how long I have been asleep,” was the reply. “What is the news on deck? If we could only get him ashore, my dear dear father!”

“The gale is completely broken, the sea rapidly falling, and we shall soon have a dead calm, Isabel; but the leak is gaining on us, some plank must be started, and there is ten feet water in the hold.”

“Is land far off?” asked the girl, whose face looked pale and careworn. “If we could only get him to land.”

“We have no boats, and no means of landing. The brig is nearly motionless, and will soon be quite so. If we had wind we might run her on the coast; but at present it is only a question of how many hours we can float. The captain talks of a raft.”

“Land ho!” was heard shouted on the forecastle.

“Where away?” was asked from the quarter-deck.

“Broad on the starboard bow, sir, nearly ahead.”

The shout seemed to rouse the sick man. His eyes opened languidly, and so heavy and stertorous was the breathing, that the clothes rose and fell with the labouring chest.

Dom Maxara had regained consciousness, but it became evident that some severe internal injury had taken place, and that death was not far off. Isabel leaned over him, and kissed the white lips.

“Land is in sight, dear father; the weather is fine, and we shall soon reach it,” she whispered, placing her hand in his.

The old man closed his eyes, and prayed; he then motioned with his hand, and Hughes gave him some teaspoonsful of weak brandy and water.

This revived him, and the cushions being arranged, he managed, though with much pain, to make himself heard.

“I shall never land, my daughter,” he said, “never. Isabel, at the foot of my bed you will find a tin case, bring it.”

The weeping girl did as she was told without a word.

“Enrico,” continued the dying man, slowly and feebly, “all my papers are there. Whatever property I have is left to my daughter. Isabel, I am leaving you fast.”

The girl knelt by his side, sobbing bitterly, but without speaking.

A long pause ensued, during which the clank of the chain pumps, the swish of the water, the loud voices on deck, and the stertorous breathing of the dying noble, mixed with the passionate sobs of the sorrow-stricken daughter.

“Isabel,” said Dom Maxara, at last, “I would give you a protector. Enrico, I would give you my daughter, ere I leave you.”

“Oh, dear father, think of yourself, think not of me,” sobbed the heart-broken Isabel.

“I am thinking of myself. Enrico, tell your friend the missionary; ask him to come here.”

Wyzinski was soon found; and there, in the small cabin, the marriage service was read, Captain Weber, whose eyes were wet with tears, being present. Isabel’s voice could hardly be heard through her sobs, as she murmured the responses of the English Church. Wyzinski closed the book, and the wife’s head rested on her husband’s shoulder. They knelt by the bedside, the missionary praying fervently and long.

All had faced death together more than once; but here it was gradually approaching before their eyes, slowly but surely, and on that account the more terrible. The captain had left, his presence being urgently required on deck, and the low, earnest tones of the missionary sounded impressively in the cabin of the dismantled brig. By the bedside the newly-married couple kneeled. In Isabel’s bosom a deep and unswerving affection had long since taken root; she had read, and read truly, too, the heart of her lover; had seen, from the first, his affection for her, and had understood the plain blunt straightforward language in which the expression of it had been couched. For her own future she entertained no doubt, now that the storm was dying away, and land in sight.

“See, Enrico, he revives,” she murmured.

“It is the effect of the stimulant,” replied her husband.

A violent spasm seemed to shake the dying noble’s whole frame from head to foot. Extending his hands, he laid them on the heads of the two kneeling beside him; his eyes were lifted to Heaven, his lips moved, and he made an effort to speak. It was useless, for no sound issued from the white contracted lips. Again the convulsion fit passed over his frame, the head fell back on the pillow, and the arms dropped heavily. The rush of the water, and the heavy clank of the chain pumps, mixed with the sobs of the orphan and the low earnest prayer of the missionary alone broke the silence of the death chamber.

On deck the men were still working hard, and the clear water poured from the brig’s scuppers, but there was no cheerfulness shown; they worked, it is true, but sullenly, mechanically, and without hope. The line of coast was visible from the forecastle, but the wind had fallen, and though now and then a puff would fill the foresail, yet the brig hardly had headway, rolling heavily, and seeming to right herself slowly. Everything betokened calm, the sun pouring upon the brig’s water-sodden decks, and the jagged stumps of her masts. The land was in sight, but there was no disguising the facts that her boats were smashed to pieces, and she herself was, despite the efforts of her crew, sinking under their feet.

“I see no other way,” said Captain Weber, who now stood talking to his first officer on the quarter-deck. “We must have started a plank; mark how clear and green the water flows from her scuppers, and that long lazy roll.”

His mate took off his cap, leisurely scratching his head. “Ay, ay, sir,” he replied, “either one of the yards has poked a hole through her bottom, or one of that scoundrel’s eighteen-pounders has done more damage than we thought.”

“She is settling down fast, Lowe. If we had only a breeze we would beach the old barky, but it is impossible.”

“Quite impossible, Captain Weber. If you will take my advice, knock off the pumps, and set all hands to work to make a raft. Let us save what we can,” earnestly replied the mate.

Captain Weber’s face was very sad. With the brig was lost the savings of a life, and he carefully turned over in his mind all the circumstances. He looked over the side and noticed with a sigh how deep the “Halcyon” lay in the water, and how sluggish was her motion. He noted the idle sail as it hung against the broken foremast, and the clank of the chain pumps came to his ear, as the clear salt-water flooded the deck.

The old seaman groaned.

“There is nothing for it, Lowe,” he muttered. “Keep the pumps going; half the hands will do the work. Serve out a good allowance of grog. Get the masts out of her, and let us have them alongside. The old brig won’t miss them.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” cheerfully replied the mate, walking aft among the men.

“Morris,” continued the captain, addressing the carpenter, “send up all the spare spars you have, and we will use the planking of the forecastle to make a staging for the raft. Rig out a pair of sheers amidships.”

All was now bustle aboard the brig. The men, who had worked at the pumps sullenly, because they knew that despite all they could do the leak was gaining fast on them, now found themselves employed in securing their own safety. The remains of the fore and mainmast were soon floating alongside, and, with a number of spare yards and heavier spars, formed a solid basis to work upon. Across these were placed a second layer of lighter spars, and the whole secured firmly. The planking of the deck forward, where it had been partially torn up by the grinding of the fore-topmast, was easily removed, and completed a kind of deck, raised two feet at least above the water. A royal yard was rigged as a mast, and stancheons were fixed round the edges of the platform, through which ropes were run. The arms were got on deck, and the best being selected were, with a liberal supply of ammunition, placed on the raft. Some loose sails were thrown in, provisions of every kind added, and as there was room for treble the number of men on the floating spars, several heavy cases, the contents of which were known only to the captain, were stowed away on the raft.

Night came on, and one by one the stars shone out. A long gentle swell was all that remained of the late storm, and the brig, barely rising to it, rolled clumsily and heavily. The men had behaved well. There had been a question raised, when they were tired of the pumps, and found that, work as hard as they might, it was useless, of breaking into the spirit-room; it had been soon disposed of, however, and each and all had worked cheerfully.

Crew and passengers were on deck. Isabel had been speaking in a pleading tone, while the dark mass of timber alongside was as yet not tenanted.

“I cannot bear to think of what remains of my poor father being left here. We are close to land; let me, at least, see him laid to rest in African soil.”

“Dearest Isabel, your wish is law to me, and the desire is a natural though I think a wrong one. We don’t know when we may reach land, and the sad sight will but increase your grief. Believe me, dearest, it is useless.”

Isabel looked up into her husband’s face.

“My first request,” she murmured.

The look was irresistible; and Hughes walked forward to where Captain Weber stood, among his crew, completing his last dispositions.

“Captain Weber, can we not take the remains of Dom Maxara on shore for burial?”

“What use will it be? The old barky, with all she contains, will soon be at the bottom of the sea, and so much of my future and hopes go with her, that I should not much care if I went also.”

“Still, it is the daughter’s wish,” urged Hughes.

The men stood grouped around on the deck, the pumps had been left, and the brig was rolling so heavily on the swell that it was time to leave her.

“Well, well! be it as you wish. Here, Anderson, and you, Forrest, come here;” and the seaman gave his directions.

The two sailors hesitated. They joined their comrades. A low whispered conversation ensued. He who had been called Forrest stepped forward, and scratching off his tarpaulin, twisted it in his hands.

“Well, what is it, Forrest?” asked the captain.

“Please your honour, if so be as I may make bold, we’ve had a run of ill luck of late.”

“I know that, none better; but what has that got to do with you?”

“The gentleman has lost the number of his mess, d’ye see, and it’s an onlucky thing to begin a new voyage with a corpse aboard.”

“Ay, ay, Captain Weber,” chimed in the rest, “we dare not set sail on yonder sticks with never a keel beneath our feet, and only a rag of canvas for sail, and that, too, with a corpse aboard.”

The group of men were standing at the gangway, and the captain turned to them, speaking in a loud voice.

“Your duty, Forrest, is to obey my orders. The ship is sinking under our feet, but while a stick of her remains floating they shall be obeyed. Do your duty.”

The men turned, but seemed mutinous, and once more the muttered conversation began, when, gliding down the ladder, Isabel stood among them. She had heard what passed.

“I was wrong, Enrico; tell these brave men I was wrong. My father could not have a nobler coffin than this. Speak to them, Enrico.”

Hughes did so, and a hearty cheer was given by the crew.

“And now,” said Captain Weber, greatly relieved, “we must leave the poor old brig. Are you ready?”

“I would say good bye to my father, Enrico,” murmured Isabel; “have we time?”

The three entered the little cabin, the missionary having joined them, and they stood for the last time by the side of the dead. A lamp burned feebly, lighting up dimly the small bed where the body lay. The grey hairs were carefully combed out, the eyes were closed, for a daughter’s hands had been busy there. The features wore a composed, but haughty look, and one or two deep stains alone told of the violent nature of his death.

Isabel sobbed bitterly, while the missionary prayed. The door opened, and Captain Weber entered. Stooping over the dead form, Isabel imprinted one long kiss on the cold lips, and, in an agony of grief, cast herself into the soldier’s arms.

“Enrico,—thou alone art left to me,” she sobbed.

Captain Weber threw the broad folds of the Union Jack over the dead; the light was left burning, and the party—Isabel sobbing as if her heart would break—passed through the deserted cabin where the water was already washing about, and, reaching the deck, went over the side on to the raft. It was time, for the brig was very low in the water, and as the captain stood on the gangway, the last man on deck, an explosion took place below. It was the pent-up air forced by the increasing mass of water to find an escape, blowing down the screens and bulkheads. The old seaman raised his hat, took one look around him, and then stepped on to the raft. “Shove off, my lads,” he cried, as with long planks ripped from the deck and hastily fashioned into sweeps, the men bore her away from the brig’s side.

“We must get a few fathom away before the old barky makes her last plunge, Lowe.”

“Ay, ay, sir; ship the sweeps, my lads, and give way.”

There was not a breath of wind, but the growing coolness of the air told of morning being near, for in tropical climates the coldest hour of the twenty-four is ever that which precedes dawn.

The sweeps were long and clumsy, and as the royal which had been set as sail was wholly useless, the motion of the unwieldy raft was necessarily very slow. Two men were at each sweep, and there were four of them, yet the raft barely moved through the water. Captain Weber sat on a case, his head leaning on his hands, and his face turned towards the “Halcyon.”

The starlight was not bright enough to show the tears that rolled slowly down his weather-beaten cheeks. On a heap of sails, nestling by her husband’s side, his large military cloak thrown over her, sat Isabel, and she too was looking towards the dark mass of the sinking vessel. The seaman mourned his ship, the home of many years, the companion of danger of every kind; Isabel’s cheek was wet too, for she mourned a father’s loss, and her eyes were eagerly, turned to a dim, faint ray of light shining from one of the ports. She knew that it came from the cabin where her dead father lay. The sweeps fell with measured cadence into the water, the men pulling in stern silence, until they were about five hundred yards away, and then, without, any order from any one, they ceased rowing. The grey dawn was slowly breaking over the ocean as the brig gave one wild roll to port. She seemed unable to right herself, and those on the raft drew a long breath, as she partially did so. The water, in her hold rolled heavily forward. Down went her bows, down, down into the salt sea, as lurching heavily and slowly to starboard, she disappeared, the sea boiling in foam around her.

“My father! oh, my father!” cried Isabel, as she clasped her hands together and sprang forward, as though to join him, but her husband’s strong arm was round her, drawing her gently back.

“Give way, my lads, give way, the old barky’s bones are better there than if the crew of the accursed pirate schooner had trod her decks,” said the captain, deliberately turning his back on the spot, and passing the cuff of his coat over his eyes.

The sun rose in all its splendour over the Indian Ocean, sleeping quietly and calmly under its rays. There were plenty of sails, and an awning was constructed, which gave shelter to all, and slowly and wearily the day wore on.

So long as it remained calm there was no danger, and tedious as their advance was it remained but a question of time as to when the forty miles which separated them from the land should be passed. But night set in before half the distance had been overcome, and there was a dull moaning sound over the ocean, the sailors’ eyes telling them that the scud was flying from the westward, a wind which, if it set in, would infallibly blow them off land. All night long the men toiled at the heavy sweeps. They were fairly worn out with fatigue, some of them sleeping at the oars. The captain, his mate, and passengers all took their turn, but towards two o’clock the first puffs of the westerly gale were felt, and the captain, seeing the utter uselessness of prolonging the struggle, gave orders to ship the sweeps, and for the men to lie down. Isabel had long since cried herself to sleep, and on board the raft none but the captain and Hughes watched as morning dawned over the sea.