The coarse tones of Maurice Frere roused him. "What do you want?" heasked. Rufus Dawes, raising his head, contemplated the figure beforehim, and recognized it. "Is it you?" he said slowly.
"What do you mean? Do you know me?" asked Frere, drawing back. But theconvict did not reply. His momentary emotion passed away, the pangs ofhunger returned, and greedily seizing upon the piece of damper, he beganto eat in silence.
"Do you hear, man?" repeated Frere, at length. "What are you?"
"An escaped prisoner. You can give me up in the morning. I've done mybest, and I'm beat."
The sentence struck Frere with dismay. The man did not know that thesettlement had been abandoned!
"I cannot give you up. There is no one but myself and a woman and childon the settlement." Rufus Dawes, pausing in his eating, stared at him inamazement. "The prisoners have gone away in the schooner. If you chooseto remain free, you can do so as far as I am concerned. I am as helplessas you are."
"But how do you come here?"
Frere laughed bitterly. To give explanations to convicts was foreign tohis experience, and he did not relish the task. In this case, however,there was no help for it. "The prisoners mutinied and seized the brig."
"What brig?"
"The Osprey."
A terrible light broke upon Rufus Dawes, and he began to understand howhe had again missed his chance. "Who took her?"
"That double-dyed villain, John Rex," says Frere, giving vent to hispassion. "May she sink, and burn, and--"
"Have they gone, then?" cried the miserable man, clutching at his hairwith a gesture of hopeless rage.
"Yes; two days ago, and left us here to starve." Rufus Dawes burst intoa laugh so discordant that it made the other shudder. "We'll starvetogether, Maurice Frere," said he, "for while you've a crust, I'll shareit. If I don't get liberty, at least I'll have revenge!"
The sinister aspect of this famished savage, sitting with his chin onhis ragged knees, rocking himself to and fro in the light of the fire,gave Mr. Maurice Frere a new sensation. He felt as might have felt thatAfrican hunter who, returning to his camp fire, found a lion there."Wretch!" said he, shrinking from him, "why should you wish to berevenged on me?"
The convict turned upon him with a snarl. "Take care what you say! I'llhave no hard words. Wretch! If I am a wretch, who made me one? If I hateyou and myself and the world, who made me hate it? I was born free--asfree as you are. Why should I be sent to herd with beasts, and condemnedto this slavery, worse than death? Tell me that, Maurice Frere--tell methat!" "I didn't make the laws," says Frere, "why do you attack me?"
"Because you are what I was. You are FREE! You can do as you please. Youcan love, you can work, you can think. I can only hate!" He paused as ifastonished at himself, and then continued, with a low laugh. "Fine wordsfor a convict, eh! But, never mind, it's all right, Mr. Frere; we'reequal now, and I sha'n't die an hour sooner than you, though you are a'free man'!"
Frere began to think that he was dealing with another madman.
"Die! There's no need to talk of dying," he said, as soothingly as itwas possible for him to say it. "Time enough for that by-and-by."
"There spoke the free man. We convicts have an advantage over yougentlemen. You are afraid of death; we pray for it. It is the best thingthat can happen to us. Die! They were going to hang me once. I wish theyhad. My God, I wish they had!"
There was such a depth of agony in this terrible utterance that MauriceFrere was appalled at it. "There, go and sleep, my man," he said. "Youare knocked up. We'll talk in the morning."
"Hold on a bit!" cried Rufus Dawes, with a coarseness of manneraltogether foreign to that he had just assumed. "Who's with ye?"
"The wife and daughter of the Commandant," replied Frere, half afraid torefuse an answer to a question so fiercely put.
"No one else?"
"No." "Poor souls!" said the convict, "I pity them." And then hestretched himself, like a dog, before the blaze, and went to sleepinstantly. Maurice Frere, looking at the gaunt figure of this additionto the party, was completely puzzled how to act. Such a character hadnever before come within the range of his experience. He knew not whatto make of this fierce, ragged, desperate man, who wept and threatenedby turns--who was now snarling in the most repulsive bass of the convictgamut, and now calling upon Heaven in tones which were little less thaneloquent. At first he thought of precipitating himself upon the sleepingwretch and pinioning him, but a second glance at the sinewy, thoughwasted, limbs forbade him to follow out the rash suggestion of hisown fears. Then a horrible prompting--arising out of his formercowardice--made him feel for the jack-knife with which one murder hadalready been committed. Their stock of provisions was so scanty, andafter all, the lives of the woman and child were worth more than thatof this unknown desperado! But, to do him justice, the thought no soonershaped itself than he crushed it out. "We'll wait till morning, andsee how he shapes," said Frere to himself; and pausing at the brushwoodbarricade, behind which the mother and daughter were clinging to eachother, he whispered that he was on guard outside, and that the absconderslept. But when morning dawned, he found that there was no need foralarm. The convict was lying in almost the same position as thatin which he had left him, and his eyes were closed. His threateningoutbreak of the previous night had been produced by the excitement ofhis sudden rescue, and he was now incapable of violence. Frere advanced,and shook him by the shoulder.
"Not alive!" cried the poor wretch, waking with a start, and raising hisarm to strike. "Keep off!"
"It's all right," said Frere. "No one is going to harm you. Wake up."
Rufus Dawes glanced around him stupidly, and then remembering what hadhappened, with a great effort, he staggered to his feet. "I thoughtthey'd got me!" he said, "but it's the other way, I see. Come, let'shave breakfast, Mr. Frere. I'm hungry."
"You must wait," said Frere. "Do you think there is no one here butyourself?"
Rufus Dawes, swaying to and fro from weakness, passed his shred of acuff over his eyes. "I don't know anything about it. I only know I'mhungry."
Frere stopped short. Now or never was the time to settle futurerelations. Lying awake in the night, with the jack-knife ready to hishand, he had decided on the course of action that must be adopted. Theconvict should share with the rest, but no more. If he rebelled at that,there must be a trial of strength between them. "Look you here," hesaid. "We have but barely enough food to serve us until help comes--ifit does come. I have the care of that poor woman and child, and I willsee fair play for their sakes. You shall share with us to our last bitand drop, but, by Heaven, you shall get no more."
The convict, stretching out his wasted arms, looked down upon them withthe uncertain gaze of a drunken man. "I am weak now," he said. "Youhave the best of me"; and then he sank suddenly down upon the ground,exhausted. "Give me a drink," he moaned, feebly motioning with his hand.Frere got him water in the pannikin, and having drunk it, he smiled andlay down to sleep again. Mrs. Vickers and Sylvia, coming out while hestill slept, recognized him as the desperado of the settlement.
"He was the most desperate man we had," said Mrs. Vickers, identifyingherself with her husband. "Oh, what shall we do?"
"He won't do much harm," returned Frere, looking down at the notoriousruffian with curiosity. "He's as near dead as can be."
Sylvia looked up at him with her clear child's glance. "We mustn't lethim die," said she. "That would be murder." "No, no," returned Frere,hastily, "no one wants him to die. But what can we do?"
"I'll nurse him!" cried Sylvia.
Frere broke into one of his coarse laughs, the first one that he hadindulged in since the mutiny. "You nurse him! By George, that's a goodone!" The poor little child, weak and excitable, felt the contempt inthe tone, and burst into a passion of sobs. "Why do you insult me, youwicked man? The poor fellow's ill, and he'll--he'll die, like Mr. Bates.Oh, mamma, mamma, Let's go away by ourselves."
Frere swore a great oath, and walked away. He went into the little w
oodunder the cliff, and sat down. He was full of strange thoughts, which hecould not express, and which he had never owned before. The dislikethe child bore to him made him miserable, and yet he took delight intormenting her. He was conscious that he had acted the part of acoward the night before in endeavouring to frighten her, and that thedetestation she bore him was well earned; but he had fully determined tostake his life in her defence, should the savage who had thus come uponthem out of the desert attempt violence, and he was unreasonably angryat the pity she had shown. It was not fair to be thus misinterpreted.But he had done wrong to swear, and more so in quitting them soabruptly. The consciousness of his wrong-doing, however, only madehim more confirmed in it. His native obstinacy would not allow him toretract what he had said--even to himself. Walking along, he came toBates's grave, and the cross upon it. Here was another evidence ofill-treatment. She had always preferred Bates. Now that Bates was gone,she must needs transfer her childish affections to a convict. "Oh," saidFrere to himself, with pleasant recollections of many coarse triumphs inlove-making, "if you were a woman, you little vixen, I'd make you loveme!" When he had said this, he laughed at himself for his folly--he wasturning romantic! When he got back, he found Dawes stretched upon thebrushwood, with Sylvia sitting near him.
"He is better," said Mrs. Vickers, disdaining to refer to the scene ofthe morning. "Sit down and have something to eat, Mr. Frere."
"Are you better?" asked Frere, abruptly.
To his surprise, the convict answered quite civilly, "I shall be strongagain in a day or two, and then I can help you, sir."
"Help me? How?" "To build a hut here for the ladies. And we'll live hereall our lives, and never go back to the sheds any more."
"He has been wandering a little," said Mrs. Vickers. "Poor fellow, heseems quite well behaved."
The convict began to sing a little German song, and to beat the refrainwith his hand. Frere looked at him with curiosity. "I wonder what thestory of that man's life has been," he said. "A queer one, I'll bebound."
Sylvia looked up at him with a forgiving smile. "I'll ask him when hegets well," she said, "and if you are good, I'll tell you, Mr. Frere."
Frere accepted the proffered friendship. "I am a great brute, Sylvia,sometimes, ain't I?" he said, "but I don't mean it."
"You are," returned Sylvia, frankly, "but let's shake hands, and befriends. It's no use quarrelling when there are only four of us, is it?"And in this way was Rufus Dawes admitted a member of the family circle.
Within a week from the night on which he had seen the smoke of Frere'sfire, the convict had recovered his strength, and had become animportant personage. The distrust with which he had been at first viewedhad worn off, and he was no longer an outcast, to be shunned and pointedat, or to be referred to in whispers. He had abandoned his rough manner,and no longer threatened or complained, and though at times a profoundmelancholy would oppress him, his spirits were more even than those ofFrere, who was often moody, sullen, and overbearing. Rufus Dawes was nolonger the brutalized wretch who had plunged into the dark waters of thebay to escape a life he loathed, and had alternately cursed and weptin the solitudes of the forests. He was an active member of society--asociety of four--and he began to regain an air of independence andauthority. This change had been wrought by the influence of littleSylvia. Recovered from the weakness consequent upon this terriblejourney, Rufus Dawes had experienced for the first time in six yearsthe soothing power of kindness. He had now an object to live for beyondhimself. He was of use to somebody, and had he died, he would havebeen regretted. To us this means little; to this unhappy man it meanteverything. He found, to his astonishment, that he was not despised, andthat, by the strange concurrence of circumstances, he had been broughtinto a position in which his convict experiences gave him authority.He was skilled in all the mysteries of the prison sheds. He knew how tosustain life on as little food as possible. He could fell trees withoutan axe, bake bread without an oven, build a weatherproof hut withoutbricks or mortar. From the patient he became the adviser; and from theadviser, the commander. In the semi-savage state to which these fourhuman beings had been brought, he found that savage accomplishmentswere of most value. Might was Right, and Maurice Frere's authority ofgentility soon succumbed to Rufus Dawes's authority of knowledge.
As the time wore on, and the scanty stock of provisions decreased, hefound that his authority grew more and more powerful. Did a questionarise as to the qualities of a strange plant, it was Rufus Dawes whocould pronounce upon it. Were fish to be caught, it was Rufus Daweswho caught them. Did Mrs. Vickers complain of the instability of herbrushwood hut, it was Rufus Dawes who worked a wicker shield, andplastering it with clay, produced a wall that defied the keenest wind.He made cups out of pine-knots, and plates out of bark-strips. He workedharder than any three men. Nothing daunted him, nothing discouraged him.When Mrs. Vickers fell sick, from anxiety and insufficient food, it wasRufus Dawes who gathered fresh leaves for her couch, who cheered her byhopeful words, who voluntarily gave up half his own allowance of meatthat she might grow stronger on it. The poor woman and her child calledhim "Mr." Dawes.
Frere watched all this with dissatisfaction that amounted at timesto positive hatred. Yet he could say nothing, for he could not butacknowledge that, beside Dawes, he was incapable. He even submittedto take orders from this escaped convict--it was so evident that theescaped convict knew better than he. Sylvia began to look upon Dawes asa second Bates. He was, moreover, all her own. She had an interest inhim, for she had nursed and protected him. If it had not been forher, this prodigy would not have lived. He felt for her an absorbingaffection that was almost a passion. She was his good angel, hisprotectress, his glimpse of Heaven. She had given him food when he wasstarving, and had believed in him when the world--the world of four--hadlooked coldly on him. He would have died for her, and, for love of her,hoped for the vessel which should take her back to freedom and give himagain into bondage.
But the days stole on, and no vessel appeared. Each day they eagerlyscanned the watery horizon; each day they longed to behold the bowspritof the returning Ladybird glide past the jutting rock that shut out theview of the harbour--but in vain. Mrs. Vickers's illness increased,and the stock of provisions began to run short. Dawes talked of puttinghimself and Frere on half allowance. It was evident that, unless succourcame in a few days, they must starve.
Frere mooted all sorts of wild plans for obtaining food. He would makea journey to the settlement, and, swimming the estuary, search if haplyany casks of biscuit had been left behind in the hurry of departure. Hewould set springes for the seagulls, and snare the pigeons at LibertyPoint. But all these proved impracticable, and with blank faces theywatched their bag of flour grow smaller and smaller daily. Then thenotion of escape was broached. Could they construct a raft? Impossiblewithout nails or ropes. Could they build a boat? Equally impossible forthe same reason. Could they raise a fire sufficient to signal a ship?Easily; but what ship would come within reach of that doubly-desolatespot? Nothing could be done but wait for a vessel, which was sure tocome for them sooner or later; and, growing weaker day by day, theywaited.
One morning Sylvia was sitting in the sun reading the "English History",which, by the accident of fright, she had brought with her on the nightof the mutiny. "Mr. Frere," said she, suddenly, "what is an alchemist?"
"A man who makes gold," was Frere's not very accurate definition.
"Do you know one?"
"No."
"Do you, Mr. Dawes?"
"I knew a man once who thought himself one."
"What! A man who made gold?"
"After a fashion."
"But did he make gold?" persisted Sylvia.
"No, not absolutely make it. But he was, in his worship of money, analchemist for all that."
"What became of him?"
"I don't know," said Dawes, with so much constraint in his tone that thechild instinctively turned the subject.
"Then, alchemy is a very old art?"
"Did the Ancient Britons know it?"
"No, not as old as that!"
Sylvia suddenly gave a little scream. The remembrance of the eveningwhen she read about the Ancient Britons to poor Bates came vividly intoher mind, and though she had since re-read the passage that had thenattracted her attention a hundred times, it had never before presenteditself to her in its full significance. Hurriedly turning thewell-thumbed leaves, she read aloud the passage which had provokedremark:--
"'The Ancient Britons were little better than Barbarians. Theypainted their bodies with Woad, and, seated in their light coracles ofskin stretched upon slender wooden frames, must have presented a wildand savage appearance.'"
"A coracle! That's a boat! Can't we make a coracle, Mr. Dawes?"
CHAPTER XIII. WHAT THE SEAWEED SUGGESTED.
For the Term of His Natural Life Page 25