“More—give me more,” he gasped, as soon as he had recovered his breath.
But this Lance declined to do. Bidding the poor fellow be patient for a few minutes, he went to the medicine-chest and mixed him a cooling draught. This also was swallowed with avidity; and then the armourer lay quiet for a few minutes. Not for long, however; he soon began to toss restlessly about once more; and by the time that the hands returned from their day’s work at the shipyard he was in a raging fever—raving mad in fact; and Lance was at last compelled to have him laced up in his hammock to prevent him from doing himself a serious injury.
Lance Evelin will probably remember that night as long as he lives. In the delirium of the fierce fever which consumed him the unhappy armourer was visited by visions of all the evil deeds of his past life; and Lance’s blood curdled in his veins as he listened to his patient’s disjointed ravings of murder, rapine, and cold-blooded cruelty of so revolting a character that he wondered how any human mind could conceive it in the first instance, and how, after it had been conceived, human hands could bring themselves to perpetrate it. And then the man’s guilty conscience awakened from its long torpor, and, acting upon his excited imagination, conjured up a thousand frightful punishments awaiting him. He writhed, he groaned, he uttered the most frightful curses, and then, in the same breath shrieked for forgiveness and mercy. It was perfectly appalling; even his comrades—those who had shared with him in the dreadful deeds about which he raved—found the scene too trying for their hardened and blunted feelings; and such of them as had their hammocks slung in the same dormitory abandoned them and slept in the open air rather than remain to have their souls harrowed by his dreadful utterances.
This terrible state of things existed until the afternoon of the following day—rather more than twenty-four hours after he had received his injuries—and then the fever subsided, but only to leave the once powerful man in the last stage of exhaustion. So completely prostrate was he that he had no power to so much as lift his hand, and he was only able to speak in the merest whisper. Now was the time when all Lance’s skill was most urgently required. Fagged as he was by his long night of watching, he tended his patient with the most unremitting assiduity, administering tonics and stimulants every few minutes; and racking his brain for devices by which he might help the man to tide over this period of extreme prostration. But it was all of no avail; the poor fellow gradually sank into a state of stupor from which all Evelin’s skill was unable to arouse him; and at length, about eight o’clock in the evening, after a temporary revival during which all the terrors of death once more assailed him, his guilty soul passed away without opportunity for repentance; prayers and curses issuing from his lips in horrible confusion up to the last moment of his existence. His death was witnessed by several of his companions in crime; and, while some tried to laugh and scoff away the unwelcome impression which the scene produced upon their minds, there were others who went into the open air and wandered away by themselves to ponder upon this miserable ending of a crime-stained life.
* * *
* * *
Chapter Eighteen.
Alarm and disaster.
Lance’s long and fatiguing watch beside the death-bed of the unfortunate armourer of course delayed to some extent Captain Staunton’s reply to the suggestion which Dickinson had made on behalf of himself and certain of his comrades. But the skipper had, to save time, discussed the matter with the rest of the party, coming to the conclusion that they would be quite justified, under the circumstances, in accepting the services of these men; and on the morning following the armourer’s death—Lance having enjoyed a good night’s rest—his opinion was taken upon the question, with the view of giving the men an answer forthwith.
Evelin listened attentively to everything that was said; and then remarked—
“Well, gentlemen, I quite agree with you that the assistance which the men have it in their power to afford us would be most valuable; it would clear away a good many of our difficulties and would go a long way toward ensuring success in our endeavour to escape—an endeavour which I must confess I have always secretly regarded with a considerable amount of doubt and misgiving. It has always presented itself to me as an undertaking of a decidedly desperate character; and now it appears more so than ever, having regard to the very disagreeable change in Ralli’s treatment of us. The only question in my mind is one of duty—duty to our country and to the world at large. We must not forget that the men who now come to us with offers of assistance are men who have, in the past, outraged every law, human and divine; and justice demands that they shall be delivered up to punishment. Now, if we accept their services we certainly cannot afterwards denounce them; it would be rank treachery on our part. How do you propose to overcome this difficulty?”
“We have thought of that,” replied Captain Staunton; “it is the only question which has bothered us; and, for my own part, I can only see one solution of it. No word has, it is true, been said by them as to our keeping their secret, but I think there can be no doubt that such a stipulation was intended to be understood; and in any case I fully agree with you that we cannot justly avail ourselves of their assistance and afterwards hand them over to the authorities. My view of the case is this. Here we are, in what is beyond all doubt a most desperate scrape. A chance—and a very slight chance it is—offers for our escape, and most opportunely these men come forward with an offer of assistance. If we let slip this slight chance it is extremely doubtful whether we shall ever have another; and that, I imagine—taking into account the future possibilities of evil in store for the helpless women dependent upon us—counts for something, and justifies us is accepting help from almost any source. Then, as regards the men themselves. It is undoubtedly true that they have committed crimes which place them quite outside the pale of human mercy, if justice alone is to be considered. But for my own part I believe that they have repented of their past misdeeds—at any rate they say so, and we have no reason to doubt the truth of their assertion. They ask for an opportunity to reform; they desire a chance of making amends, as far as possible, for the past evil of their lives; and I have an idea, gentlemen, that though, in giving them such a chance, we might not be acting in accordance with man’s idea of strict justice, we should be following pretty closely upon God’s idea of it. He breaks not the bruised reed nor quenches the smoking flax; and if He thus declares his readiness to give even the most doubtful and unpromising of His creatures another trial, I really do not see that we are called upon to be more strict than He is. My proposal, therefore, is that we should accept these men’s proffered assistance; that we should do what we may be able to do for them in the way of giving them the opportunity they desire; and if justice is to overtake them—if punishment is to follow their past misdeeds, let it be due to some other agencies than ours. If God intends them to suffer punishment at the hands of their fellow-creatures, He will provide the instruments, never fear. But I think it far more likely He will give them another chance.”
“I, too, believe He will,” said Lance. “You take a view of the matter which I confess with shame had not presented itself to me, and I am convinced. These men have committed crimes of exceptional enormity, it is true; but it is not for us to draw the line—to say to whom mercy shall be granted and from whom it shall be withheld; therefore let us accept their offer, and leave the matter of their punishment in God’s hands.”
Thus, then, it was decided; and Bob—as the least likely to excite suspicion if seen in conversation with any of the pirates—was deputed to inform Dickinson that his offer and that of his mates’ had been accepted, and to request him to call—without exciting observation, if possible—at the cottage that evening.
When the gentlemen returned home at the close of the day’s work, they found Blanche and Violet in a state of considerable nervous excitement, owing, they asserted, to their having been frightened that day while at their work of gold-collecting in the cavern. On being asked for a detailed accou
nt of the circumstance which had alarmed them, Violet said—
“We had been at work about two hours, and had just reached the edge of the gulf with our second load, when we were startled by hearing somewhere near us a sound like a deep long-drawn sigh, followed almost immediately afterwards by a loud moan. I have no doubt you will think us dreadful cowards, but it is no use concealing the truth—we simply dropped the gold and flew back along the passage to the great cavern at our utmost speed. Arrived there, we sat down to recover ourselves, and at length succeeded so far that we were both inclined to believe we had been victimised by our own imaginations—you know what an eerie place it is, and how likely to excite weird fancies in the minds of nervous timid women like ourselves. So we summoned up all our courage and went to work once more. We naturally felt somewhat reluctant to visit the scene of our fright again; but we overcame the feeling and made our third journey to the chasm without experiencing any further shock to our nerves. On our fourth journey, however, we had reached the place, deposited our load, and had just set out to return when the same sounds were repeated, much more loudly than at first, and accompanied this time by a loud prolonged hiss such as I should imagine could proceed only from some gigantic serpent. We were thoroughly terrified this time, and fled once more, not only to the cavern but thence into the open air, and home. I do not know how we may regard the matter in the morning; but at present I really do not feel as though I could ever venture into the place again until the mystery has been solved and the cause of those terrifying sounds discovered.”
“Of course not,” said Captain Staunton. “None of you must attempt to visit the cavern again until we have had an opportunity of investigating the matter. It is possible—though, mind you, I don’t think it at all probable—that a serpent or large reptile of some kind may have made its way into the gallery. And, at all events, it will never do for you ladies to run the slightest risk. What do you think, Evelin?” he added, turning to Lance. “Is it likely that there may be a snake or something of the sort there?”
“Not likely, I should say,” responded Lance; “we have never encountered a reptile of any description, large or small, in the course of our rambles about the island. But of course there is just the bare possibility—I cannot put it any stronger than that—of a snake drifting here on an uprooted tree or large branch. I have heard of snakes being seen in the branches of trees drifting down rivers in flood-time, and there is no reason why, under such circumstances, they should not be carried clear out to sea. Whether, however, a serpent could exist long enough to make the voyage from the mainland to this island is, in my opinion, exceedingly doubtful. Still, I quite agree with you that the ladies ought not to make any further visits to the cavern until we have discovered the source of their alarm.”
This singular circumstance gave rise to a considerable amount of speculation among the members of the party; and they were still discussing the matter when a knocking was heard at the door, and, in obedience to Captain Staunton’s stentorian “Come in,” Dickinson entered.
“Sarvent, ladies,” exclaimed the new-comer with an elaborate sea-scrape. Then, seating himself in the chair which Captain Staunton indicated, he continued, “Well, cap’n, and gentlemen all, I’ve just comed up, you see, in obedience to your commands of the forenoon sent through the young gentleman there”—pointing to Bob—“and to talk matters over as it were.”
“That’s all right, Dickinson,” answered Captain Staunton; “we are very glad to see you. Robert of course told you that we have decided to accept the assistance of yourself and such of your shipmates as are to be thoroughly relied upon?”
“He did, sir; and right glad and thankful I was to hear it,” replied Dickinson. “Of course we knowed right well, sir, how much we was axing of you when we offered to chime in on your side. We was just axing that you’d take us upon trust as it were, and believe in the honesty and straight-for’ard-ness of men as had proved theirselves to be rogues and worse. But you’ve took us, sir, and you sha’n’t have no cause to repent it; we’re yours, heart and soul; hence-for’ard we takes our orders from you, and we’re ready to take any oath you like upon it.”
“No oath is necessary, my good fellow,” said Captain Staunton; “your bare word is quite sufficient, for if you intend to be faithful to us you will be so without swearing fidelity; and if you mean to betray us an oath would hardly stop you, I am afraid. But we do not doubt your fidelity in the least; the only thing we have any fear about is your prudence.”
“Ah, yes; there sir, we may fail,” said Dickinson with a mournful shake of the head. “But you give your orders, sir, and we’ll do our best to obey ’em. But afore you lays your plans I think you ought to know how things is standing among us just now. I’m greatly afeared you’re like so many young bears—with all your troubles afore you. That Greek rascal, Ralli, has been doin’ his best to stir up all hands of us against you—and particler against you, Mr Evelin—by saying as it was all along of you as the poor armourer lost his life. He holds as how you killed him by taking off his legs, and that you desarves to be severely punished for doing of it; and there’s some of the chaps as is fools enough to listen to what he says and to believe it too. But there’s me and Tom Poole and two or three more—we’re going to hold out to it that you did the best you could for the poor chap; and that if it hadn’t ha’ been for Ralli’s own obstinacy the man wouldn’t never have been hurt at all. And, however the thing goes, you may depend upon me to give you timely warning.”
“Thank you, Dickinson,” said Captain Staunton. “This information which you have just given us is most valuable, and renders it all the more necessary that we should promptly mature our plans. Now, to show you how thoroughly we trust you, I will explain those plans as far as we have yet arranged them; you can then tell us what you think of them; and you will also be better able to understand in what way you and your shipmates can prove of most use to us.”
“Well, if that don’t beat all!” exclaimed Dickinson, after Captain Staunton had stated their plans. “To think as you should go for to arrange to run away with the schooner herself! Why, I thought the most you’d do would be to provision and seize the launch, and go off to sea in her, taking your chance of being picked up some time or another. Well, there ain’t a soul amongst us, I knows, as has so much as the ghost of a hidee about your taking the schooner. Some of the hands seems to have a kind of notion—I’ve found out since I spoke to you t’other day—that you may try to slip off some day if you gets the chance; but they just laughs at it you know, and asks how you’re to manage, and how far you’d get in a boat afore the schooner’d be alongside of you, and that-like. But your plan’s the right one, cap’n—no mistake about that. And now, just say what you want us chaps to do, and we’ll do it if it’s any way possible.”
“How many of you are there?” asked the skipper. “How many, I mean, upon whom we can absolutely depend. Bear in mind that no one who is not thoroughly trustworthy is to be let into the secret.”
“All right, sir; you trust me for that,” answered Dickinson. “For my own sake—letting alone yours and the ladies’—you may depend on’t I won’t let out the secret to the wrong people. Well; let me just reckon up how many of us there’ll be in all. Firstly there’s eight of you, counting in Mr Bowles and Kit, and leaving out the ladies. Then there’s the three other lads and the four men as was brought in with you, that’s seven—seven and eight’s—”
“Fifteen,” interjected the skipper.
“Thank’ee, sir, I ain’t much of a hand at figgers myself, but in course you’re right—fifteen it is,” said Dickinson. “Then there’s me and Tom Poole—that’s my pertickler mate—promoted he is to the armourer’s berth—and Dick Sullivan and Ned Masters—that’s four more, making fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen—nineteen, ain’t it, sir?”
“Quite right,” answered Captain Staunton.
“Then there’s the prisoners, as we calls ’em—men, you know, sir, as has
been took out of ships and wouldn’t jine the ‘Brotherhood’—I won’t say much about them just yet, but there’s about half a dozen very likely hands among ’em that I think’ll just jump at the chance of getting out of this. Tom and me’ll sound ’em cautious like, and hear what they’ve got to say for theirselves.”
“Very well,” said Captain Staunton. “And in the meantime it seems that there are nineteen of us, all told, who are to be absolutely relied upon—quite enough to handle the schooner if we can only manage to get away with her. Now, what we have to do is this. The ballast and the water-tanks are already fixed in their places, so that need not trouble us; but we must contrive to get the tanks filled as early as possible. Then, as soon as the decks are laid we must get conveyed on board all the provisions we can possibly manage. Then we shall want arms and ammunition; the guns too must be hoisted in, under the pretence of fitting the slides properly. The spars are already commenced. They, or at least the lower-masts and bowsprit, must be stepped before the craft is launched; that can easily be managed, I think; the other spars also should be finished and got on board as early as possible, and likewise the sails. There are the stores of every kind also to be got on board—in short, I should like to have the craft in a state of readiness to go to sea directly she leaves the stocks. But I really don’t see how it is to be managed; we shall never be able to do a quarter of what we want without arousing Ralli’s suspicions.”
“Oh, bless you, sir! yes, you will,” said Dickinson confidently. “Ralli’s taken a mortal dislike to you all, and ’specially to Mr Evelin,—sorry I am to say so,—and he just hates to be dictated to. Now, whatever you want, just let Mr Evelin tell him he ought to do the opposite of it, and, take my word for it, he’ll just go and do exactly what he thinks you don’t want him to; he’ll do it out of sheer contrariness. But, whether or no, now that we knows what’s wanted, we—that’s me and my mates—we’ll do as much of it as we can, and you’ll have to manage Ralli so’s to get the rest.”
The Pirate Island Page 29