Chapter Thirty Three.
Re-Trapped.
Misfortunes, they say, never come singly, and these words had hardly been uttered when voices were heard, and directly after a familiar voice said loudly, the words coming in through the low passage and quite plainly to the boys’ ears,—
“Made the oar myself, Skipper Jarks, and I ought to know it again. What I say is as they must ha’ managed somehow to ha’ got in here.”
The boat darkened the entrance for a few moments, and then glided by; while the cavern kept closing like some monstrous eye whose lid was pressed up from below, opening again fairly widely, enough almost to suggest the possibility of their passing under; but closing again as the tide rose and sank in slow, regular pulsations.
But as they watched they could make out that the soft wave rose higher and higher and sank perceptibly less, while the prisoners’ eyesight became so preternaturally sharp that they could detect the gradual opening of the sea anemones, as they spread out their starry crowns of tentacles after the first kiss of the water had moistened them. The many limpets, too, which had been tight up against the smooth rock, like bosses or excrescences, were visibly raising their shells and standing up, partly detached.
Then a new horror attracted the boys, and made them almost frantic for the moment; for, as they crouched there in the bottom of the boat, watching the slowly diminishing amount of light which came in through the archway, the water softly and quickly, welled up, nearly shut the entry, and a wave ran up the passage and passed under the boat, which was heaved up so high that the gunwale grated against the roof, and they had to bend themselves down to avoid being pressed against the rock.
Then, as they lay there, they heard the wave run on and on, whispering and waking up the echoes far inside, till the whole of the interior seemed to be alive with lapping, hissing sounds, which slowly died away as the boat sank to nearly its old level, and the light flashed in once more.
“That’s a hint to do something,” said Vince, as he rose up, finding that his head nearly touched the shell-encrusted roof.
“Yes; to force our way out,” said Mike excitedly. “We must before it’s too late.”
“It is too late, as I told you before,” said Vince sharply. “Look for yourself. Can’t you see that the arch is too small for the sides of the boat to get through? and at any moment another of those waves may come in. It’s all right, Ladle, if you’ll only be firm.”
“I’ll be as firm as you are,” said the boy angrily.
“Then help me push her along.”
Mike pressed his hands against the roof, Vince did the same; and they both thrust hard, but in spite of all the boat did not stir.
“Why, you’re pushing to send it in,” said Mike.
“And you to drive it out! What nonsense! This place is sure to get bigger inside, where the water has washed it out. We must get right in, beyond where the water rises.”
Mike shuddered; for the silence and darkness of the place would, he felt, be horrible, and all the time he knew that the water would be gradually chasing them, like some terribly fierce creature, bent on suffocating them in its awful embrace.
Vince’s was the stronger will; and his companion yielded, changing his tactics, and forcing the boat along for some distance before there was any change in the roof, which crushed down upon them as low as ever, and Mike began once more to protest.
“It’s of no use,” he said: “we may as well be smothered where we can see as here, where it is so dark. Let’s go back as far as we can.”
“No; I’m sure this place will open out more if we go farther in.”
At that moment there was a loud, plashing noise far inward, and this raised such loud reverberations that Mike was fain to confess that the roof must be far higher.
Vince took advantage of this to urge his companion on; and a minute later they could not touch the rock above them with their hands, while a little farther on it could not be reached with an oar.
“Yes, it’s bigger,” granted Mike; “but we shall be suffocated all the same. There can’t be enough air to last us till the tide goes down.”
“We shall see,” said Vince; and then, quite cheerily: “I say, this is better than wading, the same as we did in the seal hole.”
“Yes, but there are seals here. I heard them.”
“Yes, so did I, but what of that? We mustn’t interfere with them, and they won’t with us. Besides, we’re in a boat now, recollect.”
Mike recollected it well enough, but it did not comfort him much; however, he kept his thoughts to himself, and proposed that they should keep as near the light as they could.
“Better keep where the roof’s highest,” suggested Vince. “We shall be able to breathe more freely then.”
After that they were both very silent, for they suffered horribly from the dread that as soon as the entrance was entirely closed up by the tide, they would be rapidly exhausting all the pure breathable air shut-in; and so deeply did this impress them, that before long a peculiar sensation of compression at the chest assailed them both, with the result that they began to breathe more hurriedly, and to feel as if they had been running uphill, till, as it is called, they were out of breath.
Neither spoke, but suffered in silence, their brains busy with calculations of how long it would be before it was high water, and then how long it would take before the tide sank low enough for the mouth of the cave to be open once more.
Vince probably suffered the more keenly after the light was shut out entirely; but his sufferings were the briefer, for just when his breath was shortest, and he was feeling that he must breathe more rapidly if he wished to keep alive, he heard a loud plashing and wallowing some distance farther in.
That it was a party of seals playing about he was certain, and in imagination he saw them crawling up on to some piece of rock by means of their flappers and plunging down again. Once he heard a pair of them swimming in chase one of the other, blowing and uttering loud, sighing noises as they came near, and then appeared to turn and swim back, to climb up on the rock again, with the effect of dislodging others, which sprang heavily into the water, sending little waves along big enough to make the boat rock perceptibly.
This was just when Vince felt at his worst, and Mike was lying back in the boat breathing hard and in the most hurried way.
It was singular that just then the recollection of a story he had once read in a work belonging to his father came to Vince’s mind. True or false, it had been recorded that some French surgeons had been discussing the effect of the imagination upon the human mind, and to test for themselves whether its effects could be so strong as some writers and experimentalists had declared, they obtained permission to apply a test to a condemned convict.
Their test was as follows: It had been announced to the man that he was to die, and that his execution was to be the merciful one of being bled to death. So at the appointed time the culprit was bound and blindfolded in the presence of the surgeons, who then proceeded to lance his arm and allowed a tiny jet of warm water to trickle over the place and down to the wrist.
It is said that, though the man had not lost a drop of blood, he began, as soon as he had felt the lancet prick and the trickling of the warm water, to grow faint, and after a time sank and sank, till he actually died from imagination.
“And that’s what we’re doing,” thought Vince, as he drew slowly a long, deep breath, and then another and another.
The first was very catchy and strange, the second caused him acute suffering, and the third was deep, strong, and life-inspiring.
“That’s it,” said Vince to himself—“it is imagination; for if the seals, which are things that have to come up to the surface to breathe, can live in here, why can’t I?”
Vince again took a deep breath, and another, and another, and so great a feeling of vigour ran through him that he laughed aloud, and Mike started up.
“What is it?” he said.
“Listen,” cried Vince; and he loudly drew breath, and expressed it as loudly, then, “Do that,” he cried.
“I—I can hardly get mine. This place is stifling.”
“Try,” said Vince. “That’s right. Again! Better. Now take a long pull. How are you now?”
“Oh, better—better,” said Mike eagerly.
“Breathe again.”
“Yes, yes; I am breathing better and better. Then the air is coming now?”
“Yes,” said Vince drily; “the air is coming fast, and the light can’t be very long. There—it’s all right, Ladle; we shan’t hurt now. But I don’t know how we’re going to manage when the tide falls, for we shan’t dare to go out.”
“No,” said Mike, whose spirits sank again at these words, “we shan’t dare to go out. Do you know, I wish, as you did, that we had stopped on board.”
“And not taken all this trouble for nothing. How long should you say it would be before the light comes again?”
“Hours,” said Mike; “but I don’t mind it so much now that we can breathe better.”
“No; it is better,” said Vince drily. “I say, I wonder what they are doing at home?”
Vince wished the next moment that he had not said those words, for they had the effect of sinking his companion into a terrible state of depression, while, in spite of his efforts, he was himself nearly as bad.
But then it was before breakfast, and they had hardly touched a mouthful since the morning before.
At last, after what seemed to be a full day in length of time, there was afar off a faint soft gleam of light on the surface of the water—a ray which sent a flood into the hearts of the watchers—and from that moment the light began to grow broader and higher, while they suddenly woke to the fact that the boat was moving gently towards the entrance of the cavern, drawn by the falling tide.
After a while there was a tiny archway; then this began to increase as the water sank and rose, but always rose less and less, leaving the sea anemones and the various shell-fish dotted with drops which gathered together, glittering and trembling in the light, and then fell with a musical drip upon the smooth surface.
The little arch increased rapidly after a time, and still the boat drew nearer to the entrance, neither of the boys having the heart to check its progress after their long imprisonment, for the outer world never looked so bright and glorious before.
But they had to pay for their pleasure. As the level sank till there was ample room to thrust the boat out, and they were thinking that to be safe they ought to withdraw a little and wait until they could feel sure that the lugger and her crew were gone—a departure they felt must be some time that evening, when the tide was at a certain stage well known to old Joe—the entrance was suddenly darkened once more by a boat, whose bows came with the stream from the right, and were cleverly directed in, while her occupants began to thrust her along by pressing against the sides, and a couple of lanthorns were held up.
“Aha!” cried the voice the boys had grown to hate, “so ve have found a pair of ze seal sitting in a boat vich zey steal avay. You are right, Joseph, mon bon ami. Your boat sall not have gone out of ze pool, and you sall have him back. Aha! Stop you bose, or I fire, and zis time I vill not miss.”
“In, in farther, Vince,” whispered Mike wildly.
“No: they’ve seen us, and they could follow us in their boat. It’s of no use, Mike; we must give up this time.”
“You hear me?” roared the captain fiercely. “I see quite plain vere you sall be. Venez. Come out.”
“Come and fetch us,” said Vince shortly. “You have your men.”
The captain gave his orders, the boat was thrust on, and as its bow approached the boys saw the black silhouette of their old companion in many a fishing trip seated on the forward thwart.
This was too much for Vince, who began upon him at once, with bitter irony in his words and tone.
“You there, Joe!” he cried. “Good morning. Don’t you feel very proud of this?”
“Dunno ’bout proud, young gen’leman; but I’m precious glad to get my boat back.”
“Your boat back!” cried Vince, as one of the smuggler crew made fast a rope to the ring-bolt in their stern.
“Aye. Didn’t know as young gen’lemen took to stealing boats altogether.”
“You dare to say we stole the boat, and I’ll—”
“Well, you took it right away, anyhow. That comes o’ beginning with borrying and not asking leave.”
“Better than taking to kidnapping people.”
Old Joe growled out something, and shuffled himself about in his seat while the boat was drawn out into the sunshine once more, and drifted behind the other rapidly along till she reached the smugglers’ cavern.
“Give zem some biscuit and some vater,” said the captain. “You, Joseph, take your boat and go on. Allez!”
The old fisherman looked at him rather uneasily, then at the boys, and back at the captain.
“You hear vat I sall say?” cried the latter fiercely.
He made a menacing gesture; and the boys took each a deep draught of water, and began to nibble the hard sea biscuit that was their fare.
Chapter Thirty Four.
The Tightening of the Chains.
There was something very grim and suggestive about the captain’s behaviour to the two boys later on towards evening, when he came and stood glaring down at them, where they sat in the sand. He had said a few words to one of the men, who went up into the back of the cavern while the other waited; and Vince noted that there was a splashing sound round the corner of the buttress which supported one side of the great arch, so that he was not surprised directly after to see the prow of a boat appear, to be run in and beached upon the sand.
Vince looked up inquiringly when the smuggling captain came and stood before him; but the man did not speak—he only glared down, apparently with the idea that he was frightening the lads horribly. Vince did not shrink, for he did not feel frightened, only troubled about home and the despondency there, as the time went by without news of their fate. For it was evident to him that the time had come for them to be taken on board ready for the lugger to sail.
The second man came back with some fine line in his hand.
“Vite—tight!” said the captain laconically.
“You’re not going to tie us?” said Vince, flushing.
“Yais, bose togezaire,” said the Frenchman, with a grin of satisfaction at seeing the boy moved to indignant protest.
“But if we say we will not try to escape?” cried Vince.
“I vill not believes you. Non, mon ami, ve have enough of ze peine to attraper you again. Two slippery garçons. I tie you bose like ze mutton sheep, and zen if von shump to run avays he pull ze ozaire down. Vous comprenez?”
“Oh yes, I comprong,” cried Vince contemptuously. “Just like a Frenchman. An Englishman would not be afraid of a boy.”
“Vat!” cried the captain, showing his teeth, as he raised his hand to strike—when, quick as lightning, the boy threw himself into an attitude of defence; but the men seized him and dragged his arms behind his back.
“That’s right, coward!” cried Vince, half mad now with excitement.
At the word coward the captain’s face looked black as night, his right-hand was thrust into his breast pocket, and he drew out and cocked a small pistol, while Mike darted to his companion’s side, laid his hands across Vince’s breast, and faced the captain; but he was seized by one of the men, who passed the line about his wrists after it had been dexterously fastened round those of his fellow-prisoner.
“Never mind, Mike; but I like that, old chap!” cried Vince. “Well done! Let’s show him what English boys are like: he daren’t shoot us. Do you hear, Jacques? vous n’oses pas.”
“Aha! You begin by stumble blunder bad French, you canaille boy. I not dare shoot you?”
“No,” said Vince defiantly, as the pistol was presented full at his face. “You dare not, you great coward!”
“Aha, encore? You call me coward, une insulte! Mais bah! It is only a silly boy. Tie zem bose togezaire, my lad, an trow zem in ze boat. Silly boy! Like two shicken volatile go to be roace for dinnaire. Non, arretez; stop, my lad. Coward! It was une insulte. Now you apologise me.”
“I won’t,” said Vince sturdily: “you are a coward to tie up two boys like this.”
The black wrath in the Frenchman’s face at these words made Mike shiver, and he pressed closer to Vince as the pistol was raised once more.
“Don’t—don’t,” he whispered. “Say something: we are so helpless.”
“Aha! I hear vat he say. Yais, you apologise me, sare.”
“I won’t,” said Vince, who, with nerves strung by the agony he felt at his wrists, which were being cut into by the cord, was ready to dare and say anything.
“You vill not?” cried the captain, slowly uncocking the pistol, as his face resumed its ordinary aspect.
“No, I—will—not!” cried Vince. “Put it away. You dare not fire.”
“Non; it would be a pity. I nevaire like to shoot good stuff. You are a brave boy, and I vill make you a fine man. And you too, mon garçon.”
He laid his hands on the boys’ shoulders, and pressed them hard, smiling as he said,—
“Non, I sink I am not a coward, mon enfant, but I tie you bose up vis ze hant behint, so you sall not run avay. Aha! Eh? You not run avay vis ze hant, mais vis ze foot? Eh bien: n’importe: it does not mattaire. You ugly boy,” he continued, striking Vince a sharp rap in the chest with the back of the hand, “I like you. Yais. You have saucy tongue. You are a bouledogue boy. I vill see you two ’ave a fight some days. Now, my lad, take zem bose into ze boat. Ah, yah, bête cochon—big peegue!” he roared, as he examined the way in which the boys’ wrists were tied behind their backs. “I tell you to lash zem fast. I did not say, ‘Cut off ze hant.’ Cast zem off.”
The man who had secured Vince sulkily obeyed, and the captain looked on till the line was untied, leaving the boys’ wrists with white marks round and blackened swellings on either side.
“Ah, he is a fool,” said the captain, taking up first one and then the other hand. “Vy you do not squeak and pipe ze eye?”
Vince frowned, but made no reply.
“Zere, valk down to ze boat vis me. Say you vill not run avay.”
“No: I mean to escape,” said Vince.
“Bah! It is sillee. You cannot, mon garçon. Come, ze parole d’honneur. Be a man.”
Vince glanced at Mike, who gave him an imploring look, which seemed to say: “Pray give it.”
“Yais,” said the captain, smiling: “Parole d’honneur. If you try to run il faut shooter zis time.”
“Parole d’honneur for to-day,” said Vince. “After to-day I shall try to escape.”
“It is bon—good,” said the captain, laughing. “After to-day—yais. Zere, valk you down to ze boat. I like you bose. If you had been cry boy, and go down on your knees, and zay, ‘Oh, pray don’t,’ I kick you. En avant!”
He clapped his hand upon Vince’s shoulder, and walked with both to the boat, signing to them to enter and go right forward, where they seated themselves in the bows while he took his place in the stern.
“Oh, Cinder!” whispered Mike, with a look of admiration at his friend, “I wish I’d had the heart to speak to him like that.”
“What?” whispered back Vince, “why, I never felt so frightened in my life. I thought he was going to shoot.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Mike quietly. “I say, now let’s see how they manage to get out of this great whirling pool.”
They were not kept waiting long, for the boat was thrust off, sent into the stream, and away they went, skirting the long, low rock which rose in their way; and then, just as it seemed that they were going to be sunk by the tremendous rush of water passing in between two huge masses, the boat was thrust into another sharply marked current, hung in suspense for a few moments, and then glided along the backwater and out at last into the pool. Here the glassy surface streaked with numerous lines told of the rapid currents following their well-marked courses, and the eddies and reflections of the water known to the men and taken advantage of, so that the vessel’s side was reached with ease.
As they neared the side the captain, who had been keenly watching the boys and reading their thoughts, came slowly past his men, so quietly that Vince and Mike started on hearing him speak.
“You could manage ze boat now and take him vere you vill? Non, mes enfans. It take long time to find ze vay. I sink you bose drown last night, but you have bonne fortune and escape. But you get avay till I say go? Nevaire! Shump.”
He pointed upward, and the lads climbed aboard, looking wistfully to right and left as they recalled their adventures along the side in the dark, and saw old Daygo’s boat hanging by her painter close under the stern.
“Took a lot of trouble for nothing, Cinder,” said Mike sadly.
“Yes: can’t always win,” replied Vince. “Never mind: I’m glad we tried.”
Mike had not the heart to say “So am I,” though he felt that he ought to have done so; but, catching sight of the old fisherman leaning over the bulwark forward, he said instead,—
“There’s that old wretch again! Oh, how I should like to—”
He did not say what, but turned his back upon him in disgust.
“Yes—a beauty!” said Vince, scowling. “I say, Mike, no wonder old Joe was always so well off that he never had to work. Pst! here’s the skipper.”
“Non, mon ami—ze capitaine. Eh bien—ah, vell! you are on board again. I sall lock you down upon ze powdaire again and keep you prisonaire? My faith, no! It is vord of honnaire to-day, and to-day last vingt-quatre heures—till zis time to-morrow: you understand?”
“Yes,” said Vince; and then, frankly, “I beg your pardon, skip—”
“Eh?”
“Captain,” said Vince quickly: “I beg your pardon, captain, for calling you a coward.”
The Frenchman looked at him searchingly, and then clapped down both hands on the boy’s shoulders and held him firmly.
“Bon!” he said; “bon! Zat is all gone now. I sall not call you out and say vill you have ze pistol or ze arm blanc—ze sword. You bose come dine vis me ce soir—zis evening, and you not make fool of ze comestible, as ve call him, eh? Now go valk about ze deck. You like to see ze vay out? No; ve leave all zat to my good ami, Joseph Daygo. He take ze Belle-Marie out to sea vile ve dine. It is ze secret know only to Joseph. I could not do him myselfs.”
This only increased Vince’s desire to discover by what means the lugger was piloted out from its moorings beneath the towering rocks, where it was completely shut-in, though it seemed that there was a channel behind the rock which spread out in front.
Sunset was drawing near, and it became evident that the time was approaching for a start to be made, for the boat in which they came from the cave had been hoisted up to the davits, and the men were busy preparing for hoisting sails. The hatches were in their places, and the vessel looked wonderfully orderly, being very different in aspect from those of its class. In fact, from stem to stern she was nearly as neat as a king’s ship.
Meanwhile Joe Daygo kept close to the bulwark, turning from time to time to note how the men were progressing, and then leaning over the bulwark again to gaze at the perpendicular wall of rock before him, which towered up to a great height and went apparently straight down into the sea. “I know,” said Vince at last, in a whisper. “Know what?”
“Joe Daygo is watching that streak of white paint on the rock over yonder.”
“I see no streak of white paint,” said Mike. “Yes, I do. But what of that?”
“It’s his mark,” said Vince. “He’s going to wait till the tide touches that, and then going to cast off.”
“Think so?”
“Sure of it.”
But Vince had no opportunity for waiting to see. The glassy current was still a couple of inches below the dimly seen white mark, when there was a peculiar odour which came from a tureen that the cook carried along the deck towards the cabin; and almost at the same moment a hand was laid upon the boy’s shoulder.
“Come,” said the captain; “it is time for ze dinnaire. You are bose hungry?—yais, I know.”
Vince would have liked to decline, so strong was his desire to study the key to the entrance of the secret little port; but to refuse to go down was impossible, and he preceded his host through the cabin-hatch, where a swinging lamp was burning and the deadlights were closed so that not a gleam could escape. The tureen steamed on the table, they were in no danger, and healthy young appetite prevailed, for the soup was good even if the biscuits were flinty and hard.
As for the captain, it seemed absurd to associate him with smuggling or pistols, for he played the host in the most amiable manner when fish succeeded the soup; but as it was being discussed there were hurried sounds on deck. Men were running to and fro; then came the peculiar dull, rasping sound of cables being hauled in through hawser holes, and a slight motion told that they were starting.
Vince ceased eating, and his eyes were involuntarily turned to the side, when the captain said laughingly,—
“It is nozing, my younger ami, and ze bulkhead side is not glass: you cannot see nozing. You vant to know? Vell, my sheep is in ze sharge of ze pilot, and ze men cast off. If he take her out quite vell, sank you, ve sall soon be at sea. If he make ze grand error he put my sheep on ze rock, vich make ze hole and you sall hear ze vater run in. You bose can svim? Yais? Good, but you need not try: you stay down here vis me and not take trouble, but go to ze bottom like ze brave homme, for ze big tide on’y take you avay and knock you against ze rock. Now eat you feesh.”
It was not a pleasant addition to the boys’ dinner, but they went on listening in the intervals of the captain’s many speeches, and picturing to themselves how the great lugger was being carefully piloted along a sharp current and steered here and there, apparently doubling upon her course more than once. But by the time the boiled fowl was nearly eaten there was a steady heeling over, following the sound of the hoisting of a sail. Then the vessel heeled over a little more, and seemed to dance for a minute in rough water, as if she were passing over some awkward place. The captain smiled.
“My sheep she is lively,” he said. “She sink it vas time not to be tied by ze head and tail, so she commence to dance. Zat is a vairy bad place, but Joseph is a grand pilot; he know vat to do, and I am nevaire in his way.”
Just then there was a dull thud, as if a mass of water had struck the side, and the vessel heeled over more than ever, righted herself, and then rose and rode over a wave, plunging down and again gliding along upon a level keel. “Eat, eat, mes amis,” said the captain. “You do not mean that you have le mal-de-mer?”
“Oh no,” said Vince quickly, as if ashamed to be suspected of such a weakness. “We don’t mind the sea; besides, it isn’t rough. We’re not going over a bar of sand?”
“Non: a bar of rocks, vere Joseph can take us safely. Anozaire man? Non, non.”
They could not grasp much, as the dinner drew now to an end, and no doubt their imaginations played them false to a great extent; but they thoroughly realised that for a few minutes the great lugger was being slowly navigated through a most intricate channel, where the current ran furiously; after that more sail was made, and the regular motion of the vessel told them that they were getting out into the open sea.
All at once the door was opened, and old Daygo appeared.
“Aha! you are finish, mon ami?”
Daygo nodded his head and uttered a low grunt.
“Good. I come on deck.”
Old Joe turned and went up the ladder, followed by the captain; and then Mike dashed after them.
“What are you going to do?” cried Vince. But Mike made no reply; and the other followed on deck, anxious to see what was going to take place, for that Mike had some project was very evident.
As Vince reached the deck he saw that Mike was at the leeward side, where a couple of men stood by the rope which held the pilot’s boat, while the captain and the old fisherman were walking right forward, talking earnestly. The lugger was sailing gently along half a mile from the shore in the direction of the south point; and Vince’s heart leaped and then sank as he faintly made out one of the familiar landmarks on the highest part of the island, but he had no time for indulging in emotion just then, for the captain turned suddenly and old Joe made for his boat.
“Mike isn’t going to jump in and try to go with him, is he?” thought Vince; and a pang shot through him at the very thought of such a cowardly desertion. “No,” he added to himself; “he wouldn’t do that.”
Vince was right, for all he did was to rush at Daygo, catch him by the shoulder and whisper something.
The old fisherman turned, stared, and Mike repeated as far as Vince could make out his former question, while the captain stood a little way back and looked on.
Just then Daygo growled out “No!” angrily, and thrust Mike away so roughly that the boy staggered back and nearly fell; but before the old man could reach the bulwark, Mike had recovered himself, leaped at him, and delivered such a kick, that the pilot plunged forward half over the bulwark, and then turned savagely to take revenge upon his assailant. But the captain had advanced, and he said something sharply, which made Daygo hurry over the bulwark and drop down into his boat. One of the men cast off the rope and threw it after him, and the next moment she was astern, with the old man standing upright, his hands to each side of his mouth; and he bellowed out,—
“Yah! Good luck to you both! You’ll never see this Crag agen.”
Then the darkness began to swallow up his small boat, and the great three-masted lugger glided onward—where?
Mike turned sharply, expecting to be seized by the captain; but the latter had his back to him, and went forward to give orders for another sail to be hoisted, while the boys went involuntarily to the side to gaze at the Crag.
“What was it you asked Joe?” said Vince.
“Not what you thought,” replied Mike rather bitterly.
“Why, what did I think?”
“That I was begging him to take me in the boat.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Vince sharply. “I thought at first that you’d run up to jump in, but directly after I said to myself that you wouldn’t be such a sneak. What did you say to him?”
“I told him my father would give him a hundred pounds, and that he should never say anything to Joe, if he’d go and tell them directly where we are.”
“And he wouldn’t. Well, I’m glad you kicked him, for shoving you away like that.”
“I should be,” replied Mike, “if he wasn’t such an old man.”
“He isn’t an old man,” said Vince hotly: “he’s an old wretch, without a bit of manliness in him.”
“All right, then; I’m glad I kicked him. But never mind Joe Daygo, Vince. It’s getting darker, and the old Crag is seeming to die away. Oh, Cinder, old chap, is it all true? Are we being taken away like this?”
Vince could not trust himself to speak, but leaned over the bulwark, resting his chin upon his thumbs, and shading the sides of his face—partly to conceal its workings, which was not necessary in the darkness, partly to shut off the side-light and see the island more easily.
And neither was this necessary, for there were no sidelights, and the Crag was now so dim that had he not known it was there it would have been invisible; but he preserved it all mentally, and thought of the pleasant home, with the saddened faces there, of the happy days he had spent, and now for the first time fully realised what a joyous boyhood he had passed in the rocky wildly picturesque old place, with no greater trouble to disturb his peaceful life than some puzzling problem or a trivial fit of illness. All so bright, so joyous, so happy,—and now gone, perhaps, for ever; and some strange, wild life to come, but what kind of existence he could not grasp.
Naturally enough, Mike’s thoughts ran in the same channel, but he gave them utterance; and Vince, as he stood there, heard him saying piteously,—
“Good-bye, dear old home! I never knew before what you really were. Good-bye—good-bye!” And then, passionately—“Oh, Vince, Vince! what have we done to deserve all this? Where are we going now?”
“To bed, mes amis,” said the captain, slapping them both on the shoulders and rudely interrupting their thoughts. “Come: I take you myself. Not over ze powdaire now. I vill not tempt you to faire sauter—make jump ze chasse-marée—blow up ze sheep, eh? My faith, no! But you take ze good counsel, mes boys. You go to your bunk like ze good shile, and have long sleep. You get out of the deadlight vis ze sheep in full sail. You go ovaire-board bose of you, and I am vair sorry for ze bonnes mammas.”
“Doesn’t seem like it,” said Vince stoutly, “taking us off prisoners like this.”
“Prisonaires! Faith of a good man! You sink I treat you like prisonaires, and have you to dinnaire and talk to you vis bonnes conseilles like ze papa?”
“You are taking us away, and making every one who cares for us think we are dead.”
“C’est dommage—it is a great pitee, my young friend; but, you see, I have a large propertee at ze caverne. It is vort tousand of pounds, and ze place is vair useful to me and ze confrère who come to take it somevere else.”
“What, are there more of you?” blurted out Vince.
“Eh? You nevaire mind. But I cannot part vis my store, and I vant ze place to go to ven I bring a cargo.”
“But we’ll promise you on our words that we will not betray it to any one, if you set us ashore.”
“Aha! Not to have anozaire kick at notre bon Joseph, eh?”
“No, not even to serve Joe Daygo out,” said Vince. “An old wretch! But he deserves it.”
“And faith of a gentlemans, on your word of honneur, you vould not tell vere ze contraband is kept?”
“On our honour, as gentlemen, we would not: would we, Mike?”
“No,” was the eager reply.
“I believe you bose,” said the captain. “But you could not keep your vort. It is impossible.”
“But we would,” said Vince.
“You vould try, mon garçon, but you vould be oblige to tell. Listen—von vort for all. I have faith in you bose, but no, it cannot be. You cannot go back, so you must act like ze man now.”
“Then you are going to take us away?” cried Vince.
“I ’ave take you avay, my boy, and I sall not let you go back till I no longer vant ze cavern store, and ze safe place to hide. Zen you may go back—if you like.”
“What do you mean by that?” said Vince quickly.
“Vat I say: if you like. I sink by zat time you bose say to me, ‘Non, Monsieur Jacques, ve do not vant to go.’ Now I talk no more. Down vis you!”
“Only tell us one thing,” said Vince: “where are you going to take us?”
“I tell you ven I can,” said the captain.
“What do you mean by that?” cried Mike excitedly.
“Vat I say. I do not know.”
He pressed them towards the hatchway, and they descended, feeling that they could do nothing else, while the captain followed and opened a door opposite to that of the cabin.
“Zere,” he said. “You can sleep in zose bunk. I keep zat for my friend, and I give zem to mine ennemi, you see. I vill not lock ze door, but you listen, bose of you. I am ze capitaine, and I am le roi—ze king here. If a man say he vill not, I knock him down. If he get up and pull out ze knife, I take ze pistol and shoot: I am dangéreux. If I hear ze strange noise, I shoot. Don’t you make ze strange noise in ze night, mes amis, but go sleep, as you Anglais say, like ze sound of two top hummin. You understand. Bon soir! You come to ze déjeuner—breakfast in ze morning.”
He shut them in, and the two boys were left in the darkness to their thoughts. But they were too weary to think much, and soon felt their way into their bunks, one above the other.
An hour later the door was softly opened, and a lanthorn was thrust in, the captain following to look at each face in turn.
There was no sham this time. Utterly worn out by the excitement of the past hours, Vince and Mike were both off—fast in the heavy, dreamless, restful slumber of sixteen—the sleep in which Nature winds up a boy’s mainspring terse and tight, and makes him ready to go on, rested and fresh, for the work of another day.
Chapter Thirty Five.
How some Folk turn Smugglers.
The sea was up before the boys next morning, and in its own special way was making the chasse-marée pitch and toss, now rising up one side of a wave, now gliding down the other; for the wind had risen towards morning, and was now blowing so hard that quite half the sail hoisted overnight had had to be taken down, leaving the swift vessel staggering along beneath the rest.
Vince turned out feeling a bit puzzled and confused, for he did not quite grasp his position; but the full swing of thought came, with all its depressing accompaniments, and he roused up Mike to bear his part and help to condole as well.
Mike, on the contrary, turned out of his bunk fully awake to their position, and began to murmur at once bitterly as he went on dressing, till at last Vince turned upon him.
“I say,” he said, “it’s of no use to make worse of it.”
“No one can,” cried Mike.
“Oh, can’t they? Why, you’re doing your part.”
“I’m only saying that it’s abominable and outrageous, and that I wish the old lugger may be wrecked. Here, I say, what have you been doing with my clothes?”
“Haven’t touched ’em.”
“But you must have touched them. I folded them up, and put them together, and they’re pitched all over the place. Where are my boots?”
“Servant girl’s fetched ’em out to clean, perhaps,” said Vince quietly.
“Eh? Think so? Well, they did want it.—Get out! I don’t see any need for jeering at our position here. Just as if I didn’t know better! Here, you must have got them on.”
“Not I! Even if I wanted to, one of your great ugly boots would be big enough for both of my feet.”
“Do you want to quarrel, Cinder?” said Mike roughly.
“Not here. Isn’t room enough. There are your boots, one on each side of the door in the corners of the cabin.”
“Then you must have kicked them there, and—”
Mike did not finish, for the lugger gave such a lurch that the boy went in a rush against the opposite bulkhead with a heavy bang.
“Didn’t kick you there, at all events,” said Vince, who was fastening his last buttons.
“Why, the sea’s getting up,” said Mike. “Has it been blowing up above?”
“Haven’t been on deck, but it has been alarming down here. I had a horrible job to find my things. They were all over the place.”
“How horrid! And what a miserable place to dress in!”
“Better than a sandbank in a seal’s hole.”
“Oh! don’t talk about it.”
“Why not? It’s over. Deal better off than we have been lately, for we have got an invitation to breakfast.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do that, Cinder,” said Mike querulously.
“Do what? I didn’t do anything.”
“Now you’re at it again, trying to cut jokes and making the best of things at a time like this.”
“All right: I’m silent, then,” said Vince. “Shall I go on deck?”
“Go? what for?”
“Leave you more room to dress.”
“It will be very shabby if you do go before I’m dressed. If ever two fellows were bound to stick together it’s us now. Oh dear, how awkward everything is! I say, there’s no danger, is there?” cried Mike, as the lugger gave a tremendous plunge and then seemed to wallow down among the waves.
“No, I don’t see what danger there can be. Seems a beautifully built boat, and I daresay Jacques is a capital sailor.”
“A scoundrel!” said Mike bitterly.
“Now, mes enfans, get up,” cried the skipper’s voice; and this was followed by a smart banging at the door, which was opened and a head thrust in.
“If you sall bose be ill you can stay in bed to-day; but you vill be better up. Vell, do you feel vairy seek?”
“No, we’re all right,” said Vince; and soon after the two boys climbed on deck and had to shelter themselves from the spray, which was flying across the deck in a sharp shower.
It was a black-looking morning, and the gloom of the clouds tinged the surface of the sea, whose foaming waves looked sooty and dingy to a degree, while the boys found now how much more severe the storm was than they had supposed when below. The men were all in their oilskins, very little canvas was spread, and they were right out in a heavy, chopping sea, with no sign of land on any hand.
They had to stagger to the lee bulwarks and hold on, for the lugger every now and then indulged in a kick and plunge, while from time to time a wave came over the bows, deluging the deck from end to end.
But before long the slight feeling of scare which had attacked the boys passed off, as they saw the matter-of-fact, composed manner in which the men stood at their various stations, while the captain was standing now beside the helmsman, and appeared to be giving him fresh directions as to the course he was to steer, with the result that, as the lugger’s head paid off a trifle, the motion became less violent, while her speed increased.
“Aha!” shouted the captain, as he found them—“not seek yet? Vait till ve have ze déjeuner, and zen ve sall see.”
“Oh, we’ve been to sea before,” said Vince rather contemptuously.
“And you like ze sea, n’est-ce pas—is it not so?”
“Oh yes; we like the sea,” said Vince. “It is good,” said the captain, clapping him on the shoulder. “Zen you sall help me. You say no at ze beginning, but bah! a boy—two boy like you brave garçons—vill not cry to go home to ze muzzer. It is a fine sing to have a luggar of tree mast like zis, and you sall bose make you fortune ven I have done.”
He nodded and turned away, leaving the boys to stand looking at each other aghast, and forgetting all about the state of the sea, till a big wave came over the bows and made them seek for shelter.
They saw but little of the captain that day, except at meal-times, when he was good-humoured and jocose with them in spite of the fact that the weather did not mend in the least. Then the next day passed, and the next, with the wind not so violent, but the sea continued rough, and the constant misty rain kept them for the most part below. The crew were civil enough, and chatted with them when they did not ask questions; but failing to obtain any information from them as to their destination, Vince agreed with Mike that one of them should ask the captain where they were going to first. So that evening, when they were sailing slowly in a north-easterly direction, after being driven here and there by contrary winds, they waited their opportunity, and upon the captain coming up to them Vince began at once with,—
“Where are we going to first, captain?”
“Eh? you vant to know?” he said. “Vell, you sall. In zere.” The boys looked sharply in the direction pointed out but could see nothing for the misty rain which drifted slowly across the sea.
“Where’s in there?” said Mike.
“You are not good sailore yet, mon ami, or you vould have study our course. I vill tell you. You look over ze most left, and you vill see ze land of ze fat, heavy Dutchmans.”
“What, Holland?” cried Vince eagerly.
“Yais: you know ze name of ze river and ports?”
“Yes; Amsterdam, Rotterdam,” began Vince. “Are we going to one of those places?”
“Aha! ve sall see. You no ask questions. Some day, if you are good boy and can be trust, you vill know everysings. Perhaps ve go into ze Scheldt, perhaps ve make for ze Texel and ze Zuyder Zee, perhaps ve go noveres. Now you know.”
He gave them a peculiar look and left them, and as the rain came on in a drifting drizzle the boys made this an excuse for going below.
“Mike,” said Vince, as soon as they were alone, “got a pencil?”
“No.”
“And there is neither pen nor ink.”
“Nor yet paper.”
“Then we’re floored there,” said Vince impatiently.
“What did you want to do?”
“Want to do? Why, write home of course, telling them where we were. We surely could post a letter at the port.”
“No: he’ll never give us a chance.”
“Perhaps not; but we might bribe some one to take the letter.”
“What with? I haven’t a penny, and I don’t believe you have.”
Vince doubled his fists and rested his head upon them.
“I tell you what, then: we only gave our word for one day. We must wait till we are in port, and then swim ashore. Some one would help us.”
“If we could speak Dutch.”
“Oh dear,” said Vince, “how hard it is! But never mind, let’s get away. We might find an English ship there.”
Mike shook his head, and Vince set to work inventing other ways of escaping; but they finally decided that the best way would be to wait till they were in the river or port, and then to try and get off each with an oar to help support them in what might prove to be a longer swim than they could manage.
That evening the weather lifted, and after a couple of hours’ sail they found themselves off a dreary, low-lying shore, upon which a cluster or two of houses was visible, and several windmills—one showing up very large and prominent at the mouth of what seemed to be a good-sized river, whose farther shore they could faintly discern in the failing evening light.
“We’re going up there,” said Vince—“that’s certain.” But just as it began to grow dark there was a loud rattling, and down went an anchor, the lugger swung round, and the boys were just able to make out that they were about a couple of miles from the big windmill.
“Too many sandbanks to venture in,” said Vince.
“No; we’re waiting for a pilot.”
“I believe,” said Vince, “he’ll wait for daylight and then sail up the river; and if we don’t escape somehow before we’re twenty-four hours older my name isn’t Burnet.”
Mike said nothing, but he did not seem hopeful; and soon after they were summoned to the cabin to dinner, where the captain was very friendly.
“Aha! now you see Holland. It is beautiful, is it not? Flat as ze Dutchman face. Not like your Cormorant Crag, eh? But nevaire mind. It vas time, and soon ve get butter, bread and milk, ze sheecan, ze potate, for you hungry boy have eat so much ve get to ze bottom of ze store.”
They asked no questions, for they felt that it did not matter. Any land would do, and if they could escape it would go hard if they did not avoid recapture.
They were too much excited to sleep for some time that night, lying listening for the coming of the pilot or for the hoisting of the anchor; for there was, after all, the possibility of their having anchored till the tide rose sufficiently for them to cross some bar at the mouth of the river. But sleep overcame them at last, and they lay insensible to the fact that about midnight a light was hoisted at the mast-head, which was answered about an hour after by the appearance of another light in the mouth of the river—a light which gradually crept nearer and nearer till about an hour before dawn, when the boys were awakened by a soft bumping against the lugger’s side, followed by a dull creaking, and then came the hurrying to and fro of feet on the deck overhead.
“Quick, Mike!” cried Vince—“into your clothes. She’s sinking!”
As they hurried on a few things, the passing to and fro of men grew louder; they heard the captain’s voice giving orders, evidently for the lowering of a boat, and the boys tried to fling open the door and rush on deck.
Tried—but that was all.
“Mike, we’re locked in!” cried Vince frantically; and he began to kick at the door, shouting with Mike for help.
Their appeal was so vigorous that they did not have to wait for long. There was the sound of the captain’s heavy boots as he blundered down the ladder, and he gave a tremendous kick at the door.
“Yah!” he roared: “vat for you make zat row?”
“The lugger! She’s sinking,” cried the boys together.
“I com in and sink you,” roared the captain. “Go to sleep, bose of you.”
“But the door’s locked.”
“Yais, I lock him myself. Silence!”
Then the lugger was not sinking; but the faint creaking and grinding went on after the captain had gone back on deck, and the boys stood listening to the orders given and the hurrying to and fro of men.
“She must be on a rock, Cinder,” said Mike, in a half-stifled voice.
“No rocks here. On a sandbank, and they’re trying to get her off.”
Then there was a rattling and banging noise, which came through the bulkhead.
“Why, they’re taking up the hatches over the hold.”
“Yes,” said Vince bitterly; “they’re thinking more of saving the bales than of us.”
“Down vis you, and pass ’em up,” cried the captain; and, for what seemed to be quite a couple of hours, they could hear the crew through the bulkhead busy in the hold fetching out and passing up the bales on to the deck in the most orderly way, and without a bit of excitement.
“Can’t be much danger,” said Vince at last, “or they wouldn’t go on so quietly as this.”
“I don’t know,” said Mike bitterly; “it must be bad, and they will forget us at last, and we shall be drowned, shut up here.”
“Don’t make much difference,” said Vince, with a laugh. “Better off here. Fishes won’t be able to get at us and eat us afterwards.”
“Ugh! how can you talk in that horrid way at a time like this!”
“To keep up our spirits,” said Vince. “Perhaps it isn’t so bad. She’s on a bank, I’m sure, and perhaps—yes, that’s it—they’re trying to lighten her and make her float.”
“They’re not,” said Mike excitedly. “Why, they’re bringing other things down. You listen here.”
Vince clapped his ear to the bulkhead and listened, and made out plainly enough that for every bale passed up a box seemed to be handed down, and these were being stacked up against the partition which separated them from the hold.
“I say, what does it mean?” whispered Mike at last.
“I don’t know,” replied Vince; “but for certain they’re bringing in things as well as taking them away. Then we must be in port, and they’re landing and loading up again.”
“Oh, Cinder! and we can’t get ashore and run for it.”
“No; he’s too artful for us this time. That’s why he has locked us up. Never mind; our turn will come. He can’t always have his eyes open.”
“Is there any way of getting out?”
“Not now,” said Vince thoughtfully; “but we might get one of those boards out ready for another time. They’re wide enough to let us through.”
The soft creaking and grinding sounds went on, but were attributed to the lugger being close up to some pier or wharf, and the boys stood with their ears close to the bulkhead, trying to pick up a word now and then, as the men who were below, stowing the fresh cargo, went on talking together.
But it was weary work, and led to nothing definite. They knew that the loading was going on—nothing more.
“Well, we are clever ones,” said Vince at last; and he laid hold of the wooden shutter which let in light and air to the narrow place, but only let his arm fall to his side again, for it was firmly secured.
“Never mind,” he added; “we’ll make it all straight yet.”
Hours had gone by, and from the bright streaks of light which stole in beneath and over the door they knew that it was a fine morning; and, as the dread had all passed away, they finished dressing, and sat in an awkward position against the edge of the bottom bunk, listening to the bustle on deck, till all at once it ceased and the men began to clap on the hatches once again.
Then, as they listened, there came the sound of ropes being cast off, the creaking and grinding ceased, the captain shouted something, and was answered from a distance, and again from a greater distance, just as the lugger heeled over a little, and there came the rattle and clanging of the capstan, with the heave-ho singing of the men.
“We’re under way again, Mike,” said Vince; “and there’s no chance of a run for the shore this time.”
He had hardly spoken when the heavy tread of the captain was heard once more, and he stopped at the door to shoot a couple of bolts.
“Bon jour, mes amis. You feel youselfs ready for ze brearkfas?”
Vince did not reply, and the captain did not seem to expect it, for he walked into the cabin, while the boys went on deck, to find that the men were hoisting sail, while a three-masted lugger, of about the same build as the one they were on, was a short distance off, making for the mouth of the muddy river astern. They were about in the same place as they were in when anchor was cast overnight, and it became evident to the boys that the noise and grinding they had heard must have been caused by the two vessels having been made fast one to the other while an exchange of cargo took place.
“Where next?” thought Vince, as their sails filled in the light, pleasant breeze of the sunny morning.
He was not long in doubt, for upon walking round by the steersman the compass answered the question—their course was due south.
“Aha! you take a lesson in box ze compais,” said a voice behind them. “Good: now come and take one, and eat and drink. It is brearkfas time.”