Chapter Six.
The sun was sinking low as the doctor and his companion reached the deck and then ascended to the bridge to have a hasty glance round before the brief tropical evening should give place to darkness, and in that rapidly made observation they grasped that the great steamer, wonderfully uninjured, lay aground in comparatively shallow water, doubtless upon the coral rocks which formed the bottom of a broad lagoon.
Everything loose had been carried away by the waves which had swept the decks, but the masts and funnel were standing comparatively uninjured, and as far as they could make out, scarcely any injury had been done to the structure of the ship.
“The mischief’s all below, sir, I expect,” said the old sailor. “We shall find she’s got a lot of water in her hold.”
“But she lies immovable, I suppose,” said the doctor.
“Quite, sir; she’s fast as fast can be, and’ll lie till she rusts away, which won’t be this side o’ fifty year.”
“Then there is no immediate danger?”
“Not a bit, sir, and it’s a bad job as those boats was launched; they’d all have been better here if the skipper could have known.”
“Yes; waited till the storm had passed,” assented the doctor.
“Ay, sir, but who could tell that we were going to be floated over the reef and set down, as you may say, in dock? Besides, if the skipper hadn’t ordered the boats out when he did there’d ha’ been a mutiny.”
“I suppose so; the crew would have risen against their officers.”
“The crew, sir? Yes, and the passengers too. There’d ha’ been a panic and a rush.”
The doctor sighed, shaded his eyes, and looked out from the side where they stood at the golden lagoon.
In the distance he could see the huge rollers breaking regularly on the coral reef—a wonderful sight in the setting sun, the water glowing orange and blood-red, while the spray which rose was a fiery gold.
“Magnificent,” said the doctor, softly, and he turned to cross to the other side of the deck to look out westward over a couple of hundred yards of smooth water to a grove of cocoanut-trees, beyond which was dense forest, and above that, hill and ravine running up glorious in the golden sunset for hundreds of feet.
“An island—a coral island, I suppose,” said the doctor.
“Nay, sir; there’s coral all about here, but that’s not a coral island; it runs up too big. I daresay that’s been an old volcano some time, and when we land we shall most likely find a bit of a lake of good water up yonder among the hills. Yes, that we shall, for look there among the trees, flashing like in the sunshine; that’s a bit of a waterfall. It’s a little river, you see, where the lake empties out.”
The doctor nodded. “I think we have seen enough for this evening, Bostock,” he said, with a sigh; “everything would look so beautiful if one did not feel so sad.”
“Sad, sir?” cried the old sailor, wonderingly. “What, with young Master Carey coming round instead o’ lying dead and cold; and us safe and sound with a well-stored ship anchored under our feet?”
“Yes, that is all good and comforting, Bostock,” said the doctor; “but what about all our companions and friends?”
“Ay, and mates too,” said the old sailor. “Yes, that’s bad, but there’s always a bit o’ blue sky behind the clouds. Who knows, sir, but what they may all be making for port over this smooth red sea after riding out the storm?”
“I hope they are,” said the doctor, fervently.
“Same here, sir,” said the old sailor. “Perhaps they are, and mebbe just at this here very blessed moment there’s some on ’em feeling as sorry as we are ’cause they think as the Susan’s gone down in the deep sea and taken with her that there dear boy, the doctor, and poor old Bob Bostock. Ay, sir, some of our chaps didn’t much like me, because I was hard on some o’ the young ones over making ’em tackle to. But I’ll be bound to say, sir,” cried the old man, chuckling till the tears stood in his eyes, “some on ’em’ll be saying among theirselves that old Bob Bostock was as good a mate as ever stepped the deck.”
“I hope so too,” said the doctor, smiling; “people are very fond of finding out a man’s good qualities when he’s dead.”
“But I aren’t dead, sir, and I don’t mean to be dead as long as I can help it. But don’t you feel awful sick and faint, sir?”
“Faint?”
“Yes, sir. Human nature’s human nature, you know, sir, and if you stop its victuals it gets ravenish. I aren’t had a mouthful of anything but salt water for quite thirty hours, and I don’t believe you have neither.”
“I don’t believe I have, Bostock,” said the doctor, smiling.
“Thought not, sir. So what do you say to going and looking up the stooard’s and the cook’s quarters and seeing what we can find?”
“Yes, Bostock, the wisest thing we can do, and I must be thinking about my patient too. I must not let him starve.”
Chapter Seven.
There was not much time for examination before darkness set in, but enough to prove to the two seekers that there was not the slightest cause for anxiety respecting provisions; for, without taking into consideration what the sea and shore might afford them upon being tried, there was the full run of the ample stores provided for about a hundred people, and the great tanks of fresh water. In short, as Bostock put it:
“Why, there’s enough for us three to live like fighting cocks for a whole year, sir, and to have company too. Then there’s water ashore, as we saw plainly enough, and there’s sure to be something or another to eat there, besides cocoanuts, which aren’t bad if you drink ’em. Bound to say there’s hysters too, while, as for fish, I know what these waters are. You’ve only got to put a bit o’ bait on a hook and hold it out, and the fish are so hungry for it that they’ll jump out o’ water or rush ashore to catch it. Why, we’re in luck, sir.”
“Luck, Bostock?” said the doctor, sadly.
“Yes, sir, luck. It’s an awful bad job for the old Susan to be wrecked; but she’s well insured, I’ve no doubt, and there must be disasters at sea sometimes.”
“And the passengers and crew, my man?” said the doctor, bitterly.
“Saved, every one of ’em, we hope and pray, sir, and as I said afore, pitying us poor chaps as they think warn’t. Beg pardon, sir, you’re a gentleman and a scholar, while I’m only a poor uneddicated sort of a fellow as never had any time for schooling but I’ve larnt a deal in my time, not book larning, but useful stuff.”
“Well,” said the doctor, smiling, for the old sailor had stopped short; “why don’t you go on, Bostock?”
“Thought I was getting too forrard, sir.”
“No, no, go on; what were you about to say just now?”
“Well, sir, only this, that it’s best to take things as they come and not grumble. Here we are, unfortunate, as you may say, but what a lot worse off we might be. Little while ago, as we thought, there was young Master Carey dying as fast as he could, and us just waiting to go to the bottom. Now here’s that there dear lad asleep comf’table and getting better, and you and me with the pick o’ the berths and the saloon all to ourselves, getting ready to have a reg’lar good, square meal. Aren’t got so werry much to grumble at, have we?”
Doctor Kingsmead gave the speaker a hearty slap on the shoulder.
“Bostock,” he said, “you’re a philosopher. There, we’ll make the best of things, and, in the hope that our poor friends are all saved, I will not murmur against our fate.”
“That’s right, sir, and now if you don’t mind my being a bit rough I’ll be cook and stooard, and you’ll soon have your bit to eat, and when you’ve done—”
“You will have done too,” said the doctor, “and we must drop distinctions now. So help me make the coffee, and then we’ll have our meal, and afterwards we must make our plans.”
They made very few plans that night, for in spite of their long sleep that day the exhaustion they had gone through during the typhoon still told upon them so that, after seeing to Carey, who was sleeping peacefully enough, they took it in turns to keep watches of three hours’ length, and passed the night sleeping or listening to the soft, low boom of the breakers on the reef.
The morning broke gloriously, and the sunshine and soft air seemed to send a thrill of elasticity through the doctor, which grew into a feeling of joy as he examined his patient, who slept still as if he had not moved during the night.
He stepped out of the cabin to hear Bostock whistling away cheerily in the steward’s department: but the whistling ceased as soon as the doctor appeared.
“Morning, sir. What do you make o’ the young skipper?”
“Sleeping still,” said the doctor; “a beautiful, restful sleep, without a trace of fever.”
“Hooroar for that, sir. Best thing for him, aren’t it?”
“Yes, so long as we keep up his strength.”
“We, sir? You mean you.”
“I mean we, Bostock, for you will help.”
“All right, sir, ready and willin’.”
“The sleep will be the best thing for him, and when we can move him we’ll have him up on deck, and contrive a shade.”
“Oh, I can soon do that, sir. We couldn’t rig up the old awning again, but there’s plenty of canvas to set up a little un. Is he ready for some breakfast, do you think?”
“I would not wake him on any consideration. Let him sleep.”
“Good, sir. There’s a bit ready as soon as you like, and after that we can get to work.”
Carey still slept on whilst the doctor and old Bob made a hearty meal, and, taking advantage of the freedom thus afforded them, they examined their position in relation to the shore by naked eye and with one of the glasses from the captain’s cabin.
There it all was as they had partly seen overnight: the vessel firmly fixed in the rocky shallows of a great lagoon, whose waters were fast becoming of crystal-clearness and as smooth as a pond, while sea-ward there was the great sheltering reef with everlasting breakers thundering and fretting and throwing up a cloud of surf.
On the other side, comparatively close at hand, was, as far as they could make out, the lovely shore of a beautiful island, bathed in sunshine and glorious in rich verdure and purple shade, while they could now clearly see the sparkling surface of the stream, which tumbled in rapids and falls down to the vivid blue waters of the lagoon.
“Looks good enough for anything, sir, don’t it?”
“A perfect paradise, Bostock,” said the doctor, who could hardly tear his eyes from the glorious scene.
“It just is, sir,” said the old sailor; “makes a man feel quite young again to see it. My word! won’t that dear lad enjy hisself as soon as he’s well enough to go ashore? I’m reckoning ongoing with him, sir. Won’t be to-day, I suppose?”
“No,” said the doctor, smiling, as he closed the glass in its case; “nor yet this month, Bostock.”
“That’s a long time, sir. I might pig-aback him if we got him ashore.”
“Let’s get him well first.”
“Right, sir, you know best; but I don’t want the poor young chap to be dull and moping. I might rig up some fishing-tackle for him, though, so’s he could sit on deck here and fish.”
“Yes, by-and-by; but he will not be dull. We’ll amuse him somehow.”
“That we will, sir; and now you must be skipper and take the lead, for I s’pose we shall have to live here a bit.”
“Is that likely to be the mainland?” said the doctor, by way of answer.
“Not it, sir. One of the hundreds of islands out in these parts.”
“I see no sign of inhabitants.”
“That’s right, sir. Men’s scarce about here. We shan’t see none, and I don’t expect we shall see any ships go by. Skippers give these waters a wide berth on account of the coral reefs. Strikes me that we shall have to make ourselves comf’table and wait till something turns up. The Susan’s as safe as a house. Even if another storm comes, as there will some day, she can’t move. She’ll get to be more of a fixter as the years go by, with the coral growing up all round her.”
“Do you think it will?”
“Think, sir? Why, it grows up just like as if it was so much moss in a wood.”
“Then you are ready to make up your mind to be here for years to come?”
“Yes, sir; aren’t you?”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
“We couldn’t be better off, sir. Now, just you wait a bit, sir, and you’ll see something. Directly that young chap’s well enough, we shan’t be able to hold him. He’ll be ’bout half mad with delight. He won’t want to go away—not for a long time, at all events.”
“Well, we shall see,” said the doctor. “Now let’s go below.”
“Right, sir. I wouldn’t do anything till you come.”
They began a tour of inspection at once, making their way as far down as they could, to find that the lower hold was eight or ten feet deep in water, which covered the heavy cargo of railway iron, machinery, casks, and miscellaneous goods.
“’Bout high water now, sir,” said the old sailor. “It’ll sink a good deal when the tide’s out. We seem to have come on at high water.”
“Would it be possible to stop it out, and in the course of time pump the vessel clear?”
“Not if we’d got fifty steam pumps, sir: that water’ll flow in and out and be always sweet—I mean salt—for she’s got plates below there ripped off like sheets of writing paper. But the water won’t hurt us, and the stores such as we want are all above it. There’s nothing to mind there.”
The doctor nodded in acquiescence, and they went on with their search, to find more and more how well they were provided for, old Bostock chuckling again and again as each advantage came home to him.
“I don’t believe no shipwrecked chaps was ever so well off before. Why, it’s wonderful how little the Susan’s hurt. Look at the store of coals we’ve got, and at the cook’s galley all ready for cooking a chicken—if we had one—or a mutton chop, if the last two sheep hadn’t been drowned and washed away along with the cow. Now, that was bad luck, sir. Drop o’ milk’d been a fine thing for that there boy if I could ha’ squeezed it out. I never did try to milk, sir, but I’d ha’ tried. Don’t suppose it would ha’ been so very hard, if the old cow would ha’ stood still. Milk would be a fine thing for him, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, excellent,” said the doctor, with a peculiar smile; “but we have no cow, Bostock.”
“Tchah! Of course not, sir,” said the old sailor, giving himself a slap on the mouth, “and me talking like that. But hi! Look here, sir,” he continued, pointing shoreward.
“What at?” said the doctor, who was startled by the man’s energy. “What do you see—natives?”
“No, no, sir; there, sir, in a row along beyond the sands. Noo milk for that there lad, sir. Vegetable cows—cocoanuts. Plenty for years to come.”
“Yes, we shall be in the midst of plenty,” said the doctor, looking wistfully round. “Prisoners, perhaps, but happily provided for. Look yonder, Bostock.”
“What at, the birds, sir? I’ve seen ’em all the morning. Ducks and terns as well as gull things. They seem to be nesting about those rocks yonder. And of coarse that means noo-laid eggs for that there boy; yes, and roast duck. There’s shooting tackle down below, isn’t there, sir?”
“Yes, the captain has arms, and I have a double gun in my cabin.”
“There, hark at that, sir,” cried the old sailor. “Now what could one wish for more?”
“What indeed?” said the doctor, smiling at his companion’s enthusiasm.
“Nothing, sir,” cried Bostock. “Yes, there’s something, sir, as we haven’t got and we must have.”
“What’s that?”
“A boat, sir, to get ashore with. Now, that is a bit o’ bad luck.”
“Ah, yes, we must have a boat to go ashore, and every one has gone.”
“Yes, sir, even the little dinghy. That must ha’ been washed away, same as the gig, for that warn’t launched. But all right, sir; there’s other ways o’ killing a cat besides hanging. We must make one.”
“Or a raft,” said the doctor.
“Raft’ll do to begin with. Four bunged-up casks and some boards’ll do first. That’s easy to make on deck, for there’s the carpenter’s tools, and we can easily rig up tackle to hyste it over the side. It’s the boat as’ll bother us, but you never know what you can do till you try.”
“No, Bostock, you never do.”
“That’s so, sir. A boat we want, and a boat we’ll have. I say, sir, just think of it; won’t that there dear lad just enjy having a boat to sail and fish about here in the lagoon, or out yonder across the reef on a calm day?”
“Yes, we must get him well, Bostock,” said the doctor, smiling. “Come along: we need not examine our position any more; let’s see if he is awake.”
“And ready for a drop o’ soup, sir. There’s rows of them tins o’ portable, as they call it, sir, in the store-room. Drop warmed up ought to be just the thing now, poor lad; he can’t work his teeth as he should.”
“We’ll see,” said the doctor, and they made their way towards the saloon, but only to stop short and listen to the sounds which came softly through the cabin bulkheads—sounds which made the old sailor drop into the attitude of one with folded arms about to perform a hornpipe, and executing three or four steps, to end suddenly with a slap on the leg.
“Hear that, sir?” he whispered, softly. “That’s what I call real pluck in a lad with his upper works broke clean in half. Just think o’ that!”
Chapter Eight.
It was a pleasant sound: sometimes a mere humming, sometimes the melody sung to a few of the words.
For Carey was lying in his berth with his head turned so that he could gaze through the open port-hole at the glorious, glistening sea, and as the doctor very softly pushed the door a little open there came clearly to the listeners’ ears a scrap of the old sea song, “The Mermaid”:—
“And we jolly sailor boys were sitting up aloft,
And the land-lubbers lying down below, below, below,
And the land-lubbers lying down below.
“Hullo! Who’s that? Oh, you, doctor! I say, what a time you’ve been! I’m so hungry. Mayn’t I get up?”
“Good signs those, my lad,” said the doctor, cheerily; “but not yet,” and he sat down, after easing the poor boy’s bandages, to chat to him about the state of affairs, every word of which was eagerly drunk in, while Bostock played the part of cook and warmed up some gravy soup.
It soon became evident that Carey was going to develop no bad symptoms from the injury to his head, and that his sufferings were to be confined to the broken collar-bone, which, under Doctor Kingsmead’s care, gave promise of a rapid knitting together. There was pain enough to bear, but the boy’s bright elastic temperament was in his favour. He was what the doctor called a good patient, and health and youth joined to help him on.
As soon as possible he was allowed on deck to watch the making of a raft and use his uninjured glass in studying the shore of the island, with its constant change of hue. Then, too, there was the reef with the clouds of spray, and the beautiful lagoon, alive at times with the fish which came in with the tide through an opening in the reef, beyond which there was the heaving, open sea.
“It doesn’t seem a bit like being shipwrecked,” said Carey one day, as he lay back in a cane chair. “One has so many things about one. Shipwrecked folk don’t generally have plenty of tools and things. I say, doctor, shall I be fit to go with you the first time you go ashore?”
“Would you like to?”
“Like to! Oh, I say,” cried the boy; “fancy being left here alone in the ship when you two go. I say, don’t leave me; it would make me worse.”
“Wait a bit, and we’ll see. The raft is not ready yet. Bostock has not fitted the mast and sail.”
“No,” said Carey, thoughtfully. “I say, isn’t he dreadfully slow?”
The doctor laughed.
“Well, I was thinking something of the kind, certainly, my boy.”
Carey was silent and thoughtful for a few minutes, and then he began again.
“It’s very beautiful lying back here,” he said at last, “and sometimes I feel as if I should like to do nothing else for a month to come. Then I get hot and fidgety and tired of it all. Yes, he is horribly slow. I’ve watched him, and instead of knocking a nail right in at once he gets boring holes and measuring and trying first one and then another till he gets one to suit him. It makes me feel sometimes as if I should like to throw books at him. I’ll tell him to make haste and finish.”
“Better not, perhaps,” said the doctor, quietly, as he busied himself trying to catch some of the floating jelly-fish over the side with a rope and bucket. “You may hurt his feelings.”
No more was said on the subject then, for there was enough to interest the patient in examining with a magnifying glass the curious creatures captured; but Carey had not forgotten, and that evening when the doctor was below and Bostock had brought up the bag of tools he used to work upon the clumsy-looking raft he was building, the boy lay back watching him chewing away at a piece of tobacco, and bending thoughtfully over the structure.
“I say,” cried Carey at last in a peevish tone, “when are you going to finish that raft?”
“Finish it, my lad?”
“Yes, finish it. How many more days are you going to be?”
Bostock screwed up his face, rose erect in a very slow and deliberate way, laid down the auger he held, and took off his cap to scratch his head.
“Finish it?” he said, thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t quite know; you see, I must make it reg’lar strong.”
“Of course,” cried Carey, “but you spend so much time thinking about it.”
“Well, yes, my lad, I do, certainly; but then, you see, I have to do the thinking and making too. There’s on’y me, you see.”
“Why didn’t you let the doctor help you? He did want to.”
“Ye–es, he did want to, my lad,” said the old sailor, in the slowest and most provoking way. “He’s a wonderful clever man too, is the doctor. See what a beautiful job he’s making of your broken timbers; but what does he know about making a raft? This is my job, and bime-by it’ll be my job to make a boat, which’ll want more thinking about than even this.”
“Pooh! I could have made it in half the time.”
“Ah, you think so, my lad, just the same as I might think I could ha’ mended your broken colly bone. But I couldn’t, and I wouldn’t offer to, and of course I don’t want the doctor to meddle with my work.”
“It’s horrible to watch you,” said Carey, pettishly. “I get sick of seeing you.”
“Do you, now?” said Bostock, smiling; but he shook his head. “Not you, my lad; you only say so. You’re getting better; that’s what’s the matter with you.”
“Pish!” ejaculated the boy, contemptuously. “There, drive in a few more nails to make all fast, and then it’ll be done.”
“Done, sir? Not it,” said the old man, walking slowly round the cumbrous construction. “I’ve been thinking that I shall put in two more casks, one on each side.”
“What!” cried Carey, angrily. “Why, that’ll take you another fortnight.”
“Nay, nay,” said the old sailor, coolly; “not a fortnight; say a week or ten days.”
“And it will make it heavier too. I don’t believe you can launch it as it is.”
“Not launch it?” said Bostock, tapping the casks at the four angles, one after another, with the handle of the auger, and being apparently so well satisfied with the drum-like tones that he worked round once more. “Oh, yes, I can get her launched easy enough with a rope through a block and the stern capstan. There won’t be no trouble about that.”
“Finish it off then, and never mind putting two more casks in.”
“Look ye here, my lad,” said the old fellow, solemnly, “do you suppose I want that there raft to capsize and shoot us off among the sharkses?”
“Of course not. Seen any of them, Bob?”
“Lots, my lad. They come swimming round this morning as if looking out for bits for breakfast. Why, if that raft capsized they’d chew us up like reddishes. I’m not going to risk that, my lad. I’ve got a character to lose, you see. I’m making this raft, and I want it to be a raft as you and the doctor’ll be proud on—a raft as we can row or sail or go fishing with.”
“Yes, fishing,” said Carey, eagerly. “When am I to have that line and try for something?”
“Oh, we’ll see about that,” said the old sailor, coolly. “Let’s get the raft done first.”
“Get the raft done first!” cried Carey, angrily. “You’ll never get it done.”
“Oh, yes, I will, my lad; and it’ll be one you could dance on if you liked. Don’t you be in such a precious hurry.”
“Precious hurry, indeed. Do you know what it means to be sitting here and hardly allowed to move day after day?”
“Course I do, my lad. I see you.”
“But you don’t know how horribly tiresome it is,” cried Carey, who was growing more and more exasperated. “Look here, haven’t you promised me time after time that you’d have a fishing-line ready for me so that I could hold it when the tide came in and get a few fish?”
“To be sure I did,” said Bostock, coolly.
“Then why don’t you do it?”
“Look ye here, my lad, you are getting better, you know, and that’s what makes you so rusty.”
“Anyone would get rusty, doing nothing day after day. Now then, Bob, I’ll stand no more nonsense. You get the fishing-line directly. Do you hear?”
“Oh, yes, my lad, I hear. You spoke loud enough.”
“Then why don’t you go and get one?”
“’Cause I’m busy making a raft.”
“That you’re not. You’re only fiddling about it like an old woman.”
“Hor, hor!” laughed the man. “Like an old woman!”
“Will you fetch me a long fishing-line?”
“No good now, sir; tide’s going out.”
“Never you mind about that. I want a line.”
Bostock carefully placed the auger against one end of a plank, grunted twice over, and then began to turn the handle.
“Precious hard bit o’ wood, sir.”
“Are you going to fetch me that line, sir?” cried Carey.
“Bime-by, my lad.”
“No, I want it now,” cried Carey.
Bostock took the auger from the hole he had begun to make, and held it as if it was a hammer with which he was going to threaten the boy.
“Look ye here, my lad,” he said, “do you know what the fish is like as comes into this lagoon?”
“Yes, of course I do; like fish,” said Carey, angrily.
“Fish they is; but do you know how big some of ’em are?”
“No.”
“Well, I do. There’s some of ’em big enough to pull like donkeys. Now, jest s’pose as you hooks one.”
“Well, suppose I do? We’ll have it out, and you shall cook it. Doctor Kingsmead said it would be nice to have a bit of fresh fish.”
“That’s right enough, my lad; but let’s go back to what I said. Suppose you hook one, what then?”
“Why, I should catch it.”
“Not you, sir. You’d be a bit excited, and you’d pull, and the fish’d pull, and in about a brace o’ shakes we should have your upper timbers, as the doctor’s been taking so much trouble to mend, all knocked to pieces again. Now then, my lad, what have you got to say to that?”
Carey had nothing to say to it, so he lay back with his face puckered up, staring straight before him.
The old sailor used the auger as a hammer and tapped the end of one of the casks so that it sounded loudly.
“Now then, my lad,” he cried, sharply, “aren’t that true?”
“I suppose it is, Bob,” said Carey, rather dolefully.
“That’s right, my lad. You’re getting right, and I want to see you quite right, and then you shall have a line half a mile long, if you like.”
Carey was silent, and after giving him a nod the old sailor turned deliberately to his work, grunting slowly and laboriously over boring at the hole, and resting from time to time, while as the boy watched him a thought flashed into his head and gradually grew brighter and brighter till he could contain himself no longer, for the old sailor’s actions seemed to be so contrary to all that the boy knew, and he felt that he had got hold of a clue.
“Look here, Bob,” he said, “suppose—”
“Yes, sir,” said the old sailor, for the boy stopped, and he was glad of the opportunity for resting. “I am supposing, sir; go on.”
“I was going to say, suppose we knew that the Chusan was breaking up under our feet; how long would it take you to finish that raft?”
“But she aren’t a-breaking up under our feet, sir. You might take the old Susan on lease for one-and-twenty year, and she’d be all solid at the end.”
“But suppose she was going down, Bob.”
“But she couldn’t be going down, my lad,” argued the old sailor; “she’s got miles o’ solid coral rock underneath her.”
“Never mind what she has underneath her. I say, suppose she was sinking under our feet; how long would it take you to finish the raft so that we could get ashore?”
“Well, ’bout five minutes,” said the old fellow, with a grim smile.
“There, I knew it!” cried Carey, excitedly. “I knew it; and you’re going on day after day regularly playing with the job for some reason of your own.”
“Nay, nay, nay,” cried the old fellow, picking up a nail, seizing a hammer, and driving away loudly.
“It isn’t because you’re lazy.”
“Oh, I dunno, sir; there’s no skipper now, and everything’s to one’s hand. I don’t see why one should work too hard.”
“That’s all gammon, Bob,” said Carey, sternly.
“Hark at him! Why, I never heard you talk that how afore, sir.”
“You’re dawdling on for some reason, Bob. You see, you owned that you could make the raft seaworthy in five minutes.”
“Ay, ay, my lad, but then she’d only be rough. I’m going on polishing like, and making her a raft to be proud on. I said so afore.”
“That’s all stuff and nonsense, Bob,” cried Carey. “I know. Now tell the truth; you’ve some reason for being so long.”
Bostock was silent, and he screwed up his mahogany-tinted face till he looked ten years older.
“Come, sir, speak the truth.”
“Allus does,” said the old fellow, gruffly.
“Let’s have it then. Why are you spinning out this job so long and won’t get it done?”
“Am I, sir—spinning it out like?”
“Yes, you know you are. Now, are you going to tell me why?”
“No, I aren’t,” growled the old fellow.
“Very well, but I believe I know.”
“Not you, my lad. I tell you I’m going to make an out-and-out good job of it.”
“Keeping it back so as not to go till I’m well enough to go too. That’s why,” said Carey, and he looked at the old sailor searchingly, and tried to catch his eye, the one that was open, the other being close shut. But it was impossible, for Bostock made believe to have great difficulty in hitting that nail exactly on the head, and hammered away with all his might.
“Now then, are you going to own it, sir?” cried Carey.
Bostock gave seven or eight final blows with the hammer as if he were performing on an old-fashioned knocker, and finished off with a final bang, before turning round, and with both eyes open now he said defiantly:
“Own up, sir? No, I aren’t, but there, she’s finished now.”
“Quite ready to go into the water?” said Carey.
“Yes,” said the old fellow, bluntly; “she’d bear us and a load o’ bricks if we had ’em.”
“And that’s why you’ve kept her back,” said Carey, half-mockingly, but with a choking sensation in his throat—due to weakness perhaps.
“I aren’t going to say naught,” said the old fellow, gruffly.
“But you haven’t polished her.”
“No; I aren’t,” said Bostock, and he began to gather up his tools.
“But you can’t be proud of such a rough thing as that.”
Carey laughed at the queer look the old fellow gave.
“There,” he cried, “didn’t I say you were making believe?”
“Nay, that you didn’t, sir. I never heard you.”
“Here’s Doctor Kingsmead coming up.”
“Here, I say, don’t you say a word to him, my lad,” cried the old sailor in an anxious whisper.
“Will you own to it then?”
“Nay, that I won’t,” came in a growl.
“Here, doctor,” cried Carey, loudly.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Oh, Master Carey, don’t tell on a fellow,” whispered Bostock.
“You’re just in time. The raft’s done. Bostock has just driven in the last nail.”
“Glad to hear it,” said the doctor. “Then I suppose we may get her into the water to-morrow.”
“Yes, sir, she’ll do now,” growled the old sailor.
“That’s right,” said the doctor. “Look here, Carey, my lad, we’ll try how she rides in the water to-morrow, and if she’s all right, I think we might swing you down in a chair from a block, and you might go with us, for you need not exert yourself in the least. You would sit in the chair.”
“Yes,” cried the boy, eagerly. “I feel sure it wouldn’t hurt me a bit.”
“What do you say, Bostock? Could we manage?”
“That we could, sir; wrap him up and drop him down so as we shouldn’t disturb a fly on him.”
“Then we’ll try,” said the doctor, to the boy’s great delight.
A few minutes later Bostock watched for his chance when the doctor had gone below, and went up to Carey’s chair.
“Thought you was going to split on me, sir,” he whispered.
“Then I was right?” said Carey.
“Well, what was the good o’ us going and leaving you behind, my lad? You wouldn’t ha’ liked that?”
“No,” said the boy, drawing a deep breath, as he looked half-wonderingly at the rough old sailor, and thought something about good-heartedness and kindly thought, as he said aloud:
“No, Bob, I don’t think I should have liked that.”
Chapter Nine.
The raft was not launched the next morning, and Bostock did not even begin to make preparations with the blocks and pulleys for getting it over the side.
Carey was rather restless when he went to bed, the thought of the coming change and the idea of gliding over the smooth waters of the lagoon producing in his still weak state enough excitement to keep him awake for hours, so that it was well on towards morning before he went off soundly to sleep; but when he was once off he slept as if he meant to indulge himself for eight-and-forty hours.
“Hullo!” he cried when he awoke, “anything the matter?”
For he found the doctor sitting reading close to his berth.
“Matter? No, I hope not,” replied the doctor, closing his book. “Had a good rest?”
“Yes, I have been sound asleep. What made you call me so early?”
“Early, eh? What time do you suppose it is?”
Carey glanced towards the round window, which looked dim and grey, and the cabin quite gloomy.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Close upon sunrise, I suppose.”
“Close upon mid-day. Don’t you hear the rain?”
“Rain? Yes, I was wondering what it was.”
“A regular tropical downpour. No going ashore to-day.”
“Oh, how tiresome! I say, though, why did you let me sleep so long?”
“Because Nature said you wanted rest. It was better to let you have your sleep out.”
“But it will soon clear up, will it not?”
“I’m thinking it will not,” said the doctor.
He thought right, for on and off the downpour lasted a fortnight, with storm after storm of thunder and lightning, and the occupants of the stranded vessel were kept close prisoners, only getting a short visit occasionally to the drenched deck, where Carey used his glass to watch the torrent ashore, which had grown into a tremendous fall, whose roar came like muffled thunder to his ears.
“It’s horribly disappointing,” he said, gloomily, on the fourteenth day. “I did so want to go ashore.”
“Out of evil comes good,” said the doctor, cheerily. “You have had another fortnight’s enforced rest, and it has done wonders towards the knitting up of the bone.”
“No,” said the boy, quickly, “it’s not so well. It aches more than ever to-day.”
“That’s only from the weather,” said the doctor, laughing. “I daresay you will feel aching sensations like that for months to come, whenever there’s a change in the weather.”
Carey looked at him with so pitiful a countenance that the doctor laughed now heartily.
“I don’t see anything to laugh at,” said the boy.
“Bah! you don’t mind a little pain. Come, cheer up; this long wait has been all for the best. You are a wonderful deal stronger now.”
“But look here, Doctor Kingsmead,” said the boy, earnestly; “am I really better and stronger, or are you saying that to comfort me?”
“I am saying it because it is the simple truth.”
“Ha!” ejaculated Carey, and his face lit up, and then grew brighter still, for the sun came out, glorifying everything, the clouds were floating off the hills so that they could once more be seen, looking dazzlingly green, and the island, as far as they could see, appeared ten times more beautiful than ever.
“You’ll have the raft lowered at once now?” cried Carey, eagerly.
“What, while everything is still drenched with rain? No, let’s wait till to-morrow.”
“And then it may be raining again.”
“I think not,” said the doctor. “Use your glass a little, and you’ll see that everything ashore is so saturated that we could not go a dozen yards without being drenched.”
“It does look rather wet,” said Carey, grudgingly; but he soon brightened up, and looked on while the doctor got out his gun and cleaned a few specks of rust from the barrel, while that afternoon Bostock prepared everything for the launching, getting done in such good time that, as there were a couple of hours’ more daylight, it was decided to try and get the raft over the side.
It looked cumbersome enough, but there was no difficulty in levering it along the deck by means of capstan bars, after which the rope running through the block high up was made fast to one side, and the doctor and Bostock began to haul: but the effect was not satisfactory, and Bostock stopped and scratched his head.
“Here, let me help,” cried Carey; but the doctor roared at him, and the boy wrinkled up his brow.
“Well,” said the doctor, when, after hauling one side up a little, they had lowered it again.
“Seems to me, sir,” said the old sailor, “that we’ve got our work cut out to haul her up and lower her down.”
“Yes, we want a couple of men to help,” said the doctor.
“And we aren’t got ’em,” growled Bostock.
“Why don’t you haul one side up till the raft’s edgewise, and then work it out through the gangway with the levers till it overbalances and tumbles in?” said Carey.
“Ah, to be sure, sir,” said Bostock, mopping his dripping face; “why don’t we?”
“What, and shake the thing all to pieces with the fall?” said the doctor.
“Nay, nay, nay, sir; don’t you say such a word as that,” grumbled Bostock. “I don’t do my work like that. I took lots o’ time over her, didn’t I, Master Carey?”
“You did, Bob,” said the boy, with a queer cock of one eye.
“Consekens is, she’s as strong as can be.”
“You think it would hold together then?” said the doctor.
“Sure on it, sir.”
“Let’s try, then.”
The rope was fastened, the capstan bars were seized, and in a few minutes, as the two men turned, the rope tightened, the raft gradually rose, and soon after stood up edgewise, resting on two of the corner tubs, and without the slightest disposition to topple over. Then the rope was slackened so as to allow enough to act as a painter to moor the unwieldy framework to the side, levers were seized, and inch by inch it was hitched along the deck to the gangway, and then on and on till a quarter of it was outside, when there was a halt for inspection to see if all was right for it to fall clear.
Bostock declared that it was, but the doctor shook his head.
“It is my belief,” he said, “that it will turn wrong side up when it falls.”
“I believe it will tumble all to pieces,” cried Carey, mischievously.
“If she do I’ll eat my hat,” growled Bostock. “Let’s have her in and chance it, sir. Mebbe if she falls topsy-wopsy we can get the capstan to work and turn her back again.”
“Well, we’ll try,” replied the doctor.
“Come on then, sir,” said the old sailor, picking up the capstan bar again; “and you stand well back, Master Carey. We don’t want to break you again if she topples over.”
The boy drew back and the levers were thrust in beneath, and once more the raft began to move inch by inch outside the gangway.
“Both together, sir,” cried the old sailor; “easy it is—heave ho—heavy ho—steady—ay, oh! One, two, three, and a cheerily ho! One more, sir. Two more, sir. Yo, ho, ho, and lock out; over she goes!”
For the clumsy structure was hitched on and on till it was pretty well on the balance. Then a couple more touches did the business, for the half projecting through the gangway began to sink, overbalancing more and more till all at once, after hanging for a moment as if suspended in the air, it plunged outward, falling with a tremendous splash, sending the spray flying in all directions; and then, to the delight of all, after seeming to hesitate as it rose, turning over and floating high out of the water and right way up.
Carey gave a hearty cheer, while Bostock threw down his capstan bar with a rattle on the deck.
“Play up, you lubber!” he shouted to an imaginary fiddler, as he folded his arms and then dashed off in the sailor’s hornpipe, dancing frantically for a couple of minutes, and ending with three stamps and a bow and scrape.
“Now then,” he cried, panting hard with his exertions, “did she tumble all to pieces, sir? I knowed better than that.”
“Capital, Bostock,” said the doctor. “It floats splendidly, but will it bear all three?”
“Will it bear all three, sir? Yes, and a ton o’ stuff as well. Here, just you wait a minute.”
He ran and got hold of the rope, hauled the raft alongside, and made it fast, before sliding down on to the raft, where he repeated his hornpipe performance, the buoyant framework rising and falling a little, but seeming as safe as could be.
“There,” he cried, shouting up breathlessly to those looking out from the gangway; “it seems to me that she’s far safer than any boat I could make, and you can pole her, or row her, or put up a sail, and go anywhere on her; but, you know, I don’t say as she’ll be fast. No; I don’t say that.”
“You ought to be proud of your work, Bob,” cried Carey, laughing.
“Proud on her, sir? I just am. Them tubs are good uns; no fear o’ them leaking for years.”
“Leaking for years, Carey,” said the doctor, in a low tone of voice; “he speaks as if he were quite settled down to staying here.”
“Well, it will be nice,” said the boy. “I mean,” he added, hastily, “for a month or two, for, of course, we expect to be fetched away soon.”
“Yes,” said the doctor; “of course we expect to be fetched away soon.”
The doctor turned away and went down into the cabin, leaving the boy looking after him.
“How strangely he spoke,” thought Carey; “just as if he didn’t like what I said. Of course, I don’t want to stay here, but to go on to Brisbane to see them. Only, after being shut up like a cripple so long, it’s natural to want to go ashore on this island and see what the place is like. I say, Bob,” he cried, going to the side, “do you think there’s a volcano—a burning mountain, up yonder where the clouds hang so low?”
“Might be anything, sir. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised. You never know what you’re going to find in an island where nobody’s been before.”
“Want a hand up?”
“Nay, sir; I can swarm up the rope. We must lower down some steps, though, so as we can haul ’em up again of a night and keep out the savages as might come in their canoes.”
“Savages? Canoes? Do you think there are any, Bob?”
“One never knows, sir. I don’t think there’s any here now, or we should have seen some of ’em; but they goes wandering about far enough, and they might turn up any time. Rather nasty ones they are, too, off the west coast and to norrard there, Noo Guinea. There we are,” he continued, climbing on deck. “Won’t take me long to-morrow morning putting on the oars, poles, and mast, and the bit o’ sail we have made.”
“Then we shall go to-morrow morning?”
“If it keeps fine,” said the old sailor, shading his eyes and looking round. “And fine weather it is, my lad, as far as I can see.”
Chapter Ten.
The old sailor was right—fine weather it was: and after a heavy meal and providing themselves with another in a basket, they stepped down on to the raft, where Bostock had rigged up a mast, and pushed off from their home, which lay looking enormous from where they stood.
The doctor had passed judgment that if Carey did not exert himself he might do a little in the way of going about. He was bandaged still and debarred from using one arm at all; but as he half-lay on the raft looking round he was ready to declare that he would have liked to come even with both arms bandaged to his sides, for it was glorious on that sunny morning, with the air clear and soft, the sky of an intense blue, and the water, over which they glided very slowly, looking like crystal.
The square sail had been hoisted; it filled out slowly and, obeying the long rough oar which Bostock used as a scull, the raft behaved splendidly, leaving the long dark hull of the steamer behind, and steadily nearing the yellow stretch of sand backed by an enormous cocoanut grove.
There were birds circling overhead and flock after flock flying about the shore, which grew more beautiful each minute; but before they had glided far over the lagoon, Carey’s attention was taken up by the shallowness of the water, and he reached out over the side to gaze in wonder through the perfectly limpid medium at what seemed to be a garden of flowers of the most beautiful and varied tints. There were groves, too, of shrubs, whose branches were of delicate shades of lavender, yellow, orange, and purple, and through the waving sea growths fishes, gorgeous in gold, orange, scarlet, and blue, flashed in the softened sunshine, as they were startled by the coming of the raft.
Bostock was very busy piloting their craft, but he was referred to from time to time as a mine of knowledge to be worked, for the old sailor had long been acquainted with the Eastern Seas, and had been fairly observant for an uneducated man.
Hence he was able to point out the fact that there were thousands of the great pearl-oysters clustering about the coral reefs which looked so shrub-like below.
“Look here, doctor,” cried the boy, excitedly; “it’s just like a lovely garden.”
“Exactly,” said the doctor; “a garden that lives and grows without a soul to admire its beauties.”
“No, we’re admiring them, sir,” said Carey, promptly.
“But most likely we are the first white people who ever saw them.”
“Don’t let the raft go so quickly, Bob,” cried Carey; “we want to have a long, long look at the things now we have found them. Look, doctor; oh, do look! there was a fish glided by all of a watch-spring blue, with a great bar across it like a gold-fish’s.”
“You are missing those flowers,” said the doctor.
“No, I see them,” cried the boy, with his face close to the water. “Sea anemones; clusters of them like those I’ve seen in Cornwall, only ten times as handsome. Look there, too, lying on the patch of sand there, seven or eight, oh! and there’s one—a five-pointed one, scarlet, crimson, and orange-brown; but they don’t seem to have any feelers.”
“No; those must be star-fish—sea stars.”
“Beautiful,” cried the boy, who was half-wild with excitement. “Oh, what a pity we are going so fast! Look at all this lilac coral; why, there must be miles of it.”
“Hunderds o’ miles, sir,” growled Bostock.
“Yes, it’s very pretty to look at, and if you touch it, it feels soft as jelly outside; but it has a bad way o’ ripping holes in the bottoms of ships. Copper and iron’s nothing to it. Goes right through ’em. Ah! that coral’s sent hunderds o’ fine vessels to the bottom o’ the sea, the sea. ‘And she sank to the bottom o’ the sea.’”
The old sailor broke into song at the end of his remarks, with a portion of a stave of “The Mermaid”; but singing was not his strong point, and he made a noise partaking a good deal of a melodious croak.
“This is a famous region for coral reefs, I suppose, Bostock,” said the doctor.
“Orfle, sir. Why, as soon as you gets round the corner yonder, going to Brisbane, they call it the Coral Sea, and there you get the Great Barrier Reef, all made of this here stuff.”
“More of those great oysters,” said Carey. “I say, Bob, are they good to eat?”
“Not half bad, sir, as you shall say. They make first-rate soup, and that aren’t a thing to be sneezed at.”
“Then we shan’t starve,” said Carey, laughing.
“Starve, sir? No. I can see plenty of good fish to be had out o’ this lagoon.”
“But are these the oysters they gather for the mother-o’-pearl?” asked the doctor.
“Them’s those, sir, and it seems to me here’s a fortune to be made gathering of ’em. Why, they fetches sixty and seventy pound a ton, and the big uns’ll weigh perhaps ten or twelve pound a pair.”
“Then we must collect some, Carey, ready to take away with us when we go.”
“And that aren’t all, sir,” continued the old sailor; “when you come to open ’em you finds pearls inside ’em, some of ’em worth ever so much.”
“Oh, doctor, what a place we’ve come to,” said Carey, excitedly. “Isn’t it lucky we were wrecked?”
“That’s a matter of opinion, my boy,” said the doctor, drily.
“’Scuse me, Master Carey, sir,” said the old sailor, with a peculiar smile.
“Excuse you—what for?”
“What I’m going to say, sir,” said the old fellow, as he leaned against the handle of the big oar as he steered. “You’ve got a very nice-looking nose, sir. It’s a bit big for your size, but it’s a nice tempting-looking nose all the same.”
“Is it?” said Carey, shortly, and his disengaged hand went up to the organ in question. “I daresay it is. I don’t know; but why do you want to meddle with it?”
“I don’t, sir; I only want to keep anything else from having a go at it.”
“What is likely to have a ‘go’ at it, as you say?”
“Young shark might be tempted, sir.”
“Pooh! Nonsense! But are there sharks in this lagoon?”
“Thousands, I’ll be bound, sir. So don’t you never try to bathe. What do you say to running up between those two bits of bare reef, sir—sort o’ canal-like place? We could run right up to the sand there.”
“Try it,” said the doctor, and the raft was steered between the long ridges of coral, whose points stood just out of the water. Carey had the satisfaction of seeing that there was a shoal of fish being driven along the watery passage to the shallow at the end, over which they splashed and floundered till they reached deep water again and swam away.
“Some o’ they would have done for the frying-pan, sir, if we’d had a net handy,” said Bostock. “We must come prepared another time.”
The raft grounded the next minute in what seemed to be a magnificent marine aquarium, into the midst of whose wonders the old sailor stepped to mid-thigh, crunching shells and beautiful pieces of coral in a way which made Carey shiver.
“All right, sir, there’s millions more,” he said, coolly. “Now, doctor, there’s no need for you to step down,” he continued; “it’s wonderful slimy, and there’s shells and things sharp enough to cut through your boots. You give me the guns and basket, and I’ll take ’em up on the sands and come back for you. I’m more used to the water than you are.”
The doctor nodded and handed the two double guns they had brought, along with the basket of provisions, with which Bostock waded ashore, returning directly to take the doctor on his back, after which he came again for Carey.
“Hadn’t I better wade ashore?” said the boy; “one ought to get used to this sort of thing.”
“After a bit, my lad,” said Bostock, shaking his head. “You get used to growing quite well first. Now then, you stand up close here, and I’ll nip you ashore in no time.”
“Well, turn round then; I can’t get on your back like that.”
“You’re not going to get on my back, my lad. I’m going to take you in my arms and carry you.”
“Like a little child,” cried Carey, pettishly.
“No, like a hinwalid who won’t take a bit of care of his tender bones. Lor’-a-mussy, how orbsnit youngsters can be! Don’t yer want to get well?”
“All right,” said Carey, gruffly. “Don’t drop me in the water: I’m precious heavy.”
“Now, is it likely, my lad?” growled the old fellow, taking the lad up gently and starting for the shore. “I’m not going to let you down, so don’t you—here, steady there—steady!”
Carey burst out into an uncontrollable roar of merriment, for Bostock’s right foot suddenly slipped on the slimy shell of one of the great pearl-oysters, and he was as near going headlong as possible; but by making a tremendous effort he saved himself and his burden and hurried panting to the shore.
“Have I hurt you, my lad?” he cried, excitedly, perspiration starting out in great drops on his face. “No, not a bit,” said Carey, merrily. “Phew! I thought I’d done it, sir. Now, you see, that comes of being too cocksure. Thought I knowed better, but I didn’t. Now, are you sure you aren’t hurt?”
“Quite, Bob,” said Carey, wiping his eyes. “Well, you needn’t laugh so much, sir.”
“I can’t help it,” cried Carey, indulging in another hearty burst. “There, I’m better now.”
The doctor, who had at once walked off towards the great grove of cocoanuts with a gun on his shoulder, now returned.
“Plenty of birds, Carey, my lad,” he said; “cocoanuts by the thousand, and through yonder, where you can hear it roaring, there is an ample supply of fresh water. You can see from here where it runs through the sand. Now, the first thing I want to know is whether we are on an island, and the second, have we any savage neighbours.”
“Let’s go up the hills and take a good look round then,” suggested Carey.
“That is the way to find out, of course; but it would be like so much madness for you to attempt such a climb.”
“Would it, sir?”
“Yes, for some time to come. You are getting on so well that I don’t want you to be driven back by over-exertion.”
“But I could try and give up if I got tired.”
“Yes, but I don’t want you to grow tired, so you must content yourself here. There is plenty to see along the shore here.”
“And suppose a lot of blacks come while you are away.”
“Pick up the gun I shall leave with you; they will not face that. But I have no fear of that happening. I feel sure that there are no inhabitants. Still, I only feel so, and I want to be perfectly certain.”
“You’ll be ever so long,” said Carey, gloomily, “and it will not be very pleasant to be quite alone. All right, though, sir, I don’t mind.”
“You are not going to be alone,” said the doctor, quietly. “Bostock will stay with you.”
“Oh, but that will not be right,” cried the boy, eagerly. “Who knows what dangers you may run into?”
“I have my gun, and I daresay I can take care of myself.”
“But you ought to take Bostock with you, doctor.”
“I think not: and besides, as we have to divide our force it ought to be done as equally as possible. There, I shall take six hours for my expedition—that is to say, if it is necessary—and I shall go straight away for three hours, and then turn back.”
“And suppose you lose yourself?”
“I have no fear of that,” said the doctor. “But don’t you go far in either direction. Consider that you have to guard the raft till I come back.”
Carey felt ready to make fresh objections, but the doctor gave him no time. He stepped to the provision basket, took out one of the bread cakes that Bostock made every other morning, thrust it into his pocket, and gave his patient a final word or two of advice.
“Don’t be tempted to over-heat yourself in the sun,” he said. “Get into the shade of the grove here if you begin to grow tired,” and, shouldering his gun, he stepped off through the sand, disappearing directly after among the trees, but only to step back and shout:
“I shall try and follow the stream as near as I can to its source in the lake that must be up yonder. Au revoir.”
He disappeared once more, and Carey and Bostock stood looking at one another on the sandy shore.