Morley Ashton: A Story of the Sea. Volume 3 (of 3)

CHAPTER VII.

LUX VENIT AB ALTO.

Pity for Mr. Basset, and intense commiseration for his two daughters, soon gave place in the hearts of his friends to a dire longing for vengeance on the treacherous authors of this new atrocity.

"Secure the door, Morley—quick, or they may be on us!" cried Heriot, as he threw off his coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeves.

"There is no danger of their attacking us," replied Morley Ashton, panting and breathless.

"Why so?" asked Phillips, with an oath.

"Because these wretches are already busy with the brandy jar."

"All the better," replied the Scotch doctor, with a sombre frown. "Keep your pistols and the gun ready—pot the first villain who comes within range through the skylight. Poor Mr. Basset! poor Mr. Basset! Bartelot and Morrison, assist me, please; we have work to do—quick, before the ladies awake and hear us."

The body of Mr. Basset was laid on Captain Phillips's bed, and the hateful rope which still compressed his throat, together with the cord that secured his wrists, was cut off and flung away by Heriot's ready hand.

Blackened, swollen in features, and horribly disfigured, with protruding eyes and tongue, few would have recognised, save by his dress, the bland and smiling smooth-skinned, close-shaved, and rather florid gentleman of a few minutes ago.

"Dead—quite dead!" groaned Morley, as he hung over him; "my poor friend—oh, my poor friend! so kind—so gentle—so amiable!"

"What a fate his has been!" added Tom Bartelot.

"And who is to tell it to his poor girls?" said Morrison.

"Ethel, at least," whispered Heriot with a significant glance at Morley, "must be kept as long as possible in ignorance; after the shock of last night to know of this might have a most serious effect upon her nervous system."

"Papa, papa, speak with me, please!" they heard her soft, pleasant voice say at that moment.

"Say what you will or can, Ashton; but Miss Basset must not see her father yet," said Heriot, hastily; "the shock, as I have said, might be dangerous, for his aspect is terrible."

"Speak to me, dear papa, for one moment. I have had such a horrible dream, and all about you," she said again.

Amid the deep muttered expressions of rage and commiseration made by his companions, Morley, pale and trembling, tapped at her cabin door, and, opening it a little way, whispered that Mr. Basset was asleep, and must not be disturbed.

"Must not," she repeated with alarm; "is papa ill?"

"Oh, no; but——"

"But what?"

"Only in a deep sleep," he replied, with a sigh of bitterness, as he closed the door, fearing to excite her alarm further.

"Is this fatal outrage completed?—is the poor gentleman quite dead?" asked Captain Phillips, in a low and impressive voice.

"I fear so, I fear so," replied Heriot, with growing agitation; "I can detect no sign whatever of life, and even warmth is passing away."

"But remember, doctor," said Morrison, earnestly and anxiously, "that the time of—of strangulation was short, and death by being run up to the yardarm is not so instantaneous as by the drop from a regular scaffold ashore."

"Of course, Morrison, I know that; but——" the doctor paused, and shook his head sadly.

"Horrible difference!" thought Morley, with a shudder of mingled rage and grief, while he clenched his teeth and hands.

"But our poor friend was a heavy man and of a full habit. He is already becoming cold. No breath—no pulsation," added Heriot, placing his hand on Mr. Basset's heart.

"Quite dead, you think?" asked Morley, whose eyes filled with tears, as the memory of happy years long past, and sincere pity for the two girls, rushed into his mind.

"Beyond hope, I fear," muttered Heriot, who, however, still continued, mechanically, as it were, to feel the pulse and chafe the rigid limbs.

"The scoundrels—the black-hearted scoundrels! Oh, to have revenge for all this!" exclaimed Captain Phillips, stamping his feet on the cabin floor.

"Our numbers decrease. First we lost poor Manfredi, then Joe, the steward, then Sam Quail, and now Mr. Basset," said Foster, the second mate; "whose turn will it be next?"

"Hush!—remember the young ladies," said Heriot, looking up, warningly.

Cold nearly, ghastly pale, where not livid and discoloured, and rendered horrible in feature by past convulsions, poor Mr. Basset's case seemed, indeed, hopeless; yet Leslie Heriot, inspired by his love for Rose, by perhaps something of the dogged perseverance of his country, by the regard he really bore Mr. Basset, and an enthusiasm for his profession, with a reliance on his own skill, which was by no means small; imbued, we say, by all these, he felt inclined to attempt something unusual in his art, and proceeded at once to put it in practice.

As the idea of struggling with death, of restoring life and animation to that still and corpse-like form, occurred to him, a sudden light shone in the handsome young doctor's eyes; his cheek flushed, and there was a charming brightness and animation in all his features, as he bustled about, and unlocked the medicine-chest and case of instruments.

"At all events I will try, I will try," he muttered to himself; "in great attempts 'tis glorious e'en, to fail."

He perceived that blood oozed out from a cut in the forehead, received when the body of their victim was flung by the mutineers through the skylight into the cabin.

The sight of this blood gave him fresh hope, and he commenced operations at once, and with confident determination, while those around, who had never witnessed such a scene, or heard of such an attempt before, beheld him with wonder, and obeyed all his orders with alacrity.

With his love for Rose, and his medical enthusiasm, there mingled something of religious fervour and much of human kindness, and selecting carefully a lancet, he almost uttered a prayer of hope, as he opened the temporal artery, and then the external jugular—a vein which runs along the neck, just beneath the skin, and returns the blood from the head to the heart; but he sighed with doubt on finding the circulation stopped in both, and that a little coagulated blood only appeared at each orifice.

With the assistance of Morley and Tom Bartelot, he stripped the body in haste, and proceeded to rub the back, mouth, and neck vigorously, with volatile salts and fine oil.

When they grew weary, Captain Phillips and Mr. Foster relieved them, and the arms and legs were well lubricated in the same fashion, to restore and promote circulation.

Puffs of strong tobacco were blown up the nostrils and into the mouth, when these were compressed; but an hour and more elapsed without any sign of returning animation, and even Heriot was beginning to despair (as his companions had done long before) when, after making a small incision in the skin of the windpipe, through which, with his own breath, he sought to inflate the lungs, by breathing strongly through a cannula, a cry of joy escaped him.

The blood from the temporal artery was now trickling down the pale, discoloured face!

Heriot snatched up Mr. Basset's right hand, and applied his fingers to the wrist.

"The pulse—the pulse begins to beat!" he exclaimed; "quick, Morley!—place that bottle of sal-ammoniac under his nostrils."

Morley did so, and soon an exclamation escaped from all, on beholding Mr. Basset open and close each eye alternately.

He was then raised up in the kind and sturdy arms of Noah Gawthrop, while Heriot poured some warm brandy-and-water down his throat; after which a sound like a groan left his lips.

"Victory! blessed be God!" exclaimed Heriot, as he struck his hands together, and thought of Rose Basset, with her sweet loving smiles, and an honest moisture dimmed his eyes; "he lives, after all!"

"Thanks to your skill, doctor," said Tom Bartelot; "the world should hear of this."

"Nay—no thanks to me," replied Heriot; "what used we to learn at school, Morrison? Lux venit ab alto!"

"'All light comes from above,'" translated Morrison, without hesitation.

A low wail beside them made all turn from the bed whereon the body lay, and, to their dismay, they beheld Ethel standing near, pale as death, mute and rigid, her large dark eyes dilated with blank horror and bewilderment, while surveying the scene before her, as if she strove, but failed, to realise or understand it.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.

"Ah, Miss Basset; leave us—do leave us, for Heaven's sake—this is no scene for you!" said Heriot, half imperatively, half entreatingly. "Ashton, I can ill spare you, but do lead her away. Tell her all, if you choose, now. There is, I hope, no further fear."

Morley put his arms round Ethel, and lifted her back into her cabin.

Still she did not speak, though her pale lips and inquiring eyes showed how eagerly she sought an explanation of the terrible scene formed by the busy group; but Morley was silent, for he knew not how to begin, and contented himself by repeating, as people usually do, that she must compose herself, be calm, and so forth.

"Compose myself for what?" she asked, suddenly. "What has happened?—who is injured? Not papa—not my papa, surely?"

"Yes, Ethel, your papa," replied Morley, retaining her hands firmly in his own.

She uttered a cry, and was breaking from him, when he restrained her in his arms.

"Pardon me, Ethel—dear Ethel, pardon me," he continued to repeat; "your father has suffered much maltreatment at the hands of those villains on deck; but Dr. Heriot has nearly restored him—a little time, and he shall tell you all about it himself."

"Oh," she sobbed, and, overcome by emotion, dropped her head on Morley's shoulder; "my father—my loved papa!"

And, as she spoke, how convulsively the white bosom heaved.

Impulsive, and wildly energetic, Rose Basset now tried to escape from the cabin; but Morley placed his back against the door, and strove to soothe and to retain her.

At first, it would appear that Ethel had not recognised her father in that stripped man, whose face was swollen, streaked with blood, and livid by recent strangulation; and thus, unobserved, she had overlooked the operations of Heriot for nearly a minute in silent bewilderment and alarm.

She was almost fainting again on learning that this helpless patient was her father, but gathered courage from the energy of Rose, who kept incessantly repeating:

"Let me out, Morley—let me go to papa! I must—I shall get out! Mr. Ashton, will you dare to keep me from papa, who is ill?"

Then Ethel joined with her, and insisted so touchingly and so vehemently, that Morley was compelled to yield, and they rushed to the bedside of Mr. Basset, just as Heriot and Tom Bartelot placed him in a comfortable sitting posture, well bolstered up, and covered with warm blankets, where he sat breathing heavily; but with his eyes closed, and his head reclining on the shoulder of the young doctor, in whose face there shone a bright smile of joy and triumph.

"Papa, papa, speak to me!" cried Ethel, in a piercing voice, as she thrust herself between Captain Phillips and Tom Bartelot, knelt by the side of the bed—which was nearly level with the cabin-floor—and stroked his brow with a delicate and tremulous hand, while caressingly she drew his head upon her own breast; "you are not dying, papa—you cannot be dying! oh, say so—speak to your own Ethel!"

A slight quivering of the eyelids, and, if possible, a heavier respiration, was his sole response.

Again she spoke to him more imploringly, and this time the head was raised for a moment, but only to drop more heavily on her bosom.

"Will he die?—will he die?—speak, Leslie!" exclaimed Rose, while wringing her hands.

"No, not if my skill, with God's blessing, can save him, Rose. He is recovering rapidly."

"But recovering from what?" asked Ethel, shrilly; "what manner of ailment or maltreatment is this?"

"Himself will tell you all about it to-morrow; to-day he must sleep—I say must, my dear Miss Basset," said Heriot, in an impressive whisper.

"Oh, that by dying I could save my papa—my own dear papa!" cried Rose, as she rocked herself to and fro, her eyes streaming with tears the while.

"Don't talk so, Rose," said Heriot, almost angrily; "people can do more good by living than by dying, so, if you are determined to stay here, let us see what a dear little nurse you can make. There is no assistant a medical man appreciates so much as a capital nurse; so look alive, you little fairy—end this bother, and squeeze that sponge."

Heriot's cheerful and confident manner did more to soothe and reassure Ethel and Rose than all the friendly hopes expressed by the others—even by Morley Ashton. Ethel patted him on the cheek and kissed him, and bluff Captain Phillips too; which made old Noah Gawthrop's eyes begin to twinkle, and he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, and thrust his quid of pigtail into a remote corner of his jaws, in the hope that his turn would come in time.

"There is a crisis in the life of everybody;" Ethel Basset had passed that crisis, but it had been one of woe and terror. She had passed, as it were, through a tempest of emotions and alarms of late—emotions that had separated her from her girlish life, strengthened her mental powers, and developed her faculties. So she sought to brace up her energies for trials that might yet be to come—to be a woman of action, rather than, like poor little Rose, a girl of thoughts and tears.

So now she bent all the energies of life and affection to nursing her father, upon whom, as the evening deepened, a heavy slumber stole; thus, left by his side, alone—Rose had fallen asleep, exhausted—she sat and watched, heedless of her friends, who were occupied elsewhere, and heedless whether the ship was becalmed, or rushing before a gale of wind.

Ethel remembered the death of her mother, and the dull stunning sense of a mighty and unwonted calamity and loss—the yawning of a chasm that never more would close; the hushing of a familiar voice that would never more be heard; the passing away of a beloved face, that would never more be seen; and she remembered the calm aspect of the corpse disposed in its coffin, lined with white satin, laid on her own bed, with white curtains, draped up—the same bed in which all her children had been born, around which they had all hovered for weeks in the close atmosphere of a sick room, hushed into silence and on tiptoe, and about which they had all knelt with bowed heads, as the spirit that had lingered for hours between eternity and time fled at last on its mysterious and unknown journey; and Ethel felt that then she could pray.

Now she knelt by her father's side, in that little and confined cabin, where no sound reached her but his deep breathing, and the jarring of the night-lamp that swung from the beam above, and swayed to and fro as the ship rolled, casting weird gleams alike on the pale face of the watcher, and the discoloured features of the sleeper; but she, more stunned and more bewildered than ever, had neither words nor language, nor, at times, coherent thought in her soul, yet that soul was full of a dumb, despairing entreaty of Heaven, but in what form she neither knew nor felt, and scarcely did the chaos of her mind enable her to know what she would ask.

Rose was not with her now, we have said.

Poor child, her grief was noisy, and full of tears, so she had long since cried herself to sleep beside old Nance Folgate.

"Is not all this some phantasmagoria, or am I turning mad?" thought Ethel. "Why am I so far away from Laurel Lodge—far away upon this world of waters, and enduring all these miseries? Ah, my God! if all these should be but the dreams of insanity?"

She feared this all the more that, by some idiosyncrasy of the human mind, amid the horror of her great grief, she was haunted, almost tormented, by a frivolous song and air she used to sing at home.

Why was this, and how was this? The number of brass rings on the curtain rods, the gyrations of the flies, that buzzed about the night-lamp and clustered on the beams overhead, the knots in the wainscot, that seemed, especially when in shadow, to become quaint and freakish faces, all mingled with the memory of this song, which struggled for mastery with the prayers she sought to say, and with the awful idea that her father was dying, and that he and she were alone together in that fatal ship upon the midnight sea.

Anon, the singular and most unwonted silence that reigned around her, the absence of all sounds in the cabin, roused her at last to external objects.

She looked out of the little state-room in which her father lay; the cabin was empty; Morley, Bartelot, Captain Phillips, and all were gone!

She looked at her watch; the time was a quarter to twelve. Midnight was at hand.

New and vague terrors seized her; she ran to her own cabin, and found Rose still asleep beside their old nurse.

"Morley!" cried Ethel, in great alarm; "Morley! where are you?"

But the cabin was dark; she received no answer, and heard no sound but the regulated clatter of the rudder in its case, and the wind whistling drearily through the mizzentop.

Ere this a great change had taken place on board the Hermione; but the relation of what had occurred deserves a chapter to itself.

CHAPTER IX.

THE QUARTER-BOAT AND ITS FREIGHT.

The silence below was caused simply by the circumstance—a somewhat unusual one now—of all her friends being on deck.

They had recovered complete possession of the half-dismantled ship.

So busy had they all been about the restoration of Mr. Basset, that they heard nothing of the ribald songs, the wild uproar, and systematic noise of the crew, who were all clustered forward about the forecastle and windlass-bitts—a coarse and brutish hilarity induced by the contents of the brandy jar. Of this they had all freely partaken; none more so, perhaps, than Pedro Barradas, to deaden or drown the sense of agony he endured in his wounded arm, which was now bringing on a species of remorse for the past, and that emotion he sedulously sought to lull or stifle too.

An unnatural stillness succeeding the uproar which had reigned so long on deck, attracted, however, the attention of Captain Phillips and Tom Bartelot; and, as Mr. Basset had now been consigned to the care of Ethel, they began to confer with the rest about the probable results of the jar of drugged brandy.

"The scoundrels, I believe, are all asleep, or dead drunk," suggested Dr. Heriot; "I was not particular to a scruple about the morphia and belladonna I poured in."

"Then now is our time to retake the ship, and send every one of them to leeward," said Captain Phillips, starting up from the cabin-locker. "Look to your pistols, my good friends, and follow me."

The barricades were removed from the cabin-door, and those who had been so long imprisoned below crept up the companion-stairs, and peeped out in succession.

Overhead "the blue, wide shell of the sky," as Ossian names it, was clear and starry, and the waning moon, cold, pale, and white, shone over the calm, still ocean from the horizon, casting the weird shadow of the ship far to the westward, over the silvered sea.

The Hermione was almost becalmed, and most fortunately for the safety of all. Her fore and main courses, with a single neglected reef in each, hung motionless, like two great tablecloths on a clothes-line. Unhoisted, the jib and fore-staysail, "lay in a blessed ruck," as Noah phrased it, each at the foot of the stays. The driver was brailed up, and its gaff and boom swayed idly to and fro. The deck was encumbered by spars, yards, bundles of sails, half-coiled ropes, and much of the debris that had come down from aloft when the ship broached to on the night of the mutiny, together with casks, boxes, sacks, empty bottles, and other things which had been brought out of the hold, one of the hatches of which was still open; and thus the disordered ship was floating like a log upon the water, at the mercy of any sudden squall or gale, her abandoned wheel, revolving some four or five spokes from port to starboard ever and anon, with an impatient jerk as the rudder grated from side to side on its iron pintles, though it had been "made fast," in a very loose fashion, by the steersman.

Near it lay that official, a seaman named William Cribbet, asleep, in a stupor apparently, so Noah pulled a few fathoms of stout yarn from his pocket, sprang upon him with an exclamation which was not quite a benediction, turned him on his face, and in a trice lashed his hands hard and fast behind his back.

Proceeding forward, they found fifteen or sixteen of the crew lying about the break of the forecastle, under the long-boat, or near the windlass-bitts, some on pieces of sail, and others on the bare deck; but all asleep, or snorting in a state of idiotic intoxication. Broken in pieces, and scattered about were fragments of the brandy-jar, the contents of which brought all this to pass.

Each man in succession they tied securely, though one or two attempted to resist, even when the cold muzzle of a cocked pistol was pressed against their ears; and others began to threaten and revile their captors, as the operation of binding roused, and partially sobered them. At last every man was bound and at their mercy.

"What are we to do with them now, Captain Phillips?" asked Morley.

"Short-handed as we are, we can never work the ship, even dismantled as she is, and watch and cook for all these villains, too," said Mr. Foster; "and as for trusting 'em again——"

"Trust them again—cook for them indeed!" exclaimed Captain Phillips; "cook for a gang of pirates and murderers—feed up what ought to be hung! It is a mercy from Heaven that no breeze or gale came on ere this, for we must have foundered then, and all gone to the bottom together. No, Mr. Foster; I shall neither keep them nor feed them, but overboard they shall go, every man and mother's son!"

"Drown them, do you mean?" asked Tom Bartelot, with anxious surprise.

"No, for that might cause an unpleasant imputation on us all."

"What then?"

"I mean simply to maroon the whole gang. They shall have a chance for their worthless lives; but not aboard my ship."

"On an island—there should be several hereabout, that is, if we are near Madagascar," observed Bartelot.

"No, I shall not wait for the chance of sighting land, but will sacrifice my good quarter-boat, and with it get rid of them all. Noah Gawthrop, jump into the quarter-boat and clear the fall tackle. Mr. Morrison and Mr. Ashton, please to cast off—stand by to lower away and bring her alongside."

"Under the mizzen-chains?" asked Morley.

"Yes, round here to the port-side."

This order was promptly obeyed, for anything like freedom became a luxury now. Quickly the double-sheaved blocks revolved as the davits swung round and tackles fell; then the boat was speedily made fast by Noah to the side-chains by the bow-rope.

"Mr. Foster," said Captain Phillips, "get up a gang-cask of fresh water, and also a few dozen of biscuit from the cabin-locker. More food or mercy these piratical wretches shall not have from me; and now let us all bear a hand, for I feel that coolness in the air which always precedes a breeze; so we have no time to lose. Search and disarm every man; then chuck them into the boat, and cut it adrift."

The first who was collared and dragged over the side was he whom Heriot had so peppered with the fowling-piece, that, as Noah said, "his face looked like plum-duff, with currants, on a Christmas-day."

A sheath-knife was taken from his belt; he was then half-lifted, half-flung into the boat, where he lay across the thwarts, kicking and blaspheming, but unable either to resist or pick himself up.

"Who comes next?" asked the captain.

"Cribbet, who was steering."

"Cribbet, who was sleeping rather. Over with him. Who is the next?'

"Badger, the Yankee," replied Foster.

"Give me his pistols," said Phillips, who, with his new purpose, had resumed his tone of authority.

"Now, airthquakes and sherry-cobbler! wot air yew up to?" he stammered out. "I say, shipmates—hallo! Vast heaving, yew bloated Britishers!"

"Heave with a will! In with him—over with him!"

And in a trice this long-legged son of Columbia was sprawling over the thwarts below.

The idea of cropping Badger's ears actually occurred to Heriot; but he dismissed it as too barbarous and unworthy, even while remembering all the man's rascality.

"What son of Old Scratch is this?" asked Morrison, dragging one from under the gallows-bitts, abaft the foremast.

"Sharkey, with Mr. Basset's revolver in his belt."

"The ugly villain!"

"The murderer of my friend Manfredi, captain," said Heriot, with mingled sadness and loathing.

"An out-and-out ticket-o'-leaver," added Noah, squirting his quid into Sharkey's eye, as he was cast into the boat with a lurch that nearly overset it; "we should lynch him at the yard-arm, captain, that we should."

"Quaco, the cook, next. Heave ahead, darkey," said Foster.

"Yaas, yaas, Master Foster!" grinned the negro, who was helplessly intoxicated, and but partially awake.

"Black in heart, and black in face."

"Bolter! Come along, you traitorous scoundrel!"

Mr. Benjamin Bolter, who was more sober than the rest, kicked vigorously, and nearly fell into the sea, in which case he must have sunk like a stone, as his arms were tied, and neither friends nor foes could have saved him; but such were the comments made by the recaptors of the ship, as the mutineers were flung over the side into the boat, like so many sacks of wool or flour.

Zuares, who seemed in a perfect stupor, came last. There were taken from them the revolver, of which Mr. Basset had been deprived, with his watch and rings, six old brass-barrelled pistols, and about a dozen sheath-knives.

"Pedro Barradas—where is Pedro?" asked Captain Phillips, suddenly; "every rascal is in the boat but he."

"He is not on deck, sir," said Mr. Foster.

"Can he have been killed—or has he jumped overboard?"

"Not likely the last—he is too cowardly to die if he can help it."

"Search the bunks forward—lose no time."

"Aye, aye, sir."

There Pedro was found and dragged forth. He offered no resistance, but moaned heavily, and hung lifeless in their hands.

"Hoist the carrion up, and over with him," said Captain Phillips, who, though naturally one of the kindest and jolliest of men, seemed, for the time, to be hardened and pitiless, as he said, "all mercy had been quite squeezed out of him."

"Stop, if you please," said Heriot, who looked earnestly at Pedro's eyes, and felt his pulse; "we must not be quite so merciless to them as they would have been to us."

"What do you mean, doctor?" asked Phillips, impatiently.

"This man is dying," replied Heriot.

"Dying!" repeated all, drawing near.

"Yes—look here," said Heriot.

And certainly Pedro's face, when viewed by the cold, clear light of the waning moon, presented a most striking and appalling aspect. His features were regular, even handsome; his black eyes, that nearly met over the long and well-cut nose, seemed darker now; his tawny hue was gone, and a death-like tint, as of white marble, had replaced it, forming a singular contrast to the intense blackness of his beard, moustache, and curly hair; his lower jaw had fallen, his eyes were almost closed, his respirations were heavy and uncertain, his pulse was low and sinking, and he drooped helplessly in the arms of Foster and Morrison, who had dragged him to the port gangway.

"Are you sure of what you say, doctor?" asked Captain Phillips, earnestly.

"Quite, sir; ah! these terrible signs are not to be mistaken."

"Then, how long do you think he may live?"

"Till midday to-morrow—certainly not until midnight."

"In that case," said Captain Phillips, turning to the others, after a pause, during which much reviling and growling were heard alongside, "we must temper justice with mercy. Our own safety requires that we must rid ourselves of those rascals; but this one, although the worst and leader of them all, may remain on board, and die at his leisure. Stow him away in the bunks, Foster; and, doctor, give him a touch of your skill."

"If he lives?"

"He shall be hanged at Port Louis, and, if he dies, why then he becomes what he would have made each one of us—food for Jack Shark."

Morrison and Foster carried Pedro back into the forecastle, and deposited him in one of the most comfortable bunks—one of those farthest from the cutwater and heel of the bowsprit, and there, soon after, Heriot came to attend him.

"Now in with the gang-cask and the biscuits," said Captain Phillips; "look alive about it, Foster. I feel a puff of wind, so we must soon attend to the ship; throw them in a couple of oars, they can unlash one another when sober, and pull whichever way they please. Now, cut off the painter, Noah, and set the mutinous spawn adrift."

Promptly as the captain could have wished Noah cast-off the painter; but the boat still clung close to the mizzen-chains, and jarred—on the principle of attraction—against the vessel's side.

"Take a boot-hook, Noah, and shove her clear off the counter," said Morrison, looking over the side. "By the way the rudder hangs, there is a strong current running here, and that will soon drift her clear of the ship."

The boat, with its as yet helpless load of ruffianism, was soon shoved astern of the Hermione, and, as Morrison foretold, it rapidly drifted away on the starboard quarter.

"Oh, imagine what those fellows may—nay, must—endure, when they all become sober after so many days and nights of almost ceaseless intoxication!" said Heriot, looking after the boat with very little commiseration in his eye or voice, as it rose and fell on the long glassy rollers that glittered in the full sheen of the waning moon, whose disc was dipping now at the horizon, and sending from thence a path of dazzling light across the ocean. "Sea and sky will be round them," continued the doctor. "As the ballad says:

'Water, water everywhere,
Yet not a drop to drink!'"

"Aye, yer honour; the contents o' that 'ere gang-cask won't last 'em long," said Noah with a grin.

"The poor wretches will go mad!" said Morley, who thought of his own sufferings on the wreck.

"Mad?" repeated Noah.

"Yes; and drink each other's blood, perhaps. I have read of such things."

"And I've heard of such things, many times, in forecastle yarns; but as for men positively eating one another——"

"They may do so, and welcome, Noah," interrupted Captain Phillips, who was surveying, with increasing wrath, the disordered and dilapidated state of his once beautiful ship, the pride of his owners, and the pet of his heart.

Already half-sobered, or becoming aware of their situation, some of the crew began to shout and hail the ship, particularly Badger.

"Lookey har, capting! Halloo, yew Britishers!" he cried, again and again; but the hail became fainter as the boat drifted steadily away, first out of the fading line of moonlight, and then on the face of the sea, which darkened as the moon went down, and the stars shone sharp and clear.

"A breeze is coming fast," said Captain Phillips, cheerfully, as he took the wheel. "Now, gentlemen, our only real foremast-man is Noah, so we must all become A.B.'s, and work together, and with a will! Dr. Heriot and Mr. Ashton, set those head-sails; up with the jib and staysail; haul taut and belay. That will do. Now set the driver; haul out and sheet home; ease off those starboard tacks; coil up and belay everything that is loose or adrift on deck. We have hard work before us, and our lives yet depend upon how we perform it."

"Give me the wheel, Captain Phillips," said Tom Bartelot. "You have your whole ship to look after."

"Thank you, Captain Bartelot."

"Our course——" began the latter.

"Matters little to-night, or for the remainder of the morning; only, not knowing our whereabouts, we must keep a bright look-out. To-morrow's observations will let us know all."

"Ah, we're in latitudes now where Admiral Fitzroy's storm-drums, cones, barometers, jigamarees, and all them sort o' things ain't no use," said Noah; "it's Heaven's own blessed stars does the business o' nights—here we read 'em as if they were a pictur' book."

The wind came puff after puff, till the breeze grew fine and steady. The fore and main courses soon filled and swelled out; the leach of each sail formed a complete arc, and the once slack sheets became taut, while the reef-points pattered as the ship rose and fell on the rolling sea.

Once again the Hermione walked through the waters, while the first rays of the coming sun began to play along the edge of the horizon, and on the clouds above, in tints of gold and crimson; and far astern she left the drifting quarter-boat, with its freight of yelling and raving wretches, to their fate, perhaps their death, upon the sea.

By mid-day it could not be discerned, even with the aid of the most powerful glass on board.

CHAPTER X.

PEDRO'S WOUND.

All the few who could work on board the Hermione—seven in number—to wit, Captain Phillips, and his second mate, Mr. Foster, Morley Ashton, Tom Bartelot, and his mate, Morrison, Doctor Heriot, and Noah Gawthrop, now became foremast-men, and had to work hard in putting the long-neglected ship in some order. Thus, they became riggers, painters, ship-carpenters, and everything else in turn.

Morley and the doctor were invaluable in the use of the hammer and saw, and in plaiting sinnet of rope or spunyarn, and in assisting to get better jury spars rigged, spare sails bent, and new chafing clapped on back and forestays, or wherever necessary.

The pumps were first attended to, and all the debris flung into the cabin by the mutineers was cleared out, the shot replaced round the coamings of the hatchway, the hatchway itself reclosed, and battened down; the buckets were hung again at the break of the quarter-deck, ropes were coiled over the belaying-pins, spare spars were lashed alongside, and everything was tidied fore and aft, and made as shipshape as the small number of workers and their circumstances would permit; even the scuttle-butt was lashed again to its ring-bolts on deck, and the captain's spyglass and gutta-percha trumpet placed on their brass cleats in the companion-way.

All the rubbish accumulated during the disorderly reign of the mutineers was thrown overboard; the head-pump was rigged, and the deck, after being deluged with water, was cleanly swabbed up. All this unwonted work caused an unusual quantity of pale ale to be consumed, together with more than one case of Mr. Basset's still Cliquot and sparging Moselle, which had escaped the investigations of Pedro and his compatriots.

Noah was installed as cook, and Heriot had to take his "trick" at the wheel with the rest—in fact, no one could be excused anything. All worked with hearty good-will, and not without anxiety, knowing that if a gale blew, or a sudden squall came on, they would have to reduce the sails in succession, and not at once, as the emergency of the occasion might require.

By mid-day Rose Basset, with a shawl pinned over her braided hair, and old Nance Folgate, in a straw bonnet of wonderful fashion and size, sat smiling and wondering at all this, under the awning on the quarter-deck.

Even Ethel, pale, anxious, and tremulous, ventured to leave the bedside of her father, who was progressing favourably, and once more inhaled, for a few minutes, the sea-breeze. She found it delightful after the close atmosphere of the cabin for so many days; but she was rather startled to see Morley out on the arm of the mainyard, astride above the deep, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, and a hank of spun-yarn between his teeth, as he was busy, in a most workmanlike way, about the weather-earing of the mainsail. After a time, however, she ceased to feel either wonder or alarm at Morley's feats of seamanship.

Again the life of the vessel, though so slenderly manned, seemed to be resumed; once more the log-line was hove from time to time; daily the meridian was taken, half-hourly the bell was clanged, and the log-book was kept regularly. If less than half-handed, the large ship was now considerably under-rigged; yet the duty of watch and watch by night and day became pretty severe.

All the weapons in the cabin, together with those taken from the marooned crew, were cleaned by Noah, and put in order, with ammunition made up for them, as the savages along the seaboard of the coast of Madagascar were not to be trifled with by the crew of a half-manned ship; and the warning the officer of the corvette gave, concerning the three piratical boats, was remembered with some anxiety from time to time as an alarming and dangerous contingency.

Mr. Foster entered in the log a full narrative of all the late events, for the information of the owners, and of the civil authorities of the first British port—Port Louis all devoutly hoped it would be—at which they might arrive.

He inserted a list of the crew who were set adrift, with all the cogent reasons therefor, and these statements were duly attested by the signatures of all on board. Thereto even Rose's pretty hand appended her signature, and Nance Folgate added "her X mark."

In addition to his new duties as seaman, Leslie Heriot had his two patients, and often Ethel, to attend upon, as her health had suffered considerably by the successive terrors her mind had undergone of late.

Mr. Basset progressed, as we have said, favourably; but so slowly that it was impossible to say when he might be able to leave his bed, so terrible was the shock his system had sustained; but Pedro Barradas lived longer than the doctor had foretold, and more than once had cooling drinks and possets given him from Ethel's own hands. Such men as Pedro take a long time to die, and Ethel, gentle and forgiving, had no fear of him now.

Dr. Heriot, on the night the ship was recaptured, moved alike by that compassion in which his noble profession is seldom deficient, and by the poor wretch's repeated entreaties that he would dress his wound—por amor del Madre de Dios! por amor del Maria Santissima!—examined him carefully, and found it necessary to amputate his right arm above the elbow.

With great sang froid, Noah, who received the limb, carried it on deck, and tossed it overboard to leeward.

Heriot then gave Pedro a soothing draught, to procure him sleep, and at length he slept, but with the seal of death upon his features, for mortification had set in. When awake, he endured an excess of remorse, and fear of his approaching end, which nearly drove him mad.

"A padre—a padre, por amor del Santo de los Santos!" was his constant and piercing cry, that, according to the religion which he had professed in youth, he might not die unconfessed and unabsolved; and his cries of despair at times reached the ears of Mr. Basset, in the after portion of the ship.

Ere this, an observation had been taken by both Captain Phillips and Tom Bartelot, who was an equally good navigator; and, on comparing their notes and working, they found that Pedro had steered so well by the stars at night in the course he had intended to pursue, that the ship was far up the Mozambique Channel, and was then about south latitude 21.8 deg., which made all those who knew anything of the locality deem it almost miraculous that the vessel, which had been so ill watched, had not been cast away in the night on the Europa Rocks, or some other of those treacherous reefs and little islands that stud all the channel, but more especially along the western coast of Madagascar—the Great Britain of Africa, as it has been named.

To put the ship about, and to beat to windward, against the south-west monsoon, for nearly 400 miles, until he could double Cape St. Mary, the most southern point of that long island, and then haul up for St. Louis, in the Mauritius, was the plan at once decided upon by Captain Phillips; and the evening of the second day saw the crippled Hermione, running close-hauled, under all the fore-and-aft canvas he could set upon her, making a long tack towards the coast of Africa, while a tropical sun, that crimsoned sea and sky, sunk amidst clouds of flame in the north-western corner of the horizon.

In one of these long tacks, they saw the Europa Rocks, which looked like a long, low island, with clouds of sea-birds wheeling over it in mid-air, like gnats against the amber-tinted morning sky; but, happily, as yet, they saw nothing of the three red proas, which they heard the officer of the Clyde mention, in conjunction with these rocky islets which lie in the centre of the channel.

Noah, when cleaning out the forecastle bunks—in more than one of which were traces of blood—found some withered daisies. These he brought to Heriot, who gave them, with some complimentary remark, to Ethel, and an exclamation of surprise escaped him when he saw her kiss them, and, while her eyes filled with tears, place them tenderly between the leaves of her Bible; for they were those gathered by her on that dear grave in Acton churchyard, and torn from her breast on that night of terror by the fierce hand of Pedro Barradas—that man, so long a source of terror and aversion, now helpless and gentle as a child in their hands.

CHAPTER XI.

REMORSE.

On the morning after the ship was recaptured, while the Hermione was "going free," and running steadily with her staysails set, Morley and Bartelot visited the dying wretch in the forecastle bunks for a few minutes. His aspect was very striking.

His sharp features were very pale; the rich olive tint they usually wore had fled, and a tawny green replaced it; his lips were black, and, being parted, showed the strong white teeth, clenched firmly by an agony that was mental rather than bodily; his eyes were closed, and his thick black hair was knotted in elf-like knots about his forehead. Under the squalid blankets the Mexican desperado was breathing low and heavily.

Hearing them descend through the forescuttle, he opened his eyes, and gave them a long and sullen stare, expressive only of indifference, for he felt that all ties and cares on earth were broken with him now, for Heriot had not attempted to deceive, but had told him that the hour of his departure was approaching, that mortification had set in, that he could not survive long.

Morley lifted to the sufferer's lips the drinking cup of weak wine-and-water, the only drink they could procure him on board. Pedro moistened his hard-baked mouth, and muttered something expressive of gratitude. He was very weak and quite gentle now.

"How strangely things come to pass in this world," said Tom Bartelot, in a low voice. "So this is a son of the old hermit we buried in that lonely islet of the South Sea."

"Strange, indeed. We should speak to him about that while he can understand us."

"Barradas," said Bartelot, "your name is Pedro Barradas, I believe?"

"Yes," replied Pedro, opening his large, black, bloodshot eyes, and surveying the speaker inquiringly and with a sad earnestness.

"A Mexican Spaniard?"

"Yes, senores; or Spanish Mexican, which you please," said he, sighing wearily.

"From Orizaba, in La Vera Cruz—Orizaba, near the Rio Blanco?"

"Yes," replied Pedro, while something of native suspicion crept suddenly over his pale face.

"And your mother?"

"Oh, my mother!" he exclaimed in an indescribable voice, "what of her?"

"She was named Mariquita Escudero, a woman of the Puebla de Perote?" said Morley.

A convulsive spasm passed over the features of Pedro, and with an effort he replied, in a low voice:

"Mia madre ha muerto" (My mother is dead).

"We know that she died in the Barranca Secca."

"And who are you who know all this?" asked Pedro, rallying his energies; "or how came you to know it?"

"Through him whom you killed," replied Morley.

"Cramply Hawkshaw?"

"Yes."

A gleam of malevolence flashed from Pedro's black eyes; but remembering, perhaps, the cold hand that was already on the pulses of his heart, he groaned, muttered, and crossed himself.

"Your father——"

"Demonio! senores, speak not of my father."

"Why, Pedro?"

"Because I never knew him; but my mother, my poor mother, who loved her boys so well, so tenderly," he faltered, in a broken voice, while writhing in his bed.

"From Hawkshaw I learned the terrible story of your mother's fate and the crime of your brother Zuares, in the Barranca Secca," said Morley, who looked with deep interest on the strange workings of the mind exhibited by the expressive visage of the dying ruffian, whose sole human weakness seemed to be a strong love for the memory of his mother.

"Mia madre! mia madre!" said the once strong man, in a voice that became touching, while tears welled up into his eyes, long, long unused to such a moisture. "Oh, senores, bad, vile, cruel, wicked as you deem me, at this terrible hour, when well-nigh under weigh for—for—where?—it may be hell!—when I think of her—of the only human being who ever loved me—my heart swells with the old pang that was so keen, so very keen at first, on that awful evening in the Barranca Secca, and my memory goes back to the happier years beyond. I feel myself again a little boy and seem to hear her gentle voice calling me—Pedrillo—el muchacho Pedrillo—the same little boy who served at the altar of San Jago, who waked up in the winter nights and wept for his mother, and thought her dear, dear face the fondest, the sweetest, and the fairest under heaven—yes, fairer and kinder even than that of the blessed Madonna which hung in San Jago de Chili. Mia madre ha muerto!" he repeated, some four or five times, with incoherent fondness.

"And your father?" resumed Bartelot, after a pause, for they could not but respect this grief.

"I tell you, senores, I never knew my father," said Pedro, almost with a frown.

"Why?"

"He was Don Pedro Zuares de Barradas, a Spanish cavalier of high family, possessing great estates on the table land of Anahuac, and who was captain of the castle of San Juan de Ulloa, for the Government of the Free United States of South America. He is said to have perished at sea, by falling overboard in a gale when being conveyed to Spain to be tried and executed as a traitor to the king."

"All that we know; but he did not perish as you suppose," said Morley.

"How, senor, how then?" asked Pedro, looking up with surprise.

"He escaped drowning and became a hermit on an island near Tristan d'Acunha."

"My father—a hermit!"

"Yes."

"And this is truth?"

"Truth as we live and now address you," said Bartelot; "what could we gain by any fabrication?"

"And—and he died——"

"After a long life of devotion and repentance."

"Oh that his life and death may atone for mine and for Zuares! But how know you all this, senores?"

"By a strange chance—a singular coincidence—Pedro Barradas," said Morley.

"Bad as I am, fallen though I be, you would not, I am assured, trifle with the agonies of a dying wretch," said Pedro, in a low, moaning voice.

"No," replied Tom Bartelot, gravely; "neither of us are capable of doing so."

"But tell me how you came by the knowledge of these things?'

"Landing on that solitary isle by chance, we found an old recluse at the point of death, and discovered his name by means of a written confession which he left behind him."

"And—and this confession, senores," said Pedro, raising himself on his elbow, and looking at Morley and Bartelot alternately, as if he would read their very souls; "this confession—where is it?"

"It was written on the blank leaves of a Spanish missal, and was lost when my ship foundered at sea. By that confession, however, we learned his name and history, and also that he was a knight of the Military Order of Santiago de Compostella," added Tom Bartelot, as Morley drew from his pocket-book the red enamelled cross of that famous old Spanish confraternity, and gave it to Pedro, who pressed it to his lips again and again with his only remaining hand.

"I feel now, senores, that you speak truth," said, he, while the tears that flowed down his cheek relieved his emotion, and cleared his utterance. "When I am dead, senores, you will bury this cross with me. And he died in your hands?"

"Yes; and we buried him near his hut, setting up a little wooden cross to mark his grave."

"Ave Madre de Dios! no cross will ever mark mine; no prayer, or blessing, can accompany the departure of me!" groaned Pedro, in a low voice, as if communing with himself.

"From that written confession, taken in connection with the revelations of Hawkshaw" (at this name something of the old devilish gleam passed over Pedro's features) "we recognised both you and your brother; and we learned that your mother, Mariquita Escudero, had marked each of you, in infancy, with a cross on the left shoulder."

"Yes, senor—dyed, tattooed redly on the skin, with the juice of a plant that grows on the warm slopes of the volcano at Orizaba. See," added Pedro, as he drew back his blue shirt, and displayed his brawny shoulder, on which there was distinctly traced a cross like that of St. James. "Our poor mother punctured that mark on each of her little boys, in the hope that Santiago would take us under his protection; but, alas! from infancy we were the peculiar care of the infernal spirit."

With all the impulsiveness of his race, Pedro behaved at times in a very frantic manner, and these paroxysms induced a subsequent weakness and lethargy, that seemed the precursor of dissolution; but he was a man of a powerful frame, and the instinct of life was strong within him. He expressed great satisfaction, almost joy, to learn that Mr. Basset had survived the outrage contemplated by him and the mutineers; and thus, that, thanks to Dr. Heriot's skill, he had one sin less to atone for.

Then he entreated that Ethel would come, that he might implore her pardon. This the poor creature sought in terms so touching that Ethel was deeply moved, and ventured to speak with him in terms of consolation.

But there was ever the same reply from Pedro—there was no priest on board, and he was beyond being consoled. So Ethel proved his only soother, and read to him at times from the Bible—her mother's Bible—the same that had fallen from her unconscious hand on the night when Pedro so daringly carried her off; and a striking little group they formed—the black-haired and black-bearded Spanish ruffian, his tawny visage, already pale and pinched by the touch of death, pressing to his lips the red cross of Santiago again and again, while striving to follow her words and understand them, as they fell softly and distinctly from the lips of that fair-skinned and delicate English girl, who sat by the side of his bed, in the squalid and noisome forecastle, with the half dim daylight struggling through the square scuttle above, and, perhaps, Morley, with his loving smile, or Tom Bartelot, with his sun-burned face, listening near.

Sometimes, in Pedro's paroxysms, his voice rose almost to a shriek.

"Oh! senora," he would exclaim to poor shrinking Ethel, "pray for me—pray for me. You are good—you are kind—you are pure—while I—I—what am I? Heaven will hear you when Heaven will not hear me!"

"Oh, do not speak thus," implored Ethel.

"I must, senora—I dare not pray for myself. To me the ear of God will be deaf, or turn from me."

"Oh! Pedro, why?"

"I have been so wicked, so bad! I have committed many sins, and one most awful deed, for which I cannot hope for pardon from Him whom I outraged, and whose altar I desecrated—never, oh never!"

His voice died away in low moans; but Pedro seemed no longer the same piratical ruffian, for, when speaking, his voice, manner, and diction were all changed and improved.

This scene, with his mental suffering and terror of death, proved all too much for Ethel's nervous system, and Morley wished to remove her; but Pedro implored her to remain with him yet a little while, and even caught her skirt as she rose to withdraw.

"Great though your sins may be, my poor man, be assured that the mercy of God is greater still," said Ethel, weeping. "Like the sea we traverse, it is boundless."

"But so may be God's vengeance, and I have shed blood—the blood of many," he replied in a low, concentrated voice, through his clenched teeth.

Ethel grew very, very pale on hearing this, and drew back again, lest he might clutch her dress once more.

"Well, even those whose blood you shed may be praying for you, if—if——"

"What—what?" asked Pedro, huskily.

"If you sincerely repent."

"I do repent—I do repent, and sincerely too," he said, impetuously; "but without a priest to absolve me—to give me the last sacraments of that church in whose belief my mother reared me—what matters my repentance?"

Then he howled and gnashed his strong white teeth, while tearing his black glossy hair with his only remaining hand.

"Let hope for the future find a place in your heart, Pedro, and grow there with repentance for the past," urged Ethel, while shrinking close to Morley, for the appearance of the patient terrified her.

"And then, senora, you say nothing of penance?"

"Because I know nothing of it," replied Ethel.

"A priest! a priest! Oh, that the sea would give up its dead, for I know there is one, at least there; but could I face him?" he added, wildly; "oh! that night of horrors at Santiago—I see the flames yet, and feel them in my soul!"

"Oh, Pedro Barradas," said Ethel, as this paroxysm induced weakness, and nothing was heard but his deep and heavy breathing; "whatever be the sins you have committed, remember that this book tells us 'there is more joy in heaven over one sinner who truly repents than over ninety-nine just men who do it not.'"

"Hear her, O Lord, who created heaven and earth, who divided light from darkness, and the sea from the land!" prayed the poor wretch, while crossing himself again and again, with his left hand, "and who formed me out of dust, to which I shall never return, because I must be buried in the sea," he added with something of simplicity; then, as his mind seemed to wander, he said, "Mi madre, listen to me, am I praying aright?"

"Yes, yes, Pedro, you pray aright," replied Ethel, covering her face with her handkerchief, and taking Morley's arm, "lead me away, dearest," she whispered, "I must return to papa. Pray on, Pedro, it is proper, it is good for you."

"Ave Maria purissima!" he said, "my own mother is at your feet interceding for me. Oh, she loved her little Pedrillo so well—and Zuares too—could she have foreseen this end!"

His voice completely failed him now, and Morley led Ethel on deck.