Chapter Thirty One.
“Ha’ mussy on us! Here, Mr Belton, sir, quick,” cried the boatswain, hoarsely. “You said I warn’t to bring pistols. Wish him as ’vented ’em had been drowned first. Look ye here, sir; is no one going to bring a light? Mr Belton, sir; Master Syd; pray make haste. I’ve made you another job.”
All this in a wild, excited manner, as, trembling now with horror, Sydney knelt down by a dark-looking object on the rocks, lying quite motionless, and for a few moments he could not collect himself sufficiently to render any aid.
“Ha’ mussy on us!” groaned the boatswain. Then with an angry burst, “I want to know how he got here.”
“Stowed hisself away in the boat,” said one of the men, “when we corned away, but I thought he’d gone back again to the ship.”
“Brought him down. My own boy,” groaned the boatswain. “Ah, here’s the light.”
“Quick! Stand round so as to shelter the candle,” cried Syd, who was now recovering himself and trying to act in a calm, business-like manner; and directly after he was kneeling there in the centre of that ring of anxious faces, and proceeding by the light of the candle, which the boatswain held down, to examine the boy, who lay curled up in a heap.
To all appearances he was dead, so still did he lie; but the moment Syd took hold of one hand to feel the injured boy’s pulse, there was a sudden spasmodic jerk and a loud yell which went echoing up the valley.
“Hah!” ejaculated Syd, for he knew it was a good sign. “Hold still, Pan,” he continued, gently; “let me see where you are hurt.”
“Let him be, sir. I’ve killed um, I know I have!”
Syd tried to find where the boy was wounded, but at every touch Pan shrieked out as if in agony, and kicked out his legs and drew himself up again as if trying to make himself into a ball.
“It’s all over with the poor lad, sir,” groaned Strake. “Better let him die in peace, and I gives myself up, sir. Nothin’ but misfortun’ here.”
“Try and bear it, Pan,” said Syd, gently. “I must see where you are hurt before I can do you any good.”
But the boy shrieked out wildly every time he was touched, and after many essays, Syd felt ready to give up in despair.
“Ha’ mussy on us!” groaned the boatswain. “Where’s he got it, sir?”
“I’m afraid it is somewhere in the body, Strake,” replied Syd, softly; “but I don’t like to give him pain.—Is the hurt in your chest, Pan?”
The boy shrieked again, as a hand was slid into his bosom.
“I’m afraid it is there, Barney; I ought to examine him and stop the bleeding.”
“Yes, sir; course you ought; but I don’t like to see you hurt the boy.”
“No, it is very terrible, but I’ll be as gentle as I can. Come, Pan, lad, be a man, and let me see where you are hurt.”
Syd touched him again, but there was another yell and kick, not before the boy pressed his chin down in his chest, and cried out more wildly than ever.
“Is his spine injured?” cried Roylance.
“Can’t be,” replied Syd, “or he could not kick out like he does.”
“And for the same reason his legs must be all right,” said Roylance.
“Spine of his back and his legs,” said Strake; “well, that’s something to be thankful for.”
“The bullet must have lodged in his chest,” said Syd, “and I dare say perhaps has injured him fatally. No blood visible; he must be bleeding inside.”
There was a pause after a couple more attempts to inspect the injury.
Then, after a little thought, Syd said, firmly—
“Pan, I must examine your wound.”
The boy curled up more tightly.
“It is of no use, Strake,” continued Syd, firmly, and unconsciously imitating Doctor Liss with a stupid patient on the south coast; “it is my duty to examine your boy’s wound. He may bleed to death if it is not done. Two or three of you must hold him.”
A yell burst from Pan at this announcement, and Syd and Roylance exchanged glances.
The patient was evidently quite sensible.
“Smith, hold his legs,” said Syd; “Strake, you and Rogers each take an arm. I will be as tender as I can.”
“Hadn’t we better let him die in peace, sir?” groaned the boatswain.
“No; not till everything has been done to try and save him.”
“Oh!” yelled Pan.
“Now then, as softly as you can. Once I see where he is injured, I shall be able to know what to do.”
“Very well, sir,” said the boatswain, piteously. “There, my poor boy, I won’t hurt you much,” and he took Pan’s arm.
A shriek made him let go and jump away to begin wiping his brow.
“Again: quick, and let’s get it done, Strake,” whispered Syd. “Ready? Now then, all together.”
“Oh!” yelled Pan, but the men held on, and Syd was about to tear open the boy’s shirt, when Rogers exclaimed—
“Sleeve’s all wet here, sir,” and he pointed to the fleshy part of the boy’s arm.
“Oh lor’!” groaned Strake.
“Ah, let me see,” cried Syd, eagerly; and he took out and opened his knife.
Pan’s eyes were wide open now, and he stared in a horrified manner at the blade.
“No, no, no,” he yelled. “I won’t have it off; I won’t have it off.”
“Hold the wrist tight,” said Syd.
Rogers obeyed, and with the boy shrieking horribly, the point of the knife was inserted and his sleeve ripped right up to the shoulder.
“Hah!” exclaimed Syd, closing his knife, as he caught sight of the wound in the thick of the arm. “It has not bled much. Hold the light here more closely.”
“No, no,” yelled Pan. “I won’t have it off.”
“The bone is all right,” said Syd, continuing his examination; “but the bullet must be there. Look: here it is!”
In fact there it was, lying in the sleeve, having passed clean through, and of course making a second wound.
“There, that will not hurt,” said Syd, coolly. “Now let’s see about his chest.”
“No,” yelled Pan, bursting into a fit of blubbering; “there arn’t nothing there. T’other one missed me.”
The boatswain drew himself up and seemed to be taking a tremendously long breath.
“I’m very glad, Pan,” said Syd. “Now, come, be a man. I’m just going to put a little pellet of rag over those two holes, and bind them up tightly. I won’t hurt you much.”
“No, no, no,” howled Pan; “you’ll take it off. I won’t have it cut off.”
“I tell you I’m going to bandage your arm up, and you’ll have it in a sling.”
“No, no,” yelled Pan.
“And on’y winged him arter all,” cried the boatswain in his familiar gruff tones.
“Will you be quiet, boy?” cried Sydney, almost angrily now.
“Sit up, you swab,” roared the boatswain; and Pan started into a sitting position on the instant. “You, Rogers, go up to the stores and get me three foot o’ rope, thickest you can find.—Look ye here, Panny-mar,” he continued, rolling up his sleeve and holding out his enormous fist close to the boy’s nose, “see that?”
“Yes, father.”
“You turned yerself into a stowaway and comed ashore without leave; you’ve been turning yerself into a bear and a monkey, and living in the holes o’ the rocks by day, and coming out and stealing the prog by night.”
“I was so hungry, father,” whispered Pan, who forgot his wound.
“Yah! hungry indeed! And then you’ve been giving your father the worsest quarter of a hour he ever had in his life, and making his heart bust with haggerny. You shammed dead at first, then you made believe as you was hurt, when there was nothing the matter with yer but a little bit of a hole through one arm.”
“Oh!” moaned Pan, turning his eyes upon his white arm, where a bead of blood was visible.
“And then you kicked out as if all your upper rigging was shattered with chain-shot, and every kick went right through me. So now, look here: your young captain’s going to bandage that there bit o’ nothing up, and if you give so much as one squeak, you’ll have my fist fust and the rope’s-end arter till you dance such a hornpipe as never was afore.”
“Oh!” moaned Pan.
“Ah!”
There was silence for a moment, and then all present burst into a roar of laughter, so great was the relief that the boy was not very bad.
“Ah, you may laugh, my lads,” said the boatswain, looking round; “but I do declare I’d sooner have a leg off with a shot than go through all that again. Thought I’d shot him.”
“So you did, father,” cried Pan, with a vicious look.
“Yah! Hold your tongue! Call that shot? No more than having a sail-needle slip and go through yer.”
“But it hurts like red-hot poker.”
“Good job too. Nothing to what you made me feel as I see yer lying there.—Lying! Yes, that’s the word, for yer did lie, yer shamming young swab.”
Pan began to cry silently, as Syd busied himself bandaging his hurt.
“And now he’s a piping his eye like a great gal on Shoreport Hard. Panny-mar, I’m proud o’ you, I am; but I feel that bad, Mr Belton, sir, that I’d take it kindly if you’d order me a tot o’ rum.”
“Take him up and give him one, Mr Roylance,” said Sydney, quickly; and while he went on bandaging the arm which Rogers held for him, Roylance and the boatswain went up to the chests and kegs which formed the stores, and filled a little tin.
“Thankye, sir,” said Strake, holding out one of his great gnarled hands for the tin, but drawing it back, for it trembled so that he could not take the rum; but he turned sharply round, laid his arm against the rock, and laid his face upon it, to stand so for some minutes before he turned back, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand.
“Bit watery, sir, that’s all,” he said, with a smile. “Don’t tell Mr Belton, sir, what you see. Most men got their soft bit somewhere. I dunno, though. I’ve knowed Master Syd from a babby, and I wouldn’t mind if you told he; but pray don’t say a word before Mr Mike Terry. Thankye, sir.—Hah! That’s good rum, as I well knows. Here’s success to yer, sir, and may you never know what it is to be a father.” With which doubtful wish the boatswain drained the tin and smacked his lips.
“Well, sir, since you are so kind, I—No, put it away, my lad. No more to-night.”
The rum was replaced, and they rejoined the group near the lower gun, just as the finishing touches were being given to Pan’s wound by means of a handkerchief being tied loosely about his neck to act as a sling.
“Got that bit o’ rope, lad?” said the boatswain, and then, “Thankye,” as it was handed to him. “Beg pardon, sir, ought this here boy to have his fust dose to-night or to-morrer morning?”
“Not till I prescribe it, Strake,” said Syd, smiling, and the old man coiled up the piece of rope and put it in his pocket, very much to Pan’s relief.
Chapter Thirty Two.
“And where have you been?” said Syd next day, after examining his second patient’s injury.
“Down in a big hole yonder,” said the boy. “It’s on’y a sort o’ crack, but as soon as you gets through there’s plenty o’ room; and when I’d got a blanket and a bit o’ sail to sleep on, it beat the straw corner up in the tater-loft at home all to nothing, on’y I was getting very tired o’ nearly always biscuit. I say, Master Sydney, sir, you won’t let father give me the rope’s-end will you?”
“You deserve it for smuggling yourself on shore.”
“Didn’t you smuggle yourself ashore too, sir?” said Pan, innocently.
Sydney and Roylance exchanged glances, and went to see how Mr Dallas was getting on.
The morning had broken bright and fine, the wind had gone down, though the sea was still fretting and breaking on the rocky islet; but the high spirits in which the lads were became damped directly as they stood gazing down at the wreck of the fine handsome man lying there before them, hovering as it were between life and death.
“I wouldn’t care, Roy,” said Syd, “if I could only do anything but attend to those wretched bandages.”
“You do a good deal,” was the reply.
“Oh, it seems like nothing. One gets no further, and I always go in to see him feeling as if it was for the last time.”
Partly to get rid of his painful thoughts Sydney worked hard with the men till everything possible under the circumstances had been done. Rocks had been shifted, breastworks built, and the place was so added to, that if an enemy should come, the scaling of the cliff over the landing-place and capture of the lower gun did not mean defeat. There was quite a little fort to attack half-way up the gap, and then there was a stout wall built across behind the second gun, which could be slewed round ready for an attack from the land side.
Two mornings later, just after Sydney had been again combining the duties of surgeon and commander, Strake came up to him.
“Going to order that boy a rope’s-ending now, sir?” he said.
“Not yet, Strake.”
“Done with him, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’d like a word with you in private.”
The privacy consisted in a walk to the upper gun, where, after a look round in the calm sunlit sea in search of the frigate, the boatswain said—
“Enemy’s here, sir.”
“Where?” cried Syd, excitedly, looking out to sea again. “I was up at the flagstaff an hour ago, and Mr Terry’s there now. He has not given the alarm.”
“Didn’t look in the right place,” said the boatswain, oracularly. “I did.”
“Don’t play with me, Strake; where is he?”
“In the tubs, sir.”
“What!”
“On’y water enough to last four more days.”
Syd looked at him aghast.
“We must have sails and casks ready to catch every drop when the rain comes,” cried Syd.
“Ay, sir, when it comes; but it don’t come.”
“Then what shall we do?”
“I ought to say die o’ thirst, sir, on’y it sounds so unpleasant.”
“But my father, surely he’ll be here soon. He knows how we are situated, and the other ship knows too. They will be sure to come.”
“I don’t want to upset you, sir, but I do say the captain’s a long while coming.”
“What’s to be done, Roy? Hi, Mr Terry, will you join here?” said Syd, who had gone in search of his companion.
Terry came up smiling pleasantly.
“I have bad news for you. The water is nearly done. Can you make out why it is the frigate does not come?”
Roylance shook his head, and Syd turned to Terry.
“Of course I cannot say,” replied the latter; “and I don’t like to make you uncomfortable; but the captain seemed to me to be such a particular man, that I fear something has happened.”
“Happened?”
“Yes; his frigate has either been taken by the enemy, or gone ashore in the storm.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Sydney, with an agonised look at Roylance. “You don’t think this?”
Roylance was silent.
“Why don’t you speak?” cried Syd, excitedly. “It’s absurd to pretend to help one, and then stand and stare at him like this.”
“I did not want to hurt your feelings,” said Roylance, quietly.
“Never mind my feelings; speak out.”
“I have thought so for the past two days,” said Roylance, gravely. “When Captain Belton put us ashore here, he meant to be in constant communication with the rock. He knew that we could do little without his help, and his being close at hand.”
“But the storm made him put to sea,” said Syd, excitedly. “I know enough of navigation for that, though I’ve not been a sailor long. I’ve heard my father and my uncle talk about it; and he has not had time yet to come back.”
His two companions were silent.
“Do you hear what I say? He has not had time to come back.”
Still there was no reply, and Syd turned sharply away to go to the stores and make out for himself how long their provisions would last. But in his bewildered state, with the cares of his position increasing at a terrible rate, the task was more than he cared to see to, and asking himself what he should do, he took his way up the higher side of the gap, climbing slowly, with the heat making him feel faint, higher and higher, till he stood where the well-guyed flag-pole rose up with its halyards flapping against the side.
“It seems too much for me,” he thought, “and I may be wrong, but Terry looked pleased at my being so worried. No water; the provisions running out; my father’s ship lost—no, I will not believe that. He’s too clever. It only wants the enemy to come out now and attack us to make it more than I can bear.”
He stood with one arm round the flagstaff, gazing at the distant port of Saint Jacques, wondering whether the people there knew of the English occupying the rock, and if they did, whether they would make an effort to drive them out.
But though he gazed long at the houses, which looked white in the sunshine, there was nothing to be seen, and he swept the horizon once more to see the dazzling blue sea everywhere, but no sail in sight.
He sighed as he let his anxious eyes rest on the deep soft blue of the water, close in, and became interested directly, for in one spot a cloud of silver seemed to be sweeping along—a cloud which, from his south coast life, he was not long in determining to be a great shoal of fish playing on the surface, and leaping out clear every now and then as they fed on the small fry that vainly endeavoured to escape.
Syd’s countenance cleared directly.
“Why didn’t I think of it before? I ought to have known that a rock is of all places the best for fish. We need not starve.”
He hurried down to find the boatswain, and propose to utilise some of the men, who were idling about in the shade cast by the overhanging rocks, and met the old sailor looking more serious than before.
“I say, Strake,” cried Syd, “why should not some of the men fish?”
“Got no boat, sir.”
“Then let them fish from the rock.”
“That’s just what Rogers has gone off to do, sir, by that patch o’ rocks where we landed, and Mr Roylance and Mr Terry’s gone to look on.”
“Mr Terry should be on duty,” said Sydney, colouring slightly.
“Ought he, sir? I thought he was under arrest.”
“We are not in a position here to study such things as that, Strake. Mr Terry is friendly now, and we want his help.”
Syd walked straight to the lower gun, descended a rope-ladder, which had been made and slung down for their convenience, and found the little group on the natural pier.
“Mr Terry, a word, please, with you.”
“With me? yes,” said the midshipman, looking at him wonderingly as he followed his young companion aside. “What is it?”
“You have forgotten that you are under arrest, sir,” said Syd. “I know it may seem absurd,” he added quickly, as he saw Terry smile, “but it would be the captain’s wish that good discipline should be kept up on the rock. Be good enough to stay with the men.”
“Oh, this is too—I beg your pardon, Mr Belton,” cried Terry, mastering an outbreak of passion, and speaking in a cold, formal way. “You are right, sir; I’ll go back.”
He went off at once, with Syd watching him till he had mounted the rope-ladder, where he paused to speak to the men by the gun, and then went on up the gap.
“One don’t feel as if he was to be trusted,” said Syd to himself, wearily. “He is too easy and obedient, and I’m afraid he hates me. I wish he was in command instead. It would be much easier for me, and I feel such a boy.”
A shout behind him made him start and look round, to see that Rogers, who had been seated on the edge of a piece of stone waiting patiently, had now started up, and was playing at tug with a fish he had hooked—one which was splashing about on the top of the water as the man began to haul in his long line.
All at once, as the silvery sides of the fish were seen flopping about, the water parted and a long, lithe, snaky-looking creature flashed out like lightning, seized the hooked fish, and flung itself round it in a complete knot, making Rogers cease hauling, and watch what was going on in dismay.
“Haul, my man, haul! You’ll get them both,” cried Syd, excitedly; and two other men who were looking on ran to help.
But as they drew hard on the line, there was abundant floundering, the water flew up in a shower of silver, and then the line came in easily, for the captive was gone.
“Look at that now,” said Rogers, good-temperedly. “They’re beginning to bite, though, and no mistake.”
He rebaited his hook, and threw out as far as he could, beginning to tighten the line directly after, and then hauling in rapidly, for the bait was taken at once, and though some longish creature made a savage dash at it, the sailor was successful in getting a good-sized mullet-like fish safe on the rock.
“Got him that time, sir,” he said, merrily, as he rebaited and threw in again.
Syd was delighted at the man’s success, and stood watching eagerly for the next bite.
“I don’t know what it is,” said Roylance, who was examining the capture, “but it must weigh four pounds, and it looks good to eat.”
“Here you are again, sir,” cried Rogers, hauling away, with another fish at the end of his line. “You’ve brought me good luck, sir. Hah! Look at that!”
For there was another splash and a sudden check, followed by a battle between the sailor and some great thing which had seized his captive.
“’Tarn’t one o’ them snaky-looking chaps this time, sir. Hooray! he’s gone.—Well, now, I do call that mean.”
For he hauled in about a third of the fish he had hooked, the other two-thirds having been bitten off.
“Cut a piece off the silvery part and put on your hook.”
“To be sure, sir; but hadn’t I better cut off all but the head, and leave that on?”
“Try it,” said Syd, who forgot all his cares of government over the sport.
The man whipped out his knife and cut through the remains of his fish just at the gills, throwing out the bright silvery lure, and the moment it touched the water, all fresh and bleeding, it was seized by a heavy fish, which he dragged in successfully, for it to be flapping about with its scales as large as florins flashing in the sun, all silver and steely blue.
“Ten pounds, if he’s an ounce,” cried Roylance. “I say, Rogers, are you going to have all the fun?”
“No, sir. Have a try,” cried the man. “I’ll soon put you on a good bait. Look here, sir, this head’s on tight. Try it again.”
Roylance threw in his line, but there was no answering attack; and he waited a few minutes, with the waves carrying it here and there.
“No good,” he said. “Cut a fresh bait.”
But as he spoke there was a jerk which made the line cut into his hand, followed by a desperate struggle, and another, the largest fish yet, was landed; one not unlike the last caught, but beautifully banded with blue.
“Why, here’s provision for as long as we like to stay,” cried Syd.
“And how are we to cook it? We have not much more wood?”
“We’ll dry it in the sun, if we can’t manage any other way. Now throw out just to the left of that rock.”
Roylance was already aiming in that direction, the bait falling a couple of yards to the left; and if it had been aimed right into a fish’s mouth, the answering tug, which betokened the getting home of the hook, could not have been more rapid. Then followed a minute’s exciting play, a tremendous jerk, and the hook came back baitless and fishless.
“Never mind, sir; try again. Strikes me it’s sharks is lying out there, waiting to get hold of all we ketches, ’cause the weather’s too hot for ’em to do it themselves. There you are, sir; as shiny silver a bait as any one could have.”
There was another cast, and in less than a minute a fresh fish was hooked, and this escaped the savage jaws waiting to seize it, and was hauled in.
“There, that’s the biggest yet,” cried Syd. “Fifteen pounder, I know.”
“You try now,” said Roylance, and for the next half-hour, with varying success, they fished on, for there was to be quite a feast that evening, the men hailing with delight so capital a change from their salt meat diet; while there was supreme satisfaction in Sydney’s heart, for he had solved one of the difficulties he had to face—the sea would supply them with ample food.
“If we could only find water, and get some drift-wood, we could hold on till my father comes back.”
As he said these last words, he saw a peculiar look of doubt in his companion’s eyes—a look which sent a chill of dread through him for a few minutes.
“No,” he said, “I will not think that; he’ll come yet, and all will be right.”
Just then Pan came down from the hospital, where he had been placed to keep watch by Mr Dallas’s rough bed and call if there seemed any need.
“Mr Dallas says, sir, will you come to him directly.”
“Mr Dallas—he said that?” cried Syd, joyfully.
“Whispered it, sir, so’s you could hardly hear him, and then he said, ‘Water!’”
“Water!” thought Syd, with the feeling of despair coming back, “and we have hardly a drop left.”
As he thought this, he hurried up to the little canvas-covered place.
Chapter Thirty Three.
As Syd entered the place he was startled by the change visible in the young lieutenant, and his heart smote him as, forgetting the long nights of watching and his constant attention to the injured man, he felt that he had forgotten him and his urgent duties and responsibilities to go amusing himself by fishing off the rocks.
“Ah, Belton!” greeted him; “I am glad you have come.”
“Why?” thought Syd, with a feeling of horror chilling him—“why is he glad I’ve come?” and something seemed to whisper—“is it the end?”
“I’m afraid I am impatient; my leg hurts, and I’ve been asleep and dreaming since you dressed it so cleverly yesterday.”
“Dressed it yesterday!” faltered Syd, as he recalled the days and nights of anxiety passed since the injury.
“Yes; you thought I was insensible, but I heard everything,” said the lieutenant, slowly. “I saw everything; felt everything.”
“You knew when I dressed it yesterday, with the boy standing here?”
“No, no; out yonder below the place where that wretched gun was to be mounted, and the sun came down so hot.”
Syd laid his hand upon the young officer’s brow, but it was quite cool.
“I am terribly weak, but I don’t feel feverish, as so many men are when they are wounded. I suppose I bled a great deal.”
“Terribly; but don’t—don’t talk about it now.”
“But I want to talk about it a bit; and then I am hungry, but I don’t feel as if I could eat salt meat.”
“A little fish?” said Syd, eagerly.
“Ah! the very thing.”
“Wait a minute,” cried Syd, and running out, he gave orders to one of the men for one of the fish to be cooked for the invalid.
“Fish, eh?” said Mr Dallas, when Syd returned.
“Yes, sir; I’ve been—we’ve been fishing this morning, and caught a good many.”
“That’s right, but the men must not idle; I want to give some instructions to you about getting up that gun.”
“Hadn’t you better lie still and let me talk to you?” said Syd, smiling.
“No, my boy; I must not give up, in spite of being weak. It was very unfortunate—my accident yesterday. It was yesterday, wasn’t it—not to-day?”
“No; not to-day.”
“Of course not; I’ve been asleep, and had terribly feverish dreams. But business, my dear boy. First of all, though, let me thank you for your clever doctoring.”
“Oh, don’t talk about it, sir,” said Sydney, quickly.
“But I must talk about it. How did you learn so much?”
Syd told him.
“A most fortunate thing for me, Belton; I should have bled to death. But now about that gun. Call the bo’sun, and I’ll have it up at once; it is an urgent matter.”
“It is up, sir.”
“What!—How did you manage it?”
“The boatswain had it packed in a cask, and it was rolled up.”
“Excellent! How quick you have been! The other must be got up too, the same way.”
“They are both up, Mr Dallas.”
The lieutenant stared.
“Is this some trick?” he said, excitedly; “a plan to keep me quiet?—because if so, Belton, it is a mistake. It makes me anxious about the captain’s plans.”
“Don’t be anxious, Mr Dallas. I did not like to tell you at first, for fear it should trouble you. Don’t you understand that you have been lying here for many days and nights, quite off your head?”
“No!”
“And we thought you would die; but—but—” cried Belton, in a choking voice, “you are getting better, and know me now.”
The lieutenant lay with his eyes closed and his lips moving for some minutes before he spoke again, and then his voice was very husky.
“No, my boy,” he said, “I did not understand that. But it is quite natural; I could not have been so weak without. Tell me now, though, what has been done.”
“Everything, sir. The guns are mounted; there are good platforms; we have built rough covering walls and mounted a flagstaff. Everything that Strake, Mr Roylance, and I could think of has been done.”
“But the captain—did he send the surgeon ashore, and some one else to take command here?”
“No,” said Sydney, and he explained their position.
“It is very strange,” said the injured man, thoughtfully, and soon afterward Strake appeared, bringing in the freshly-cooked fish, of which the invalid partook; and then, seeming to be drowsy, he was left to sleep.
The next morning Sydney explained more fully their position, and the lieutenant listened eagerly.
“I can’t be much use to you, Belton,” he said.
“Oh, yes, you can, sir; you’ll command, and we’ll do what you tell us.”
“No, my dear fellow, I shall not even interfere. You are in command; you have done wonders, and I shall let you go on. But I hope you will let me be counsellor, and come to me for advice.”
“No, no, sir; you must take command now.”
“Men do not obey a commander well if they cannot see him,” said the lieutenant, smiling. “Ah, Roylance!” he continued, as that individual came to the door of the tent; “I’m telling Mr Belton he must go on as he has begun. I’m getting better, you see, only I shall have to be nursed for weeks. As soon as I am a little stronger you must have me carried down to the rocks, and I’ll catch fish for you all.”
“No, sir, you will not,” said Roylance, laughing, “unless you want to be pulled in; the fish are terribly strong sometimes. Has Belton told you everything about how we stand?”
“Yes.”
“About the water?”
Sydney hesitated.
“I did not mention the water,” he said at last.
“Then you have found no water?”
“No, sir.”
“And the supply is giving out?”
“Almost gone, sir.”
The lieutenant was silent for a few moments.
“It cannot be long before the Sirius returns. Of course Captain Belton put out to sea. It would have been madness to have stopped in these reef-bound channels. Had you not better call the men together, and thoroughly search all the crannies among the rocks for a spring, Mr Belton?”
“Already done, sir, twice.”
“Yes, of course; you would be sure to do that. Then there is only one thing to do; we must wait patiently for help. Had we been provided with a boat, of course we could have searched for water on the nearest island. But keep a good heart; the Sirius cannot be long.”
Chapter Thirty Four.
But the time seemed terribly tedious upon that parched rock, where not a single green thing grew. The heat was terrific, and the men sat and lay about panting, and glad of the relief afforded by the tobacco they chewed. It was impossible to hide the fact from them that they were using the last drops of the water; but there were no murmurs, not a mutinous voice was heard against the tiny portion that was served out so as to make what was left last for another forty-eight hours. After that?
Yes; no one dared try to answer that question. A man was always on the watch by the flagstaff. But he swept the offing with the glass in vain. There was no ship in sight that could be signalled for help, and no sign of movement in the direction of the town.
“It’s seems horribly lowering to one’s dignity,” said Roylance, “coming here to occupy a rock and set the enemy at defiance, and then be regularly obliged to give up and say, ‘Take us prisoners, please,’ all for want of a drop of water.”
“If it would only rain!” cried Syd, as he thought of how bitter all this would be to his father.
“Never will when you want it.”
“It is degrading,” said Syd. “But we must wait. What does Terry say?”
“Nothing. He has taken to chewing tobacco like the men, and I don’t want to be hard upon him, but he seems on the whole to be pleased that we are in such a scrape.”
“But you are too hard on him,” said Syd. “There, let’s go and sit with poor Mr Dallas. We must keep him in good spirits.”
“I haven’t the heart to go,” said Roylance, sadly. “He is suffering horribly from the want of a drop of cold water, and we have none to give him.”
The long day dragged by, and was succeeded by a hot and pulseless night. The last drop of water had been voted by common consent to the sick man, and the sailors were face to face with the difficulty of passing the next day. It would be maddening, they knew, without water on that heated rock. They had tried to quench their thirst by drawing buckets of water down on the natural pier and drenching each other, for they dare not bathe on account of the sharks; but that was a poor solace, and the poor fellows gazed at each other with parched lips and wild eyes, asking help and advice in vain, and without orders climbed up high and perched themselves on points of vantage to watch for a sail, the only hope of salvation from a maddening death that they could see.
The look-out man by the flagstaff was ready with the bunting for signals; and when he hauled it, all knew now that it would be no flaunting forth of defiance, but an appeal for aid. But no ship came in sight all that next long day.
“It’s all over, Belt,” said Roylance, as the sun rose high once more, and his voice sounded harsh and strange. “I shall die to-day raving mad. We must go, but let’s write something to your father to find when he does come.”
“I have done it,” said Sydney. “I wrote it last night before I turned so queer and half mad-like with this horrible thirst.”
“Did you turn half mad?”
“Yes, when I was alone after I had done it.—I told my father that we had all tried to do our duty, and had fought to the last; and said good-bye.”
“Where did you put it?” said Roylance, as they walked slowly to the upper gun, while Terry lay beneath a rock seeming to watch them.
“Put what?” said Sydney, vacantly.
“The letter to your father.”
“What letter to my father? Has Uncle Tom written to him?”
“Belt, old fellow, hold up,” cried Roylance, half frantically. “Don’t you give way.”
“Oh, I did feel so stupid,” said Syd, with a loud harsh laugh. “Said I wouldn’t go to sea, and ran away, and then came sneaking back with my tail between my legs. Oh, there’s Barney.”
“No, no, my dear fellow; there’s no one here.”
“Yes, there is,” cried Syd, angrily, as he stared with bloodshot eyes straight before him. “Barney, what does the dad say? Is he very cross?”
“Oh, Belt; don’t, don’t,” groaned Roylance.—“I must get him under shelter.”
He took his friend’s arm.
“No, no, you shan’t,” cried Sydney. “I won’t be dragged in before them. I’ll go in straight when I do go, and say I was wrong. Touch me again, Barney, and I’ll hit you.”
“It is I, Belt. Don’t you know me?”
“Know you?—of course. What made you say that?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Roy, poor fellow, you are suffering from the heat. There’s no ship in sight, but you and I mustn’t give up; we must set an example to the men.—No, no, Barney, I tell you I will not go.”
“Terry, Mike Terry, come and help me,” cried Roylance; but the midshipman did not stir from where he lay under a shadowing rock.
“Not for a hundred of you I would not go. Eh! Water—where? Ah, beautiful water! Can’t you hear it splashing? Plenty to-night. Rain.”
“Come into the shade, Belt,” said Roylance, who felt now that their last day had come, and that there was nothing to be done now but lie down and die.
“No,” said Syd, sharply, “I want to see the men. How are the poor fellows?”
He staggered down to where the men not on duty were lying in the shade cast by the rocks, and the boatswain, who seemed to have been talking to them, rose.
“Sad work, sir,” he said, touching his hat; and several of the men rose and saluted, others lying staring and helpless, their lips black, and a horrible delirious look in their eyes.
“No ship, Barney,” whispered Syd, huskily.
“No, sir. We must give it up, sir, like men; but it do seem hard work. Seen my boy Pan-y-mar?”
“On board, on board,” said Syd quickly.
“What, sir?”
“I did not speak,” cried the boy, shaking his head, and Roylance and the boatswain exchanged glances.
“Yes, yes, I spoke—you spoke,” said Syd, strangely. “I know now, but my brain feels hot and dry, and I can’t breathe. Yes. Pan. He’s with Mr Dallas in the hut.”
The boy sank down on a stone, and placed his elbows upon his knees to make a resting-place for his head.
“Poor lad! Oh, Mr Roylance, sir, I’d give my last drop o’ blood if I could save him.”
Syd started up and then looked round wildly, as he made a desperate effort to ward off the delirium that was attacking him.
“Keep in the shade, my lads,” he said. “Please God we shall get rain to-night, or help will come.”
The men stared at him in stupid silence, all but Rogers, who feebly hacked off a bit of a cake of tobacco, and struggled up to offer it.
“Take a bit, sir. Keeps you from feeling quite so bad.”
“No, my man,” said Syd, smiling feebly, “keep it for yourself.”
Then turning to Roylance, he looked at him wonderingly.
“Did I dream you said something about writing?”
“No. You told me you had written a despatch.”
“No. No: I wrote nothing,” said the boy, vacantly. “It ought to be done, to say that we held out to the last.”
“My father will see that,” said Syd, gravely. “Amen!” cried the boatswain, in his deep hoarse voice, and he drew back, and then staggered forward to drop down for a few moments. He rose again.
“Worst o’ being an orficer, Mr Roylance, sir,” he said. “Don’t matter what happens we mustn’t give way.”
How that day glided on none could tell. It was like some horrible dream, during which the sun had never been hotter to them, and the rock seemed to glow. Three times now in a half delirious way Syd had been into the hut, to find Mr Dallas sleeping, for though he suffered terribly, his pangs did not seem so bad as those of his stronger companions in adversity.
But at last Syd passed Terry lying with his eyes closed; and with Roylance staggering after him almost as wild and delirious as he, they paused by the hut where Mr Dallas lay. Syd passed his hand over his eyes to clear away the mist which hung before him and obscured his sight, and then, fairly sane for the moment, he looked about him to see that every man was prostrate, and that his faithful henchman, Barney Strake, was leaning against a rock, helpless now.
He saw it all; it meant the end. Had there been a cool, moist night even to look forward to, they might have lived till another day, but there were many hours of pitiless sunshine yet in the hottest time when the glare was right along the gap.
“It is the end,” he said, half-aloud. “Roy, lad, I should like to shake hands first with Terry.”
He took a step or two toward where the midshipman lay, but had to snatch at the rock to save himself, and he gave up with a groan.
“I do it in my heart,” he said. “Come and bid Mr Dallas good-bye.”
“Are—are we dying, Belt?” whispered Roylance, and his voice sounded very strange.
“Yes; it can’t be long. But I hope we shall go to sleep first and wake no more.”
He staggered in at the open doorway, for the canvas had been drawn aside, and stood gazing down at the lieutenant, who feebly raised his hand.
Roylance remained there, leaning against the rough entrance, and on a case sat Pan, with his head resting against the wall and his eyes half-closed.
That grip of the hand was all that passed, save a long, earnest look of the eyes, and an hour must have passed over them in the almost insupportable heat. There was not a breath of air, and the poor fellows felt as if they were being literally scorched up, and that before long it would be impossible to breathe.
They had silently said good-bye, and Syd sat now on the floor with his hand in Mr Dallas’s, thinking of his father, and of how he would come some time and find him lying there dead, and know by the work about that he had done his duty.
“And poor Uncle Tom,” he said to himself. “How sorry he will be! I liked Uncle Tom.”
Then there was a wave of delirium passed over, in which as in a dream he saw sparkling waters and bright rivers dancing in the sunshine, and all was happiness and joy, till he started into wakefulness once more at a low groan from Roylance, who lay close beside him.
The hideous truth was there: they were all dying of thirst, and Syd’s last thought seemed to be that he had forgotten to ask help from above till it was too late, and he could not form the words.
It was but a half delirious fancy, for he had prayed long and earnestly. But the idea grew strong now, and he tried to repeat the Lord’s prayer aloud.
No word came but to himself, and he went on sinking fast into unconsciousness till he came to “Give us this day—”
He started up, for something seemed to strike him, and he gazed wildly at the boy Pan, who had fallen from where he sat upon the box, and now struggled to his knees.
“Water!” he gasped—“so thirsty. Master Syd—water—water—I know where there’s lots o’ water—lots!”
He literally shrieked the words, and some one who had been leaning against the entrance stumbled in, electrified with strength as it were, as he shouted hoarsely—
“Water, my boy, water; where?”
Pan gazed about him wildly in the delirium that had attacked him in turn, and did not seem to understand.
The straw of hope that had been held out faded away again, and a mist came back over Syd’s eyes till he heard Strake’s voice, as he shook his son, shouting—
“Water, d’yer hear, Pan? to save us all.”
“Water,” said the boy, hoarsely; “water. Yes, I know,” he yelled. “I used to get lots—down there.”
“Where—where, boy?” cried the boatswain, wildly.
“Down—where—I hid—father,” he whispered. “Big hole—cave in the rocks. Plenty—water—give—water.”
He lurched over to the left, and lay insensible upon the floor.
If it was true! The last hope gone unless the boy could be revived sufficiently to guide them to the spot.
“He was mad,” said the boatswain, slowly; and he looked wildly round with his bloodshot eyes.
But the boy’s words had brought hope and a temporary strength to Syd, who pressed his head with his hands and tried to think.
“Would a bucket of sea-water revive him to make him tell us, Strake?” he croaked, more than spoke.
“No, no, no; good-bye. It’s all a dream.”
“It is not,” cried Syd, wildly. “I know—the place. Heaven, give us strength. I know it now.”
“You’re mad, sir, mad,” groaned the boatswain.
“No, Barney, do. Help, come. Water—I know—I can find it now.”
Chapter Thirty Five.
It seemed too late as Syd rose to his feet, tottered to the looped-back opening of the hut, and crawled out with his eyes starting, his dry mouth open, and every breath drawn with a wheezing, harsh sound that was horrible to hear.
Before he had gone far down the slope toward where the men were lying beneath the rock, and the rope-ladder hung over the rocky wall below the lower gun, he stopped short panting, with the sinking sun scorching his brain and everything swimming round. He looked backward, and had some idea that the boatswain was crawling after him, bringing a vessel that rattled on the loose stones as he came.
But Syd could think of but one thing as he made his way toward the rope-ladder, and that one thing was the fluid which should give them all back their life. He crawled on slowly and painfully, and then a black cloud came over his brain, and everything was gone for the time.
Then the recollection came back, and he knew why he was there. Water—he knew where there was water if he could keep on recollecting till he reached the place. And could he reach it? His hands and arms gave way, and he lay prone, sobbing hoarsely in his misery and despair. There was water, plenty of water, if he could reach it—if his mind would only hold out, and his strength last till he had taken one long deep draught of the cool, sweet drink. And he could reach it and bury his face in the gushing flood, he could save everybody who lay dying there. But he could go no farther, only lie down moaning on that hot rock.
“Master Syd!—the water—where?”
There was a hot breath upon his face, a great hand was grasping his arm, and he turned to look wildly at the boatswain, and tried to speak, but there was only a harsh inarticulate sound from his parched throat.
“Master Syd. Where—the water?”
He tried again, but no words would come. The few minutes lying there, though, had given him strength to crawl on again till he was abreast of the men, only one of whom close by unclosed his wild eyes to stare at the couple crawling toward the edge of the rock wall.
Syd stopped again panting, and once more all seemed over, for the black cloud had settled down over his understanding; and though he could see the men lying only partly in shadow now, for the sinking sun was scorching them, he did not know why he had struggled so far till the hot breath was upon his cheek again, and the harsh high-pitched voice cried—
“Master Syd!—water—where?—the water?”
“Water!”
It was another voice uttered that word, and without knowing how or why, Syd was aware that the young sailor who had been so much mixed up with his adventures—Rogers—was gripping his hand. Syd stared at him wildly as with a fierce harsh cry the man tore at him as if he were holding the precious fluid back. A hoarse groan escaped from Syd’s throat, and he struggled hard to think of what it all meant, while the mental confusion and insensibility grew upon him as he lay face downward on the burning rock, staring at that imaginary black cloud.
“Water—water!” Who said water? It was not Strake, but this wild-eyed, fierce man, whose fingers were pressed into his arm.
Yes, he knew that now, and the burning sun shone through the black cloud again. Water—yes, he had come to get the water, and he began once more to crawl on toward the rope-ladder below the gun, with the boatswain and Rogers hunting him, and nearly as feeble as he, pursuing him with their harsh repetition of that one word—water!
At last close to the edge of the rocky platform with the gun above him on his right, straight before and below him the rope-ladder fixed to a great mass of rock, and down there the natural pier, with the beautiful clear blue sea flooding it, and looking so calm and tempting. If he could reach that and lie and let the waves flow over him, how pleasant and refreshing it would be! No more pain or suffering, only rest and sleep.
He felt a thrill of horror run through him like a spasm of pain, and he shrank away, for there above the clear water was gliding the triangular back fin of a shark—two—three, and one monster’s long, black, rounded muzzle rose up; the creature curved over and dived down under one of its fellows, showing its soft white under-parts, and telling the miserable being on the rock above that it was no peaceful sleep he would find there, but an end of unutterable horror.
That spasm of dread seemed to clear Syd’s mind for the moment, as he drew himself back a little just as Strake gripped his shoulder again, and Rogers uttered the one word in a harsh snarl—
“Water!”
For the moment Syd’s head was clear, and he knew why he was there. His lips parted to speak, but only a harsh sound came, and the black cloud began to loom over him. But he had the momentary strength which enabled him to fight it back, and raising his left arm he pointed along the ridge of tumbled rocks full of rifts and hollows toward where on the day of the accident he had been struggling back, when Rogers had climbed up to his side.
“Water!” gasped the man, showing his teeth like some savage beast, and his eyes glared wild and bloodshot at his young officer.
Again Syd tried to speak, but only that harsh sound came; and he pointed still at the rugged backbone of the islet which ran from the natural citadel, and descended slowly toward the far end by the sea. The young sailor stared back, then turned his head in the direction pointed, but no answering look of intelligence came. But Syd’s finger still pointed, and the man turned his head and stared again.
“Water!” he snarled; “dying—water.”
The hand was still extended toward the furrowed ridge with its chaos of tumbled rocks; and after gazing in the direction once more, the man uttered a harsh groan, and crawled to the very edge of the rocky platform, lowered himself over as he clung to the rope-ladder, and would have fallen headlong had not his hands been cramped now so that the fingers were hooked, and he descended half-way before his strength failed, and he fell ten or a dozen feet, rolled over, and struck against one of the two buckets that lay there close up, as the men had left them after dipping for sea-water to bathe with, as they could not venture in.
Rogers lay there for a few minutes half-stunned, and with his brow cut, and bleeding freely. Then he rose to his hands and knees to begin climbing up to the left, while Syd and Strake, with hot staring eyes, watched him as he went up slowly and painfully foot by foot.
What for? Syd found himself thinking. Was it to fight back that black cloud of confusion which would keep coming and going, as now clearly, now as through a mist, he could see the young sailor climb and crawl higher and higher, and further away; now he was behind some great rock, now he was in sight again; now he descended into one of the crevices of the slope which looked red-hot in the glow of the setting sun. Then there came a blank, of how long Syd could not tell, for the black cloud was over him. But his eyes opened wildly again, and he saw that Rogers was somewhere close by the edge of the great rift where he had stood and listened, and then it seemed that the man had fallen, for he disappeared suddenly, and Strake uttered a low harsh groan.
Was it a dream, or was it really the young sailor coming back? He could not tell; he did not even know that the hoarse, harsh, rattling sound came from the boatswain who lay by his side; but in an indistinct way he saw the man coming down quickly till he was where the two buckets stood, and he shouted something to him whose sound fell like a blow upon his brain.
All was blank again, and he saw no more till hands were touching him, and he felt himself lifted up till his chest was reaching over the edge of something hard, and directly after there was cold delicious water at his lips, water that he tried to drink, but which only entered by his nostrils, and he gasped and choked, as it seemed suddenly to have turned to boiling lead.
But the water was at his lips again, and this time, though it was almost agony, he drew in one great draught of the cool, sweet fluid, and then felt himself lifted and thrown roughly aside, to lie panting on the rock, and watching, with his senses returning fast, the acts of the man by him, who was bending over Strake, where the boatswain lay staring, and with his black lips apart, apparently dead.
The man was Rogers—he recognised him now—and he saw him dip one hollowed hand into the bucket and let the water he scooped out trickle slowly between the boatswain’s parted lips. Then he stopped quickly, and took a quick deep draught himself—a draught which gave him strength to go on trickling more of the fluid between the apparently dead man’s lips before turning to Sydney.
“I’ll help you, sir,” he whispered, faintly. “Drink again.”
Hah! Water, delicious cold pure water; a long deep draught that sent life fluttering through Syd’s veins once more, and he half lay there, watching as some more water was trickled between the boatswain’s lips.
“I spilt—a lot,” said Rogers. “More down there.”
The power to act came back to Syd with his senses, and he loosened the handkerchief the boatswain wore from about his neck, plunged it into the bucket, and drew it out full of water to hold over Strake’s mouth, and let the water drip down as the poor fellow kept on making spasmodic, choking efforts to swallow.
There was an intense desire on Syd’s part to drink again, but he could think now, and he pointed up the gap toward the hut, where he knew that his brother officers and the boy lay dying.
“Can you carry this up—to them?” whispered Rogers. “I’ll go down and get the rest. There’s quarter of a bucketful below here.”
Syd nodded.
“I’ll try and get it up. Give him some more, and take the rest to my mates.”
Syd looked his assent and tried to get up, but fell down. His second effort was more successful, and he took the bucket, which contained nearly a quart of water, and reeled and staggered up the gap, past the men who lay apparently dead to his right, and then on with his strength returning, and with an intense desire to kneel down and drink the precious fluid to the last drop.
It was a hard fight, but he conquered, and staggered on to where the opening into the hut gaped before him, ruddy in the last rays of the setting sun.
Were the inmates dead, and was he bringing that which would have saved them, too late?
He tottered in and he shuddered as he gazed at their wildly distorted faces. Dallas lay gazing up, and Roylance was on the left, perfectly motionless, but Pan was lying on his back, rolling his head slowly from side to side.
There was a tin pannikin, the one that had held the last drops of the water, on the floor close to the case which had served as a table, and as Syd stooped to reach it, a horrible dizziness seized him, and he nearly fell and scattered the precious burden.
But he saved himself by snatching at the stone wall, and brought down one of the little blocks of which it was composed. Then dipping about a tablespoonful of the water with the pannikin, he let a few drops fall in Roylance’s mouth, then in the lieutenant’s, and lastly in Pan’s, and as the water was absorbed, for neither seemed to have the power to swallow, he repeated this twice, his own powers returning more and more, and bringing that intense desire to drink in a way that was terrible.
But he controlled it successfully, and went on giving a few drops of the precious life, as it were, to each, and setting his heart throbbing and a hysterical feeling rising in his throat, as he found that he was not too late.
He wanted to drink the last drops himself, then he wanted to sit on the floor and weep and sob like a child. Then he felt that he must cry out and yell and kick like a mad creature, and all these desires had to be fought down, so that he could go on now trickling slowly the cold water between the white and blackened lips, over which he passed his wet finger from time to time, jealously careful lest a drop should be lost, till the whole quart was gone, and the last drop drained from the bucket into the tin.
“More, more!” panted Syd, as he looked wildly from one to the other of the sufferers, whom he found making spasmodic efforts to swallow, and taking pannikin and bucket, he went feebly out and down the gap to where he had left Rogers and Strake.
The sun had gone down and the short twilight would soon be passed. They must get more water before it was too dark.
“No,” he thought, “it can never be too dark for that;” and he went on to find Rogers bending over Strake.
“That’s the last drop, sir,” said the young sailor. “I’ve give all of it to ’em.”
“And will they all live?” faltered Syd.
“Dunno yet, sir. It was a near toucher. Now you stop with him, and I’ll get some more.—No,” he added; “I can’t go without a light.”
“How did you find it? I could not tell you where to look.”
“Don’t quite know, sir. I was off my head. But I recollect you pynted, and I climbed up and up to where I found you t’other day, and then I tumbled, ’most cut to pieces with they rocks. And when I tried to get up I could hear the water gurgling, and went mad to get to it and drink it. Look here, sir—no: feel, sir; wet through with slipping in. But, oh!”
He drew a long deep breath, and then caught up the bucket.
“Let’s go and drink as long as we can, sir; but we shall want the lanthorn now.”
It was quite true, for the darkness which falls so rapidly in the tropics was quickly coming in.
“Didn’t think I was going to do this no more, sir,” said Rogers, as the pair struggled up to the quarters, and with trembling hands managed to strike a light and set the lanthorn candle burning.
“Quick!” whispered Syd, as there came a low moaning from the hospital. “If I go in they’ll be expecting water.”
“Which they shall have, sir, before long,” replied the sailor, and going back down the gap, they picked up the buckets, Syd stopping to speak to Strake.
“Yes, sir; coming round, sir, I think,” he said, hoarsely. “Is there a drop more water?”
“There’ll be plenty soon. Only wait.”
“Now, sir, you take the lanthorn; I’ll take the buckets. Lor’, how swimmy I do feel. Not from having so much water, is it?”
The man’s words jarred on Syd. They sounded so careless from one who but a short time back was dying. But with a sailor, as soon as the danger is past, he is careless again, and the man was all eagerness now to help his messmates.
Syd did not find it easy to descend the rope-ladder, but he got down in safety, and then the difficult ascent of the rocks began.
It was now dark, and he trembled lest they should miss their way and be wandering about for hours, while the poor creatures they had left were still in agony.
But after one or two false slips they hit upon the right gap, as they thought, and were about to descend when Syd stopped short.
“This can’t be the place,” he said; “I don’t hear the water gurgling.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking, sir,” said Rogers. “Let’s try again.”
Weak and weary as he was, Syd’s heart sank, but their next attempt was successful, the faint sound of water trickling far below acting as their guide, and they found the place, descended carefully, not seeing their danger, to where the water gurgled musically from the rock into a little pool some five feet long.
Here both drank long and deeply of the delicious draught, after filling their buckets, finding it no easy task to climb back with them to where they stood in the bright, clear star-shine, and begin their journey back down to the bottom of the rope-ladder, where Rogers set down his pail, climbed up, lowered down a rope, and hauled both the buckets up without spilling a drop. Then while he attended to the men with one, Syd hurried up to the little hospital with the other, to find his patients sufficiently recovered to drink with avidity as much water as he would let them have.
There was no sleep that night, but many a prayer of thankfulness was sent up from the darkness of that black gap toward where, in all their tropic splendour, the great stars twinkled brightly.
“And we shall see the light of another day,” said Syd, aloud, “and—Roylance—Roy, are you awake?”
“Yes. I was listening to what you said.”
“We’ve forgotten poor Terry.”