Reflections—The wounded man—The squall—True consolation—Death.
There is a power of endurance in human beings, both in their bodies and in their minds, which, I have often thought, seems to be wonderfully adapted and exactly proportioned to the circumstances in which individuals may happen to be placed—a power which, in most cases, is sufficient to carry a man through and over every obstacle that may happen to be thrown in his path through life, no matter how high or how steep the mountain may be, but which often forsakes him the moment the summit is gained, the point of difficulty passed, and leaves him prostrated, with energies gone, nerves unstrung, and a feeling of incapacity pervading the entire frame that renders the most trifling effort almost impossible.
During the greater part of that day I had been subjected to severe mental and much physical excitement, which had almost crushed me down by the time I was relieved from duty in the course of the evening. But when the expedition whose failure has just been narrated was planned, my anxieties and energies had been so powerfully aroused that I went through the protracted scenes of that terrible night without a feeling of the slightest fatigue. My mind and body were alike active and full of energy. No sooner was the last thrilling fear of danger past, however, than my faculties were utterly relaxed; and when I felt the cool breezes of the Pacific playing around my fevered brow, and heard the free waves rippling at the schooner’s prow, as we left the hated island behind us, my senses forsook me, and I fell in a swoon upon the deck.
From this state I was quickly aroused by Bill, who shook me by the arm, saying:
“Hallo, Ralph, boy! Rouse up, lad; we’re safe now! Poor thing! I believe he’s fainted.” And raising me in his arms he laid me on the folds of the gaff-topsail, which lay upon the deck near the tiller. “Here, take a drop o’ this; it’ll do you good, my boy,” he added in a voice of tenderness which I had never heard him use before, while he held a brandy-flask to my lips.
I raised my eyes gratefully as I swallowed a mouthful; next moment my head sank heavily upon my arm, and I fell fast asleep. I slept long, for when I awoke the sun was a good way above the horizon. I did not move on first opening my eyes, as I felt a delightful sensation of rest pervading me, and my eyes were riveted on and charmed with the gorgeous splendour of the mighty ocean that burst upon my sight. It was a dead calm; the sea seemed a sheet of undulating crystal, tipped and streaked with the saffron hues of sunrise, which had not yet merged into the glowing heat of noon; and there was a deep calm in the blue dome above that was not broken even by the usual flutter of the sea-fowl. How long I would have lain in contemplation of this peaceful scene I know not, but my mind was recalled suddenly and painfully to the past and the present by the sight of Bill, who was seated on the deck at my feet, with his head reclining, as if in sleep, on his right arm, which rested on the tiller. As he seemed to rest peacefully, I did not mean to disturb him; but the slight noise I made in raising myself on my elbow caused him to start and look round.
“Well, Ralph, awake at last, my boy? You have slept long and soundly,” he said, turning towards me.
On beholding his countenance I sprang up in anxiety. He was deadly pale, and his hair, which hung in dishevelled locks over his face, was clotted with blood. Blood also stained his hollow cheeks and covered the front of his shirt, which, with the greater part of his dress, was torn and soiled with mud.
“Oh Bill!” said I with deep anxiety, “what is the matter with you? You are ill. You must have been wounded.”
“Even so, lad,” said Bill in a deep, soft voice, while he extended his huge frame on the couch from which I had just risen. “I’ve got an ugly wound, I fear; and I’ve been waiting for you to waken to ask you to get me a drop o’ brandy and a mouthful o’ bread from the cabin lockers. You seemed to sleep so sweetly, Ralph, that I didn’t like to disturb you. But I don’t feel up to much just now.”
I did not wait till he had done talking, but ran below immediately, and returned in a few seconds with a bottle of brandy and some broken biscuit. He seemed much refreshed after eating a few morsels and drinking a long draught of water mingled with a little of the spirits. Immediately afterwards he fell asleep, and I watched him anxiously until he awoke, being desirous of knowing the nature and extent of his wound.
“Ha!” he exclaimed on awaking suddenly, after a slumber of an hour; “I’m the better of that nap, Ralph. I feel twice the man I was;” and he attempted to rise, but sank back again immediately with a deep groan.
“Nay, Bill, you must not move, but lie still while I look at your wound. I’ll make a comfortable bed for you here on deck, and get you some breakfast. After that you shall tell me how you got it. Cheer up, Bill!” I added, seeing that he turned his head away; “you’ll be all right in a little, and I’ll be a capital nurse to you, though I’m no doctor.”
I then left him, and lighted a fire in the caboose. While it was kindling, I went to the steward’s pantry and procured the materials for a good breakfast, with which, in little more than half-an-hour, I returned to my companion. He seemed much better, and smiled kindly on me as I set before him a cup of coffee and a tray with several eggs and some bread on it.
“Now, then, Bill,” said I cheerfully, sitting down beside him on the deck, “let’s fall to. I’m very hungry myself, I can tell you. But—I forgot—your wound,” I added, rising; “let me look at it.”
I found that the wound was caused by a pistol-shot in the chest. It did not bleed much, and as it was on the right side, I was in hopes that it might not be very serious. But Bill shook his head. “However,” said he, “sit down, Ralph, and I’ll tell you all about it.
“You see, after we left the boat an’ began to push through the bushes, we went straight for the line of my musket, as I had expected. But by some unlucky chance it didn’t explode, for I saw the line torn away by the men’s legs, and heard the click o’ the lock; so I fancy the priming had got damp and didn’t catch. I was in a great quandary now what to do, for I couldn’t concoct in my mind, in the hurry, any good reason for firin’ off my piece. But they say necessity’s the mother of invention; so just as I was giving it up and clinchin’ my teeth to bide the worst o’t and take what should come, a sudden thought came into my head. I stepped out before the rest, seemin’ to be awful anxious to be at the savages, tripped my foot on a fallen tree, plunged head foremost into a bush, an’ ov coorse my carbine exploded! Then came such a screechin’ from the camp as I never heard in all my life. I rose at once, and was rushin’ on with the rest when the captain called a halt.
“‘You did that a purpose, you villain!’ he said with a tremendous oath, and drawin’ a pistol from his belt, let fly right into my breast. I fell at once, and remembered no more till I was startled and brought round by the most awful yell I ever heard in my life—except, maybe, the shrieks o’ them poor critters that were crushed to death under yon big canoe. Jumpin’ up, I looked round, and through the trees saw a fire gleamin’ not far off; the light of which showed me the captain and men tied hand and foot, each to a post, and the savages dancin’ round them like demons. I had scarce looked for a second when I saw one o’ them go up to the captain flourishing a knife, and before I could wink he plunged it into his breast, while another yell, like the one that roused me, rang upon my ear. I didn’t wait for more, but bounding up, went crashing through the bushes into the woods. The black fellows caught sight of me, however, but not in time to prevent me jumpin’ into the boat, as you know.”
Bill seemed to be much exhausted after this recital, and shuddered frequently during the narrative; so I refrained from continuing the subject at that time, and endeavoured to draw his mind to other things.
“But now, Bill,” said I, “it behoves us to think about the future, and what course of action we shall pursue. Here we are, on the wide Pacific, in a well-appointed schooner, which is our own—at ............