One watching from the mountain would have seen the Rose of Devon spread her sails and put to sea like a great bird with white wings. But there was no one on the mountain to watch, and when the ship had sailed, no human being remained to interrupt the placid2 calm that overspread the bay that summer morning. The sun blazed from a clear sky, and the green palms rustled3 and swayed beside the blue water, and in all the marvelously fair prospect4 of land and sea no sign or mark of violence remained.
Phil Marsham had gone in the night over the hills and across the narrow peninsula between two bays. Though the way was rough, the land was high and—for the tropics—open, and he had put the peninsula behind him by sunrise. He had then plunged6 down into a swampy7 region, but, finding the tangle8 of vines and canes9 well nigh impassable in the dark, he had struggled round it and had again come to the shore.
There, finding once more a place where a man could walk easily, he had pressed on at dawn through a forest of tall trees in infinite number and variety, with flowers and fruits in abundance, and past a plain of high grass of wonderful greenness.
A short time after sunrise he drank from a spring of water and ate ship's bread from the small store with which he had provided himself. But he dared not linger, and resuming his journey he came upon two huts where nets and fishing-tackle were spread in the sun to dry. The heat, which seemed to swell10 from the very earth, by then so sorely oppressed him that he stopped for a while in a shady place to rest. But still he dared not stay, and although upon again arising he saw that dark clouds were covering the sky, he once more stepped forth12 with such a stout13 heart as had carried him out of London and all the long way to Bideford in Devon.
It gave him a queer feeling to be tramping through an unknown land with no destination in his mind, yet he vowed14 to himself that, come what might, he would never go back to the Rose of Devon. There is a time when patience and forbearance are enough to earn a man a hempen15 halter, and thinking thus, he faced the storm and renewed his determination.
The wind rose to a furious gale16; the clouds overswept the sky and thunder shook the earth and heavens. The rain, sweeping17 down in slanting18 lines, cut through the palm leaves like hundreds upon hundreds of thrusting swords; and lightning flamed and flashed, and leaped from horizon to horizon, and hung in a sort of continual cloud of deathly blue in the zenith, blazing and quivering with appalling19 reverberations that went booming off through the mountains and came rolling back in ponderous20 echoes. It was enough to make a brave man think the black angels were marshalling for the last great battle; it was such a storm as a boy born in England and taught his seamanship in northern waters knew only by sailors' tales. The rain beat through the poor shelter that he found and drenched21 him to the skin, and the roaring and thundering of the tempest filled him with awe22. And when the storm had passed, for it lasted not above three quarters of an hour, the sun came out again and filled the air with a steamy warmth that was oppressive beyond description.
Then the woods came to life and insects stirred and droned, and mosquitoes, issuing from among the leaves and grasses, plagued him to the verge23 of madness.
One who has lived always in a land where mosquitoes return each year in summer is likely to have no conception of the venomous strength with which their poison can work upon one who has not, by much experience of their bites, built up a measure of resistance against it. Phil's hands swelled24 until he could not shut them, and the swelling25 of his face so nearly closed his eyes that he could hardly see. When two hours later, all but blinded, and thirsting and hungry, he came again to the shore and made out in the offing, by squinting26 between swollen27 eyelids28, the same Rose of Devon from which he had run away and to which he had vowed he would never return, his misery29 was such that he would have been glad enough to be on board her and away from such torment30, though they ended the day by hanging him. But the Rose of Devon sailed away over the blue sea on which the sun shone as calmly and steadily31 as if there had been no tempest, and Philip Marsham sat down on a rock and gave himself up as a man already dead.
There two natives of the country found him, and by grace of God, who tempered their hearts with mercy, carried him to their poor hut and tended him with their simple remedies until he was in such measure recovered of the poison that he could see as well as ever. He then set out once more upon his way to he knew not where, having rubbed himself with an ointment32 of vile33 odour, which they gave him in goodly quantity to keep off all pestiferous insects, and on the day when he ate the last morsel34 of the food with which the natives had provided him he saw from the side of a high hill a strange ship at anchor in a cove11 beneath.
Now a ship might mean one thing or she might mean another; and a man's life might depend on the difference.
Drinking deeply from a stream that ran over the rocks and through the forest, and so at last into the cove, Philip Marsham returned into the wood and sat upon a fallen tree. He saw a boat put out from the ship and touch on the shore a long way off, where some men left her and went out of sight. After an hour or two they came back, and, entering the boat, returned to the ship. He saw men working on deck and in the rigging; he heard the piping of a whistle, and now and again, as the wind changed, he heard more faintly than the drone of insects the voices of the men.
Being high above the shore, he found the mosquitoes fewer and the wind helped drive them away; yet they plagued him continually, despite his ointment, of which little was left, and made him miserable35 while he stayed. He would have hurried off had he dared; but the chance that the ship would be the means of saving his life withheld36 him from pursuing his journey, while doubt concerning the manner of craft she was withheld him from making known his presence.
In mid-afternoon he saw far away a sail, which came slowly in across the blue plain of the sea; and having clear eyes, trained by long practice, he descried37 even at that great distance the motion of a heavily rolling ship. From his seat high on the hill he could see a long way farther than the men in the ship in the cove, and a point of land shut off from them an arc of the sea that was visible from the hill; so when night fell they were still unaware38 of the sail.
Though he had watched for hours the ship in the cove, the runaway39 boatswain of the Rose of Devon had discovered no sign of what nation had sent her out or what trade her men followed; but there came a time when his patience could endure suspense40 no longer. He picked his way down to the shore, following the stream from which he had been drinking during his long watch, and cautiously moved along the edge of the water till he came to the point of land nearest the anchored ship, whence he could very plainly hear voices on board her. There were lights on the stern and on deck, and through an open port he got sight of hammocks swinging above the guns on the main deck.
At last he took off the greater part of his clothes and piled them on a rock; then, strapping41 his dirk to his waist, he waded42 silently into the water. Reaching his depth, he momentarily hesitated, but
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