things come to the wust mind your helm, an’ look out as I used to say to my missus—”
He stopped abruptly and turned away. Evidently the thought of the “missus” was too much for him just then.
Charlie Brooke hurried off to visit the sick man, and prepare him for the sad change in his position that had now become unavoidable. But another visitor had been to see the invalid before him. Entering the berth softly, and with a quiet look, so as not to agitate the patient needlessly, he found to his regret, though not surprise, that poor Fred Samson was dead. There was a smile on the pale face, which was turned towards the port window, as if the dying man had been taking a last look of the sea and sky when Death laid a hand gently on his brow and smoothed away the wrinkles of suffering and care. A letter from his mother, held tightly in one hand and pressed upon his breast told eloquently what was the subject of his last thoughts.
Charlie cut a lock of hair from the sailor’s brow with his clasp-knife, and, taking the letter gently from the dead hand, wrapped it therein.
“There’s no time to bury him now. His berth must be the poor fellow’s coffin,” said Captain Stride, when the death was reported to him. “The swell o’ the coming squall has reached us already. Look alive wi’ the boats, men!”
By that time the rising swell was in truth lifting the vessel every few seconds and letting her down with a soft thud on the coral reef. It soon became evident to every one on board that the Walrus had not many hours to live—perhaps not many minutes—for the squall to which the Captain had referred was rapidly bearing down, and each successive thud became more violent than the previous one. Knowing their danger full well, the men worked with a will and in a few minutes three boats, well provisioned, were floating on the sea.
The need for haste soon became apparent, for the depth of water alongside was so insufficient that the long-boat—drawing as she did considerably more water than the others—touched twice when the swells let her drop into their hollows.
It was arranged that Charlie should go in the long-boat with the captain, Raywood the passenger, and ten men of the crew. The remainder were to be divided between the other two boats which were to be in charge of the first and second officers respectively.
“Jump in, Brooke,” cried the Captain, as he sat in the stern-sheets looking up at our hero, who was busily engaged assisting the first mate to complete the arrangements of his boat, “we’ve struck twice already. I must shove off. Is Raywood ready?”
“He’s in the cabin looking for something, sir; I’ll run and fetch him.”
“Stay! We’ve touched again!” shouted the Captain. “You an’ Raywood can come off with one o’ the other boats. I’ll take you on board when in deep water—shove off, lads.”
“Jump in with me, sir,” said the first mate, as he hastily descended the side.
“Come along, Raywood,” shouted Charlie, as he followed. “No time to lose!”
The passenger rushed on deck, scrambled down the side, and took his seat beside Charlie, just as the long threatened squall burst upon them.
The painter was cut, and they drifted into deep water with the second mate’s boat, which had already cast off.
Fortunate was it for the whole crew that Captain Stride had provided for every emergency, and that, among other safeguards, he had put several tarpaulins into each boat, for with these they were enabled to form a covering which turned off the waves and prevented their being swamped. The squall turned out to be a very severe one, and in the midst of it the three boats were so far separated that the prospect of their being able to draw together again until evening was very remote. Indeed the waves soon ran so high that it required the utmost attention of each steersman to keep his craft afloat, and when at last the light began to fade the boats were almost out of sight of each other.
“No chance, I fear, of our ever meeting again,” remarked the mate, as he cast a wistful look at the southern horizon where the sail of the long-boat could be barely seen like the wing of a sea-gull. “Your lot has been cast with us, Mr Brooke, so you’ll have to make the best of it.”
“I always try to make the best of things,” replied Charlie. “My chief regret at present is that Raywood and I, being two extra hands, will help to consume your provisions too fast.”
“Luckily my appetite is a poor one,” said Raywood, with a faint smile; “and it’s not likely to improve in the circumstances.”
“I’m not so sure o’ that sir,” returned the mate, with an air that was meant to be reassuring; “fresh air and exposure have effected wonders before now in the matter of health—so they say. Another pull on the halyards, Dick; that looks like a fresh squall. Mind your sheets, Will Ward.”
A prompt “Ay, ay, sir” from Dick Darvall and the cabin-boy showed that each was alive to the importance of the duty required of him, while the other men—of whom there were six—busied themselves in making the tarpaulin coverings more secure, or in baling out the water which, in spite of them, had found its way into the boat.
Charlie rose and seated himself on the thwart beside the fine-looking seaman Dick Darvall, so as to have a clearer view ahead under the sail.
“Long-boat nowhere to be seen now,” he murmured half to himself after a long look.
“No, sir—nor the other boat either,” said Darvall in a quiet voice. “We shall never see ’em no more.”
“I hope you are wrong,” returned Charlie; “indeed I feel sure that the weather will clear during the night, and that we shall find both boats becalmed not far off.”
“Maybe so, sir,” rejoined the sailor, in the tone of one willing to be, but not yet, convinced.
Our hero was right as to the first, but not as to the second, point. The weather did clear during the night, but when the sun arose next morning on a comparatively calm sea neither of the other boats was to be seen. In fact every object that could arrest the eye had vanished from the scene, leaving only a great circular shield of blue, of which their tiny craft formed the centre.
Chapter Seven.
Adrift on the Sea
“You are ill, Will Ward,” was Dick Darvall’s first remark when there was sufficient daylight to distinguish faces.
“You’re another!” was the cabin-boy’s quick, facetious retort, which caused Darvall to smile and had the effect of rousing the half-sleeping crew.
“But you are ill, my boy,” repeated the seaman earnestly.
“No, Dick, not exactly ill,” returned Will, with a faint smile, “but I’m queer.”
Each man had spent that stormy night on the particular thwart on which he had chanced to sit down when he first entered the boat, so that all were looking more or less weary, but seamen are used to uncomfortable and interrupted slumbers. They soon roused themselves and began to look about and make a few comments on the weather. Some, recurring naturally to their beloved indulgence, pulled out their pipes and filled them.
“Have ’ee a light, Jim?” asked a rugged man, in a sleepy tone, of a comrade behind him.
“No, Jack, I haven’t” answered Jim, in a less sleepy tone, slapping all his pockets and thrusting his hands into them.
“Have
