At the Point of the Sword Part 3

He climbed the steps, and I followed, shuddering at the picture his words had conjured up. The scene was grand, but wild and awful in the extreme. I hardly dared to watch the great waves thundering along as if seeking to devour our tiny craft. Now the schooner hung poised for a moment on the edge of a mountainous wave; the next instant it seemed to be dashing headlong into a fathomless, black abyss. The wind tore on with a fierce shriek, and we scudded before it under bare poles, flying for life.

Two men were at the wheel; the captain, lashed aft, was yelling out orders which no one could understand, or, understanding, obey. The night, as yet, was not particularly dark, and I shivered at sight of the white, scared faces of the crew. They could do nothing more; in the face of such a gale they were helpless as babies; those at the wheel kept the ship's head straight by great effort, but beyond that, everything was unavailing. Our fate was in the hands of G.o.d; He alone could determine whether it should be life or death.

Once, above the fury of the storm, the howling of the wind, the straining of the timber, there rose an awful shriek; and though the tragedy was hidden from my sight, I knew it to be the cry of an unhappy sailor in his death-agony. A huge wave, leaping like some ravenous animal to the deck, had caught him and was gone; while the spirit of the wind laughed in demoniacal glee as he was tossed from crest to crest, the sport of the cruel billows.

The captain had seen, but was powerless to help. The schooner was but the plaything of the waves, while to launch a boat--ah, how the storm-fiends would have laughed at the attempt! So leaving the hapless sailor to his fate, we drove on through a blinding wall of rain into the dark night, waiting for the end. No sky was visible, nor the light of any star, but the great cloud walls stood up thick on every side, and it seemed as if the boat were plunging through a dark and dreary tunnel.

Close to me, where a lantern not yet douted [Transcriber's note: doused?] cast its fitful light, a man lay grovelling on the deck. He was praying aloud in an agony of fear, but no sound could be heard from his moving lips. Suddenly there came a crash as of a falling body, the light went out, and I saw the man no more. How long the night lasted I cannot tell; to me it seemed an age, and no second of it was free from fear. Whether we were driving north, south, east, or west no one knew, while the fury of the storm would have drowned the thunder of waves on a surf-beaten sh.o.r.e. But the _Aguila_ was an English boat, built by honest English workmen, and her planks held firmly together despite the raging storm.

For long hours, as I have said, we were swallowed up in darkness, feeling ourselves in the presence of death; but the light broke through at last, a cold gray light, and cheerless withal, which exactly suited our unhappy condition. The wind, too, as though satisfied with its night's work, sank to rest, while by degrees the tossing of the angry billows subsided into a peaceful ripple.

We looked at each other and at the schooner. One man had been washed overboard; another, struck by a falling spar, still lay insensible; the rest were weary and exhausted. Thanks to the skipper's foresight, the _Aguila_ had suffered less than we had expected, and he exclaimed cheerfully that the damage could soon be repaired. But though our good ship remained sound, the storm had wrought a fearful calamity, which dazed the bravest, and blanched every face among us.

The skipper brought the news when he joined us at breakfast, and his lips could scarcely frame the words.

"The water-casks are stove in," he exclaimed, "and we have hardly a gallon of fresh water aboard!"

"Then we must run for the nearest port," said Jose, trying to speak cheerily.

The captain spread out his hands dramatically.

"There is no port," he replied, in something of a hopeless tone, "and there is no wind. The schooner lies like a log on the water."

We went on deck, forgetting past dangers in the more terrifying one before us. The captain had spoken truly: not a breath of air stirred, and the sea lay beneath us like a sheet of gla.s.s. The dark clouds had rolled away, and though the sun was not visible, the thin haze between us and the sky was tinged blood-red. It was such a sight as no man on board had seen, and the sailors gazed at it in awestruck silence.

Hour after hour through the livelong day the _Aguila_ lay motionless, as if held by some invisible cable. No ripple broke the gla.s.sy surface, no breath of wind fanned the idle sails, and the air we breathed was hot and stifling, as if proceeding from a furnace.

The men lounged about listlessly, unable to forget their distress even in sleep. The captain scanned the horizon eagerly, looking in vain for the tiniest cloud that might promise a break-up of the hideous weather.

Jose and I lay under an awning, though this was no protection from the stifling atmosphere.

Every one hoped that evening would bring relief, that a breeze might spring up, or that we might have a downpour of rain. Evening came, but the situation was unchanged, and a great fear entered our hearts. How long could we live like this--how long before death would release us from our misery? for misery it was now in downright, cruel earnest.

Once Jose rose and walked to the vessel's side, but, returning shortly, lay face downward on the deck.

"I must shut out the sight of the sea," he said, "or I shall go mad.

What an awful thing to perish of thirst with water everywhere around us!"

This was our second night of horror, but very different in its nature from the first. Then, for long hours, we went in fear of the storm; now, we would have welcomed the most terrible tempest that ever blew, if only it brought us rain.

Very slowly the night crept by, and again we were confronted by the gray haze, with its curious blood-red tint. We could not escape from the vessel, as our boats had been smashed in the hurricane; we could only wait for what might happen in this sea of the dead.

"Rain or death, it is one or the other!" remarked Jose, as, rising to our feet, we staggered across to the skipper.

Rain or death! Which would come first, I wondered.

The captain could do nothing, though I must say he played his part like a man--encouraging the crew, foretelling a storm which should rise later in the day, and a.s.serting that we were right in the track of ships. We had only to hold on patiently, he said, and all would come right.

Jose also spoke to the me cheerfully, trying to keep alive a glimmer of hope; but as the morning hours dragged wearily along, they were fain to give way to utter despair. No ships could reach us, they said, while the calm lasted, and not the slightest sign of change could be seen.

Our throats were parched, our lips cracked, our eyes bloodshot and staring. One of the crew, a plump, chubby, round-faced man, began talking aloud in a rambling manner, and presently, with a scream of excitement, he sprang into the rigging.

"Sail ho!" he cried, "sail ho!" and forgetting our weakness, we all jumped up to peer eagerly through the gauzy mist.

"Where away?" exclaimed the captain.

The sailor laughed in glee. "Oho! Here she comes!" cried he; "here she comes!" and, tearing off his shirt, waved it frantically.

The action was so natural, the man seemed so much in earnest, that we hung over the schooner's side, anxiously scanning the horizon for our rescuer. Again the fellow shouted, "Here she comes!" and then, with a frenzied laugh, flung himself into the gla.s.sy sea.

A groan of despair burst from the crew, and for several seconds no one moved. Then Jose, crying, "Throw me a rope!" jumped overboard, and swam to the spot where the man had gone down.

"Come back!" cried the skipper hoa.r.s.ely; "you will be drowned! The poor fellow has lost his senses." But Jose, unheeding the warning, clutched the man as he came to the surface a second time.

We heard the demented laugh of the drowning sailor, and then the two disappeared--down, down into the depths together.

"He has thrown his life away for a madman!" said the captain, and his words brought me to my senses.

With a prayer in my heart I leaped into the sea, hoping that I might yet save the brave fellow.

A cry from the schooner told me that he had reappeared, and soon I saw him alone, and well-nigh exhausted. A dozen strokes took me to his side, and then, half supporting him, I turned toward the vessel. The men flung us a rope, and willing hands hauled first Jose and then me aboard.

"A brave act," said the skipper gruffly, "but foolhardy!"

Jose smiled, and, still leaning on me, went below to the cabin, where, removing our wet things, we had a good rub down.

"Thanks, my boy!" said Jose, "but for your help I doubt if I could have got back. The poor beggar nearly throttled me, down under!" and I noticed on his throat the marks of fingers that must have pressed him like a vice.

"Do you feel it now?" I asked.

"Only here," touching his throat; "but for that, I should be all the better for the dip. Let us go on deck again; I am stifling here. And keep up your spirits, Jack. Don't give way the least bit, or it will be all over with you. We are in a fearful plight, but help may yet come." And I promised him solemnly that I would do my best.

CHAPTER II.

THE END OF THE "AGUILA."

The drowning of the crazy sailor had a bad effect on the rest of the crew, and it became evident that they had abandoned all hope. They hung about so listlessly that even the captain could not rouse them, and indeed there was nothing they could do.

This utter inability to help ourselves was the worst evil of the case.

Even I, though only a boy, wanted to do something, no matter what, if it would help in the struggle for life; but I, like the rest, could only wait--wait with throat like a furnace, peeling lips, smarting eyes, and aching head, till death or rain put an end to the misery.

I tried not to think of it, tried to shut out the horrible end so close at hand; but in vain. Jose sat beside me, endeavouring to rouse me.

It must rain, he said, or the wind would spring up, and we should meet with a ship; but in his heart I think he had no hope.

The day crawled on, afternoon came, and I fell into a troubled sleep.

The pain of my throat directed my wandering thoughts perhaps, and conjured up horrible visions. I was lashed to the wheel of the _Aguila_, and the schooner went drifting, drifting far away into an unknown sea. All was still around me, though I was not alone. Sailors walked the deck or huddled in the forecastle--sailors with skin of wrinkled parchment, with deep-set, burning yet unseeing eyes, with moving lips from which no sound came; and as we sailed away ever further and further into the darkness, the horror of it maddened me. I struggled desperately to free myself, calling aloud to Jose to save me.

Then a hand was laid softly on my forehead, and a kind, familiar voice whispered,--