Under the Waves, Robert Michael Ballantyne [ebook reader macos .txt] 📗

caused by the action and its consequences were removed, and the gun-boat restored to somewhat of its wonted tidiness and appearance of comfort. But there was little comfort on board during the silence of that long night, which seemed to many as though it would never end; and which, in the case of a few, ended in Eternity.

Although silence began to descend on all, sleep was not there. Excitement, fatigue, and the awful scenes they had witnessed, drove it from the pillows of Aileen and her friend. Frequent calls for the aid of the surgeon put anything like refreshing rest--much though he required it--quite out of the question, and at whatever hour of the night or early morning he entered the temporary hospital where the sufferers lay, he was sure to be met by the white flash of the many eyes in haggard swart faces that turned eagerly and expectantly towards him-- proving that sleep had little or no influence there.

There was less of this want of repose, strange to say, in another part of the vessel.

Down in the dark hold, where one feeble lamp cast a mere apology for light on the wretched surroundings, many of the pirates slept soundly. Their days were numbered--each one knew that full well--yet they slept. Their hearts ought to have been fall of dark forebodings, but they slumbered--some of them with the profound quietude of infants! One might wonder at this were it not a familiar fact. This condition of "the wicked" has been observed in every age, and is stated in holy writ.

But _all_ were not asleep in that dismal prison-house. There were among them, it seemed, a few who were troubled with fears--perhaps some who had consciences not yet utterly seared. At all events, two or three of them moved uneasily as they sat huddled together, for there was little room for so many in such a confined space, and now and then a bursting sigh escaped. But such evidences of weakness, if such it may be called, were few. For the most part silence reigned. In mercy the captain had ordered a chink of the hatch to be left open, and through this the stars shone down into the dark chamber.

Looking up at these, in statue-like silence, sat the pirate-chief. No one had spoken to him, and he had spoken to none since his entry there. Sleep did not visit _his_ eyes, nor rest his heart, yet he sat perfectly still, hour after hour. Perchance he experienced the rest resulting from an iron will that abides its approaching time for action.

The tending of the wounded, the cleansing of the ship, the feeding of survivors, the shutting up and arranging for the night, had passed away--even the groaning of sufferers had dwindled down to its lowest ebb--long before Pungarin moved with the intent to carry out his purpose.

The night-watch had been set and changed; the guard over the prisoners had been relieved; the man in charge of them had gone his rounds and examined their fetters; the careful captain had himself inspected them,--all was perfectly quiet and deemed safe, when Pungarin at last moved, and gave vent to one deep prolonged sigh that seemed to be the opening of the escape-valve of his heart, and the out-rush of its long-pent-up emotions.

Slowly, but persistently, he began to struggle, and in the darkness of the place it seemed to those of his comrades who observed him as if he were writhing like a snake. But little did his fellow-pirates heed. Their hearts had long ago ceased to be impressible by horrid fancies. They could not help but see what went on before their eyes--it did not require an effort to help caring!

We have already said that some of the prisoners had been bound with ropes for want of irons. Pungarin was among the number, and his almost superhuman efforts were directed to freeing himself from his rope, either by tearing his limbs out of it, or by snapping it asunder. In both attempts he failed. Sailors are, of all men, least likely to tie a knot badly, or to select a rope too weak for its purpose. The pirate at length made this discovery, and sank down exhausted. But he rose again ere long.

Those of the prisoners who had been secured by ropes were fastened to a beam overhead. The place was very low. None of them could have stood erect under this beam. While endeavouring to free himself, Pungarin had struggled on his knees. He now raised himself as high as possible on his knees. His hands, although tied in front of him, could be raised to his head. He quickly made a loop on the rope and passed it over his head.

Just then the guard removed the hatchway, and descended to make the last inspection for the night. Pungarin hastily removed the rope, sank down and lay quite still as if in slumber.

Night passed slowly on. The morning-star arose. The sun soon chased away the shadows, and brought joy to the awaking world. It even brought some degree of comfort to the comfortless on board the gun-boat. The sleepers began to rouse themselves, the wounded to move and relieve themselves, if possible, by change of position. The cook set about his preparations for the morning meal, and the captain, who, being dangerously close to shore, had taken no rest whatever during the night, gave up the charge of his vessel to the first officer, and went below to seek that repose which he had so well earned.

Ere he had closed an eye, however, his attention, was arrested by a cry, and by a peculiar noise of voices on deck. There are tones in the human voice which need no verbal explanation to tell us that they mean something serious. He jumped up and sprang on deck. As if by instinct he went towards the hatchway leading to the hold.

"He's dead, sir!" were the first words that greeted him.

A glance into the hold was enough to explain.

The pirate-chief had hanged himself. With difficulty, but with inflexible resolution, he had accomplished his purpose by fastening the rope round his neck and lifting his legs off the ground, so that he was actually found suspended in a sitting posture.

His comrades in guilt, little impressed, apparently, by his fate, sat or reclined around his body in callous indifference.


CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.


DIFFICULTIES OF VARIOUS KINDS, ALSO TROUBLES, AND A DISCOVERY.

"Gentlemen," said the captain of the gun-boat to Mr Hazlit and Edgar as they sat that morning at breakfast, "it is my intention to run to the nearest town on the coast--which happens to be Muku--have these pirates tried and shot, then proceed to Singapore, and perhaps run thence to the coast of China. I will take you with me if you wish it, or if you prefer it, will put you on board the first homeward-bound passenger-ship that we can find. What say you?"

Now, reader, we possess the happy privilege of knowing what Mr Hazlit and Edgar thought as well as what they said, and will use that privilege for purposes of our own.

In the first place, Edgar thought he should very much like to hear Mr Hazlit's views on that subject before speaking. He therefore said nothing.

The course being thus left clear to him, the merchant thought as follows:--

"It's very awkward, excessively awkward and vexatious. Here am I, ever so many thousands of miles away from home, without a single sovereign in my purse, and without even the right to borrow of the captain, for I have nothing certainly available even at home--_Some_! Why, I _have_ no home!"

At this point the poor man's thoughts took form in words.

"Ahem!" he said, clearing his throat, "I am much obliged by your kindness (`Don't mention it, sir,' from the captain), and should prefer, if possible, to reach Hong-Kong and ship thence for England. You see, I have some business friends there, and as I shall have to replenish my purse before--"

"Oh, don't let that stand in the way," said the captain, promptly, "I shall be happy to lend what you may require, and--"

"Excuse my interrupting you, captain, and thanks for your obliging offer," said Mr Hazlit, holding up his large hand as if to put the suggestion away; "but for reasons that it is not necessary to explain, I wish to recruit my finances at Hong-Kong."

"And I," said Edgar, breaking in here, "wish to go to the same place, not so much on my own account as on that of one of my companions, who has left two very pretty little pieces of property there in the shape of a wife and a child, who might object to being left behind."

This settled the question, and the breakfast party went on deck.

"Mr Hazlit," said Edgar, "will you walk with me to the stern of the vessel? I wish to get out of earshot of others."

Mr Hazlit replied, "Certainly, Mr Berrington;" but he thought a good deal more than he said. Among many other things he thought, "Ah! Here it comes at last. He thinks this a good time to renew his suit, having just rendered us such signal assistance. I think he might have waited! Besides, his saving our lives does not alter the fact that he is still a penniless youth, and I _will_ not give my daughter to such. It is true I am a more thoroughly penniless man than he, for these villains have robbed me and Aileen of our rings, chains, and watches, on which I counted a good deal,--alas! But _that_ does not mend matters. It makes them rather worse. No, it must not be! My child's interests must be considered even before gratitude. I _must_ be firm."

Thought is wondrously rapid. Mr Hazlit thought all that and a great deal more during the brief passage from the companion-hatch to the stern-rail.

"I wish to ask you to do me a favour, Mr Hazlit," the young man began.

The merchant looked at him with a troubled expression.

"Mr Berrington, you have been the means of saving our lives. It would be ungrateful in me to refuse you any favour that I can, _with propriety_, grant."

"I am aware," continued Edgar, "that you have--have--met with losses. That your circumstances are changed--"

Mr Hazlit coloured and drew himself proudly up.

"Be not offended, my dear sir," continued the youth earnestly; "I do not intrude on private matters--I would not dare to do so. I only speak of what I saw in English newspapers in Hong-Kong just before I left, and therefore refer to what is generally known to all. And while I sincerely deplore what I know, I would not presume to touch on it at all were I not certain that the pirates must have robbed you of all you possess, and that you must of necessity be in want of _present_ funds. I also know that _some_ of a man's so-called `friends' are apt to fall off and fail him in the time of financial difficulty. Now, the favour I ask is that you will consider me--as indeed I am--one of your true friends, and accept of a loan of two or three hundred pounds--"