Part 10 (1/2)

In the morning there was a black spot upon the horizon. I fancied that it was a little nearer than when I last saw it; but in the course of the forenoon it faded away altogether. Then despair seized upon me, and I cared not whether I lived or died. I forgot to eat, and threw myself upon the deck, where I remained for several hours, upbraiding myself for my monstrous, unpardonable folly in neglecting the opportunities which were now lost.

Over and over again I told myself bitterly, that when I had been near enough to the vessel which bore Bertha Nugent to converse with Mary Phillips without the aid of a speaking-trumpet, I should have tried to reach that vessel, no matter what the danger or the difficulties. I should have launched a raft--I should have tried to swim--I should have done something.

And more than that, even had it been impossible for me to reach the steamer, I should have endeavored to reach Bertha's heart. I should have told her that I loved her. Whether she were lost or I were lost, or both of us, she should have known I loved her. She might not have been able to answer me, but she could have heard me. For that terrible mistake, that crime, there was no pardon. Now every chance was gone.

What reason was there to suppose that these two derelicts ever again would drift together?

In the afternoon I rose languidly and looked about me. I saw something on the horizon, and seizing the gla.s.s, I knew it to be _La Fidelite_. I could recognize the slant of the hull, of the masts.

Now hope blazed up again. If she were nearer, she must come nearer still. I recovered my ordinary state of mind sufficiently to know that I was hungry, and that I must eat to be strong and ready for what might happen.

Upon one thing I was determined. If Bertha should ever again be brought near enough to hear me, I would tell her that I loved her. The object of life, however much of it might be left me, should be to make Bertha know that I loved her. If I swam toward the vessel, or floated on a plank, I must get near enough to tell her that I loved her.

But there was no wind, and the apparent size of the steamer did not increase. This was a region or season of calms or fitful winds. During the rest of the day the distant vessel continued to be a black speck upon the smooth and gently rolling sea. Again I spent the night on deck, but I did not wake to listen or watch. I was worn out and slept heavily.

The day was bright when I was awakened by a chilly feeling: a strong breeze was blowing over me. I sprang to my feet. There was quite a heavy sea; the vessel was rolling and pitching beneath me, and not far away, not more than a mile, _La Fidelite_ was coming straight toward me. Lightly laden, and with a great part of her hull high out of water, the high wind was driving her before it, while my vessel, her bow to the breeze, was moving at a much slower rate.

As I looked at the rapidly approaching steamer, it seemed as if she certainly must run into the _Sparhawk_. But for that I cared not. All that I now hoped for was that Bertha should come to me. Whether one vessel sank or the other, or whether both went down together, I should be with Bertha, I would live or die with her. Mary Phillips stood full in view on the stern of the oncoming steamer, a speaking-trumpet in her hand. I could now see that it was not probable that the two vessels would collide. The steamer would pa.s.s me, but probably very near.

Before I could make up my mind what I should do in this momentous emergency, Mary Phillips hailed me.

”When we get near enough,” she shouted, ”throw me a rope. I'll tie it to the boat and cut it loose.”

Wildly I looked about me for a line which I might throw. Cordage there was in abundance, but it was broken or fastened to something, or too heavy to handle. I remembered, however, seeing a coil of small rope below, and hastening down, I brought it on deck, took the coil in my right hand, and stood ready to hurl it when the proper moment should come.

That moment came quickly. The steamer was not a hundred feet from me when I reached the deck. It pa.s.sed me on the port side.

”Be ready!” cried Mary Phillips, the instant she saw me. It was not now necessary to use a trumpet.

”Throw as soon as I get opposite to you!” she cried.

”Is Bertha well?” I shouted.

”Yes!” said Mary Phillips; ”but what you've got to do is to throw that rope. Give it a good heave. Throw now!”

The two vessels were not fifty feet apart. With all my strength I hurled the coil of rope. The steamer's stern was above me, and I aimed high. The flying coil went over the deck of _La Fidelite_, but in my excitement I forgot to grasp tightly the other end of it, and the whole rope flew from me and disappeared beyond the steamer. Stupefied by this deplorable accident, I staggered backward and a heave of the vessel threw me against the rail. Recovering myself, I glared about for another rope, but of course there was none.

Then came a shout from Mary Phillips. But she had already pa.s.sed me, and as I was to the windward of her I did not catch her words. As I remembered her appearance, she seemed to be tearing her hair. In a flash I thought of my resolution. Rus.h.i.+ng to the rail, I put the trumpet to my mouth. The wind would carry my words to her if it would not bring hers to me.

”Tell Bertha to come on deck!” I shouted. Mary Phillips looked at me, but did not move. I wished her to rush below and bring up Bertha. Not an instant was to be lost. But she did not move.

”Tell her I love her!” I yelled through the trumpet. ”Tell her that I love her now and shall love her forever. Tell her I love her, no matter what happens. Tell her I love her, I love her, I love her!” And this I continued to scream until it was plain I was no longer heard. Then I threw down my useless trumpet and seized the gla.s.s. Madly I scanned the steamer. No sign of Bertha was to be seen. Mary Phillips was there, and now she waved her handkerchief. At all events she forgave me. At such a terrible moment what could one do but forgive?

I watched, and watched, and watched, but no figure but that of Mary Phillips appeared upon the steamer, and at last I could not even distinguish that. Now I became filled with desperate fury. I determined to sail after Bertha and overtake her. A great sail was flapping from one of my masts, and I would put my s.h.i.+p about, and the strong wind should carry me to Bertha.

I knew nothing of sailing, but even if I had known, all my efforts would have been useless. I rushed to the wheel and tried to move it, pulling it this way and that, but the rudder was broken or jammed,--I know not what had happened to it. I seized the ropes attached to the boom of the sail, I pulled, I jerked, I hauled; I did not know what I was doing. I did nothing. At last, in utter despair and exhaustion, I fell to the deck.

But before the wind had almost died away, and in the afternoon the sea was perfectly calm, and when the sun set I could plainly see the steamer on the faroff edge of the glistening water. During the whole of the next day I saw her. She neither disappeared nor came nearer.

Sometimes I was in the depths of despair; sometimes I began to hope a little; but I had one great solace in the midst of my misery--Bertha knew that I loved her. I was positively sure that my words had been heard.

It was a strange manner in which I had told my love. I had roared my burning words of pa.s.sion through a speaking-trumpet, and I had told them not to Bertha herself, but to Mary Phillips. But the manner was of no importance. Bertha now knew that I loved her. That was everything to me.