Part 31 (1/2)

For many hours he was driven about and tossed by the winds and waves until he began to feel utterly exhausted, but he clung to the spar with the tenacity of a drowning man. In those seas the water is not so cold as in our northern climes, so that men can remain in it for a great length of time without much injury. There are many instances of the South Sea Islanders having been wrecked in their canoes, and having spent not only hours but days in the water, clinging to broken pieces of wood, and swimming for many miles, pus.h.i.+ng these before them.

When, therefore, the morning broke, and the bright sun, shone out, and the gale had subsided, Henry found himself still clinging to the spar, and although much weakened, still able to make some exertion to save himself.

On looking round he found that numerous pieces of the wreck floated near him, and that the portion to which he clung was the broken lower-mast.

A large ma.s.s of the deck, with part of the gunwale attached to it, lay close beside, him, held to the mast by one of the shrouds. He at once swam to this, and found it sufficiently large to sustain his weight, though not large enough to enable him to get quite out of the water.

While here, half-in and half-out of the water, his first act was to fall on his knees and thank G.o.d for sparing his life, and to pray for help in that hour of need.

Feeling that it would be impossible to exist much longer unless he could get quite out of the water so as to allow the sun to warm his chilled frame, he used what strength remained in him to drag towards him several spars that lay within his reach. These he found to be some of the rough timbers that had lain on the deck of the cutter to serve as spare masts and yards. They were, therefore, dest.i.tute of cordage, so that it was not possible to form a secure raft. Nevertheless, by piling them together on the top of the broken portion of the deck, he succeeded in constructing a platform which raised him completely out of the water.

The heat of the sun speedily dried his garments, and as the day wore on the sea went down sufficiently to render the keeping of his raft together a matter of less difficulty than it was at first. In trying to make some better arrangement of the spars on which he rested, he discovered the corner of a sail sticking between two of them. This he hauled out of the water, and found it to be a portion of the gaff. It was a fortunate discovery; because, in the event of long exposure, it would prove to be a most useful covering. Wringing it out, he spread it over the logs to dry.

The doing of all this occupied the s.h.i.+pwrecked youth so long, that it was nearly mid-day before he could sit down on his raft and think calmly over his position. Hunger now began to remind him that he was dest.i.tute of food; but Henry had been accustomed, while roaming among the mountains of his island home, to go fasting for long periods of time.

The want of breakfast, therefore, did not inconvenience him much; but before he had remained inactive more than ten minutes, the want of sleep began to tell upon him. Gradually he felt completely overpowered by it.

He laid his head on one of the spars at last, and resigned himself to an influence he could no longer resist.

It was evening before he awoke from that slumber. The sun had just disappeared below the horizon, and the red clouds that remained behind were beginning to deepen, as night prepared to throw her dark mantle over the sea. A gull wheeled over the youth's head and uttered a wild cry as he awoke, causing him to start up with a feeling of bewildered uncertainty as to where he was.

The true nature of his position was quickly forced upon him. A dead calm now prevailed. Henry gazed eagerly, wistfully round the horizon.

It was an unbroken line; not a speck that resembled a sail was to be seen. Remembering for the first time that his low raft would be quite invisible at a very short distance, he set about erecting a flag. This was easily done. Part of his red s.h.i.+rt was torn off and fastened to a light spar, the end of which he stuck between the logs. Having set up his signal of distress he sat down beside it, and, drawing part of the sail over his shoulders, leaned on the broken part of the bulwark, and pondered his forlorn condition.

It was a long, sad reverie into which poor Henry Stuart fell that evening. Hope did not, indeed, forsake his breast--for hope is strong in youth; but he was too well acquainted with the details of a sailor's life and risks to be able to shut his eyes to the real dangers of his position. He knew full well that if he should be cast on any of the inhabited islands of the South Seas (unless it might be one of the very few that had at that time accepted the Gospel) he would certainly be killed by the savages, whose practice it is to slay and eat all unfortunates who chance to be wrecked and cast upon their sh.o.r.es. But no islands were in sight, and it was possible that he might be left to float on the boundless ocean until the slow and terrible process of starvation did its work, and wore away the life which he felt to be so fresh and strong within him.

When he thought of this he shuddered, and reverted, almost with a feeling of pleasure, to the idea that another storm might spring up ere long, and by das.h.i.+ng his frail raft to pieces, bring his life to a speedy termination. His hopes were not very clear even to his own mind.

He did indeed hope, because he could not help it; but what it was that he hoped for would have puzzled him to state. A pa.s.sing s.h.i.+p finding him in a part of the Pacific where s.h.i.+ps were not wont to pa.s.s was, perhaps, among the least animating of all his hopes.

But the thoughts that coursed through the youth's brain that night were not centred alone upon the means or the prospects of deliverance. He thought of his mother,--her gentleness, her goodness, her unaccountable partiality for Gascoyne; but more than all, he thought of her love for himself. He thought, too, of his former life--his joys, his sorrows, and his sins. As he remembered these last, his soul was startled, and he thought of his G.o.d and his Saviour as he had never thought before.

Despite his efforts to restrain them, tears, but not unmanly tears, _would_ flow down his cheeks as he sat that evening on his raft; meditated on the past, the present, and the future, and realised the terrible solemnity of his position--without water or food--almost without hope--alone on the deep. [See Frontispiece.]

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING--DOINGS ON THE ISLE OF PALMS--GASCOYNE'S DESPAIR.

It was not without some difficulty that the boat reached the sh.o.r.e after the squall burst upon them. On landing, the party observed, dark though it was, that their leader's countenance wore an expression of the deepest anxiety; yet there were lines upon it that indicated the raging of conflicting pa.s.sions which he found it difficult to restrain.

”I fear me,” said Ole Thorwald in a troubled voice, ”that our young friend Henry Stuart is in danger.”

”Lost!” said Gascoyne, in a voice so low and grating that it startled his hearers.

”Say not so,” said Mr Mason, earnestly. ”He is a brave and a clever youth, and knows how to manage the cutter until we can row back and fetch him ash.o.r.e.”

”Row back!” exclaimed Gascoyne, almost fiercely.

”Think you that I would stand here idle if our boat could live in such a sea as now rolls on the rocks? The _Wasp_ must have been washed over the reef by this time. She may pa.s.s the next without being dashed to pieces, but she is too rickety to stand the third. No, there is no hope!”

While he spoke the missionary's eyes were closed, and his lips moved as if in silent prayer. Seizing Gascoyne nervously by the arm, he said--”You cannot tell that there is no hope. That is known only to One who has encouraged us to `hope against hope.' Henry is a stout youth and a good swimmer. He may succeed in clinging to some portion of the wreck.”