Part 65 (1/2)

The silence continues till 'tis seen going down. Then they hear words, which send the blood in quick current through their veins, bringing hope back into their hearts. They are:

”_Sail in sight_!”

CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE.

BY THE SIGNAL-STAFF.

”Sail in sight!”

Three little words, but full of big meaning, of carrying the question of life or death.

To the ears of that starving crew sweet as music, despite the harsh Teutonic p.r.o.nunciation of him who gave them utterance.

Down drops the pannikin, spilling out the sh.e.l.ls; which they have hopes may be no more needed.

At the shout from above, all have faced towards the sea, and stand scanning its surface. But with gaze unrewarded. The white flecks seen afar are only the wings of gulls.

”Where away?” shouts one, interrogating him on the hill.

”Sou'-westart.”

South-westward they cannot see. In this direction their view is bounded; a projection of the cliff interposing between them and the outside sh.o.r.e. All who are able start off towards its summit. The stronger ones rush up the gorge as if their lives depended on speed.

The weaker go toiling after. One or two, weaker still, stay below to wait the report that will soon reach them.

The first up, on clearing the scarp, have their eyes upon the Dutchman.

His behaviour might cause them surprise, if they could not account for it. As said, the beacon is upon the higher of the two peaks, some two hundred yards beyond the clift's brow. He is beside it, and apparently beside himself. Dancing over the ground, he makes grotesque gesticulations, tossing his arms about, and waving his hat overhead--all the while shouting as if to some vessel close at hand--calling in rapid repet.i.tion:

”s.h.i.+p, Ahoy! Ahoy!”

Looking they can see no s.h.i.+p, nor craft of any kind. For a moment they think him mad, and fear, after all, it may be a mistake. Certainly there is no vessel near enough to be hailed.

But sending their eyes farther out, their fear gives place to joy almost delirious. There _is_ a sail, and though leagues off, seeming but a speck, their practised eyes tell them she is steering that way--running coastwise. Keeping this course, she must come past the isle--within sight of their signal, so long spread to no purpose.

Without staying to reflect farther, they strain on towards the summit, where the staff is erected.

Harry Blew is the first to reach it; and clutching the telescope, jerks it from the hands of the half-crazed Dutchman. Raising it to his eye, he directs it on the distant sail--there keeping it more than a minute.

The others have meanwhile come up, and, cl.u.s.tering around, impatiently question him.

”What is she? How's she standing?”

”A bit o' a barque,” responds Blew. ”And from what I can make out, close huggin' the sh.o.r.e. I'll be better able to tell when she draws out from that clump of cloud.”

Gomez, standing by, appears eager to get hold of the gla.s.s; but Blew seems unwilling to give it up. Still holding it at his eye, he says:

”See to that signal, mates! Spread the tarpaulin' to its full streetch.

Face it square, so's to _give_ 'em every chance of sightin' it.”

Striker and Davis spring to the piece of tarred canvas; and grasping it, one at each corner, draw out the creases, and hold as directed.