Part 6 (1/2)
”Easy there, my lad,” answered the Captain. ”Do you think you catch an ancient mariner on the water without 'a shot in his locker'?”
”Wouldn't it have been jolly,--eating supper in the cabin,” exclaimed William; ”and then, Captain Hardy, would you have gone on with the story?”
”To be sure I would,” answered the Captain.
”Then I'm sorry we didn't stay there,” replied William.
”Good,” said the Captain. ”But what says little Alice?”
”I'd rather hear the story where we are,” was the reply. And as the lightning flashed and the thunder rattled more and more, the little girl crept closer to the old man's side.
”Then I'm glad we came away,” replied the captain; ”and we'll go right on too, for I see you don't like listening to the storm.”
”O, I'm dreadfully afraid!” said Alice.
”Go on, go on! Captain Hardy,” exclaimed both the boys together.
”But where was I when we left off to run away, in such a lubberly manner, from the storm?” inquired the Captain. ”Let me see,” and he put his finger to his nose, looking thoughtful.
”You were just beginning to cry,” put in William.
”To be sure I was, that's it; and so would you cry, too, my boy, if you had an empty stomach under your belt, and nothing but a jack-knife in it,” answered the Captain.
”That I would,” exclaimed William, ”I should have cried my eyes out.
But, Captain Hardy,--if you'll excuse me,--was the jack-knife in the empty stomach or in the belt?”
”Ah, you little rogue! I'll not mind _you_ any more,” said the Captain, laughing; ”what would Fred have done?”
”I think I should have broke my heart,” said Fred, promptly.
”That's not so easy done as crying,” exclaimed the Captain. ”But what says little Alice; what would she have done?”
”I don't know,” replied Alice, gently; ”but I think I should have gone and tried to get the poor boy to speak to me, and then I would have tried to comfort him.”
”That's it, my charming little girl; that's just exactly what I did. But it wasn't so easy either, I can tell you; for the boy was still as dull as ever. I tried to rouse him in every way I could think of; but he would not arouse. I spoke to him, I called to him, I shouted to him; but he would not answer me a single word.”
”What was his name, Captain Hardy? Won't you tell us his name?” asked Fred.
”Ah! that I should have done before; but I forgot it. His name was Richard Dean. The sailors always called him 'the Dean.' He was a bright, lively boy, and everybody liked him. To see him in such a state made my very heart ache. But he was growing warm under his great load of eider-down, and that I was glad to see; and at last he showed some feeble signs of consciousness. His eyes opened wide, his lips moved. I thought he was saying something, though I could not understand for some time what it was. Then I could make out, after a while, that he was murmuring, 'Mother, mother!' Then he looked at me, wildly like, and then he turned his head away, and then he turned it back and looked at me again. 'Hardy,' said he, in a very low voice, 'is that you?' 'Yes,' I said; 'and I'm glad you know me,'--which you may be very sure I was.
”But the poor fellow's mind soon wandered away from me again; and I could see that it was disturbed by visions of something dreadful.
'There! there!' he cried, 'it's tumbling on me!--the ice! the ice! it's tumbling on me!' and he tried to spring up from where he lay. 'There's nothing there at all, Dean,' said I, as I pressed him down. 'Come, look up; don't you see me?' He was quiet in an instant; and then, looking up into my face, he said, 'Yes, it's Hardy, I know; but what has happened to us,--anything?' Without pausing to give me time to answer, he closed his eyes and went on,--'O, I've had an awful dream! I thought an iceberg was falling on the s.h.i.+p. I saw it coming, and sprang away! As it fell, the s.h.i.+p went down, and I went down with it,--down, down, down; then I came up, clinging to some pieces of the wreck. Another man was with me; we were drifted with the waves to the land. I kept above the water until I saw somebody running towards me. When he had nearly reached me, I drowned. O, it was an awful dream!--Did you come to call me, Hardy?'--and he opened wide his eyes. 'Is it four bells? Did you come to call me?'--'No, no, I haven't come to call you, it isn't four bells yet,' I answered, scarcely knowing what I said; 'sleep on, Dean.'--'I'm glad you didn't come to call me, Hardy. I want to sleep. The dream haunts me. I dreamed that I was fast to something that hurt me, when I tried to get away. It was an awful dream,--awful, awful, awful!'--and his voice died away into the faintest whisper, and then it ceased entirely. 'Sleep, sleep on, poor Dean!' murmured I; and I prayed with all my heart that his reason might not be gone.
”'What could I do?' 'What should I do?' were the questions which soon crossed my mind respecting the Dean. There was, however, one very obvious answer,--'Let him alone'; so I rose up from his side, and saw, as I did so, that he was now sleeping soundly,--a genuine, quiet sleep.
He had become quite warm; and, after some minutes' watching, it appeared to me very likely that he would, after a while, wake up all right,--a conclusion which made me very happy; that is, as happy as one so situated could be.
”After leaving the Dean I once more considered my condition. It seemed to me that I had grown many years older in these few hours, and I commenced reasoning with myself. Instead of sitting down on the rock, and beginning to cry, as I had done before, I sat down to reflect. And this is the way I reflected:--
”'1st,' I said, 'while there is life there is hope'; and,
”'2d. So long as the land remains unexplored, I have a right to conclude that it is inhabited'; and,