Part 13 (1/2)
He laughed with a savage irony that was not good to hear, but c.o.ke caught at the suggestion.
”Even that is better'n tearin' one another like mad dogs,” he growled.
”I know wot's comin'. I've seen it wonst.”
Hozier made for the exit, where Marcel stood, irresolute, apparently waiting for orders.
”Where are you going?” demanded De Sylva.
”To see what is becoming of the lifeboat.”
”Better not. You cannot help your friend, and the instant it becomes known to the troops that there is a living soul on the Grand-pere rock they will come in a steam launch and shoot everyone at sight.”
”Will that be the answer to our signal?”
It was Iris who asked the question, and the Brazilian's voice softened again.
”Yes,” he said.
”Why, then, do you advise us to seek our own destruction?”
He bowed. His manner was almost humble.
”It is the easier way,” he murmured.
”Is there no other?”
”None--unless we attack two hundred soldiers with sticks, and stones, and three revolvers, and a sword.”
Hozier came back. He had merely stepped a pace or two into the sunlight. Through the northerly dip of the gulley he had seen the s.h.i.+p's boat whirled past an islet by the fierce current. Macfarlane was not visible. Perhaps that was better so. At any rate, the sight of the small craft vanis.h.i.+ng behind one of the island barriers brought home with telling force the predicament of those who remained. Now that the sheer frenzy of the wreck had relaxed, Philip's head was like to split with the throbbing anguish of the blow he had received. But his mind was clearer. De Sylva's words, amplifying his own vague recollection of the scene on board the _Andromeda_, enabled him to construct a picture of events as they were. And his blood boiled when he thought of Iris, s.n.a.t.c.hed many times from death, only to face it once more in the ravening form of starvation and thirst.
”Attack!” he said hoa.r.s.ely. ”How is that possible? A deep and wide channel separates us from the main island.”
The Brazilian, who seemed to have argued himself into a state of stoic despair, gave a startling answer.
”We have a boat, a sort of boat,” he said quietly.
”How many will it hold?”
”Three, in a smooth sea, and with skilled handling. It nearly overturned when I and two others crossed from the island, a distance of three hundred yards.”
”But we have ropes, clothes, perhaps some few pieces of wreckage. Can nothing be done to repair it?”
”Meaning that we draw lots to see who shall endeavor to escape to-night?”
”The men might even do that.”
”Ah, yes--the men, of course. I think it hopeless. But, try it! Yes, certainly, try it!”
A pause, more eloquent than the most impa.s.sioned speech, showed how this frail straw, eddying in the vortex of their fate, might yet be clutched at. San Benavides, trying vainly to guess what was being said, blurted forth an anxious inquiry. His compatriot explained briefly. Somehow, the measured cadence of their talk had a less reliable sound than the vigorous Anglo-Saxon. They were both brave men. They had not scrupled to risk their lives in an enterprise where success beckoned even doubtingly. But they were lacking when all that remained to be settled was how best to die; in such an hour the men of an English speaking race will ever choose a fighting death.
This time, it was a woman who decided.