Читать книгу Mystery Island - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 5

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Nevertheless, the chums were somewhat despondent. In the circumstances, it was natural to be so. Suddenly cut off from their floating home—which was no longer floating—their shipmates gone beyond recall, the shock was much like a blow between the eyes.

Their own precarious position was for the present lost sight of. As they rested on their oars after the prolonged but fruitless search for possible survivors, they forgot all about the discomforts they had endured. The hot-tempered Old Man and the nigger-driving Chief Officer were, as such, forgotten. They remembered the pair only as shipmates set in authority.

“Poor old Peter, too,” remarked Curtiss. “If only Durnford had let him come with us!”

“Perhaps it’s as well,” rejoined Alec. “He was a fine dog, but——”

“But what?” asked Chris, noticing his chum’s reluctance to complete the sentence.

“He’d want food and water,” added the senior apprentice, becoming alive to present conditions. “We’ve precious little of either.”

“But we’ll be picked up before very long,” declared Brian optimistically.

“Or we may not,” said Alec. “I’ve been thinking things out. Where the nearest land is, goodness only knows. The Old Man never gave any of us a chance to look at a chart. Our best plan is to make either westward or to the sou’-west. We’re bound to strike some of the islands sooner or later, even if we don’t get picked up.”

“Right-oh!” agreed Brian.

“Not so fast, old son,” objected the eldest of the three. “It will be dark in an hour. There’s going to be a stiff breeze very soon, unless I’m much mistaken. Our best plan is to get back to the raft and lie to lee’ard of it till daybreak. Night sailing’s all very well when you know what the boat will stand. We don’t.”

Owing to the loss of the mast and part of the breastwork from the raft, it was a difficult matter to locate its position. Resuming the oars, for the wind had now quite died away, the lads rowed for nearly a mile in the direction they supposed the raft to be, eventually discovering her to be well on the starboard bow.

“Might have missed it easily,” remarked Brian, as the whaler’s helm was altered to the required bearing. “Where’s the stiff breeze you talked about?”

“It’ll come, never you fear,” replied Alec. “More than we want, perhaps. In any case, if it doesn’t, we don’t want to tire ourselves out at the oars.”

Again the whaler brought up alongside the raft, although the latter presented a different appearance owing to the disappearance of its lifeless burden.

“Hold her alongside, Chris!” exclaimed Alec. “We may as well have that sea-chest. It may come in handy.”

The lashings of the chest were cast loose. Not without considerable effort the chest with its contents was lifted over the whaler’s gunwale and placed abaft the mast-thwart. This done, the boat was allowed to ride to the raft by means of the painter, although, owing to the total absence of wind, the former showed a decided tendency to lie alongside the floating breakwater.

“Now let’s see what food and water we have,” suggested Alec. “Try the breaker first.”

The barrel containing the boat’s supply of water was hauled from its place under the stern-bench. Normally it was supposed to contain ten gallons of drinking-water; but, as Alec had suspected, the person responsible for the task of replenishing the breaker had grossly neglected his duty.

The barrel contained about half a gallon of decidedly musty-smelling water, which had probably been there for weeks. In the heat of the tropics, the teak-staves had shrunk so badly that most of the precious liquid had escaped. Of the remainder, it seemed doubtful whether it would be fit to drink.

There was also a box of biscuits which was supposed to be air-tight. Ripping open the tin-lined case, the lads discovered that the contents were green with mildew and reduced to a repulsive-looking paste.

“Ditch them,” suggested Brian, as the reek of the mouldering provisions assailed his nostrils.

“Better not,” cautioned Alec. “We may be glad of them yet.”

A further search produced a boat’s lantern with a dozen candles; a small liquid compass from which some of the spirit had escaped, leaving a “bubble” which seriously affected the efficiency of the instrument; and a small tin box containing four doubtful-looking matches.

It was the old tale. The boats had passed the Board of Trade inspector before the Cosmos left England. The ship’s officers should have taken care that they were kept in an efficient condition. They had not; also pilferers had been busy. The result was that when they were badly wanted most of the essentials were either missing or damaged to such a degree as to be practically useless.

“Are you hungry?” asked Brian. “I am.”

“Tighten your belt, my lad,” was Alec’s advice, although it took a lot of will-power on his part not to produce the chocolate and biscuits.

It was not selfishness—far from it. But the senior apprentice, now fully alive to the responsibilities of his position, knew that the scanty store at that moment in his pockets represented all the three lads were likely to get for a long time. Carefully doled out, the chocolate and biscuits might keep them going for a week. It seemed hopeless to think of being able to eat the mouldy tack in the biscuit-box.

And water?

Without being boiled the liquid in the breaker was worse than useless. It was positively dangerous.

Alec’s eyes roamed in the direction of the baler. Fortunately, in contrast to the rest of the gear, it was almost new and galvanised as well. If only it would rain!

Darkness was now setting in. The short tropical twilight was almost done.

“How about turning in?” suggested Chris. “Any anchor watch, Cap’n?” he added, with a feeble attempt at humour.

“No,” replied Alec. “It’s rest we want. We’ll be safe enough riding to the raft. Get the mainsail spread, lads. It’s going to be hard lying to-night.”

Before very long, the truth of his words became apparent. With only the small jib to mitigate the hardness of the bottom-boards, the three lads stretched themselves down to sleep. Above the mainsail was stretched to ward off the night dews.

At first sleep seemed out of the question. They were hungry, tired, and weary; but the tragic events of the last few hours, combined with the hardness of their bed, banished sleep from their eyes.

After about an hour, during which hardly a word was spoken, Alec sat up, used one of the scanty stock of matches and lit the lantern. Then, producing the chocolate, he carefully divided one small bar into three equal portions.

“My word, Alec! Where did you get that?” asked Brian.

“No questions, no stories,” replied Alec. “Eat your supper, there’s a good little boy.”

“Well, how much have you got, anyway?” asked Chris.

“A pound less than three ounces,” answered his chum. “And a few biscuits. We’ll have to go slow.”

“I was thinking about water,” continued Chris. “I suppose we couldn’t light a fire on the raft, and boil the water from the breaker? Say just enough to fill the baler?”

“I’d boil the lot if we had anything to store it in,” declared Alec. “It’s useless putting it back into the breaker.”

“The air-tanks?” suggested Alderson, referring to the eight buoyancy tanks under the side benches of the boat.

“They’re copper,” protested his chum. “Ten to one they’re smothered with verdigris. Hello! I don’t think we’ll need the fire after all,” he added, as heavy rain-drops began to patter down upon the stretched sail. “Get the baler handy, lads. Every drop’s precious.”

Soon the rain descended in torrents. In spite of the sail being spread bent-wise over both gunwales, an alarming quantity of water found its way into the bottom of the boat. All hands set to work to bail, using their caps, since the article specially supplied for that operation was being put to a better purpose. In fact, in less than forty minutes each one had drunk as much fresh water as he wanted, and still the baler was full to overflowing.

About midnight the rain ceased. Contrary to expectation the wind did not spring up. An uncanny silence pervaded everything.

Notwithstanding the protection afforded by the sail, the lads’ clothes were saturated. The bottom-boards were covered with dirty water. Sleeping, for the present, was out of the question. As cheerfully as the circumstances permitted, the crew of the whaler sat up and waited for day.

Suddenly the stillness of the pitch-dark night was broken by a long-drawn-out moan. It sounded unreal, unearthly. Although distinct, the sound seemed to come from a considerable distance. It was not the cry of a human being. No sound like that ever issued from the throat of man, woman, or child.

The chums glanced apprehensively at each other. In the feeble rays of the lantern their features looked drawn. No one spoke. In the ensuing silence they could feel their hearts thumping violently.

Again the despairing wail was repeated.

“Is it a seabird?” asked Brian.

“Or a dog?” suggested Chris.

Alec sprang to his feet, bumping his head against the canvas.

“It’s Peter!” he declared.