Chapter 35. Up A Tree

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_ CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. UP A TREE

"Put your backs into it, my lads," cried Joe Cross, almost fiercely. "Steady! Steady all, and look out that you don't have a smash. Pull! Hard! Here, I shall be tugged out of the boat!"

For it seemed almost directly after that the dimly-seen hull of the brig rose up out of the darkness close at hand, while from where he knelt-- fortunately for himself--the coxswain felt his arms being jerked out of their sockets as he caught with the boat-hook at the brig's main chains. "Stand by there!" he roared, as he held on. "Lend a hand here to help the gentlemen on board! Somebody say it in French! Up with you!"

There was no need for the use of another tongue, for a lantern shed its light down upon them, willing hands were ready, and the Count and Morny scrambled aboard.

The next moment the Count was giving orders for a rope to be passed down to the boat.

"Make fast, and come on board!" he shouted. "You'll never get back to-night."

The order came too late, for as he spoke another order was given out by Joe Cross, who had loosed the precarious hold he had with the boat-hook, as he shouted while giving the boat a thrust away--

"Now for it, my lads! Pull for all you know!"

Almost the next moment Rodd dimly saw that they were clear, and as the men tugged at their oars with all their might he dropped upon his knees in front of stroke, clapped his hands against the oar, and swinging with the man, thrust with all his force.

Five minutes of desperate tugging at the oars in the midst of darkness which seemed to rapidly increase. The men had rowed with all their force--not to get back to the schooner, but to reach the brig and one of her ropes that they knew would be thrown to their help; but to Rodd, as he strained his eyes from where he knelt striving to give force to the stroke oar, it was like catching so many glimpses, first of the brig's side, then of its stern, and then once more it was as if they were standing still in the water and the brig was rushing away.

"Steady, my lads! Don't break your hearts!" cried Joe Cross firmly, his voice ringing clearer out of the black silence. "It aren't to be done. Mid-stream's our game. If we try to get ashore we shall be among the branches, capsized in a moment, and--"

The sailor did not finish his speech then, but Rodd did to himself, and hot though he was with his exertions, a cold shiver seemed to run through him, as he mentally said--

"The crocodiles!"

"That's better, my lads. Just a steady pull, and I'll keep as I am with the boat-hook. We mustn't have a capsize."

"What are you going to do, Joe?" cried Rodd.

"Don't know, sir," said the man gruffly. "Perhaps you can tell me."

"I? No," cried Rodd.

"Ah! That's awkward," said the man. "I don't know what the skipper was about to set us on this job. That's the worst of being a sailor. They trains us up to 'bey orders directly they're guv, and we does them, but one never knows how to be right. I oughter ha' told the old man as this was more'n men could do; 'cause I half thought it were. But then I says to myself, the skipper knows best; and here we are in a nice hole."

"A nice hole!" cried Rodd angrily. "Why, we shall be swept out to sea."

"Looks like it, sir--I mean seems."

"But why not make for the shore, where we could catch hold of some of the overhanging branches?"

"I telled you, sir. 'Cause we should be capsized before we had time to wink. Steady, my lads--steady! It's no use to pull, Mr Rodd; four times as many of us couldn't stem a stream like this."

"Will they come down after us? Yes, my uncle is sure to."

"Not he, sir. It would be just about mad to try it, and our old man will be so wild at being caught like this that he won't let him stir. 'Sides that, sir, what are you talking about? How are they to know we have been swept away?"

"Because we don't come back, of course," cried Rodd angrily.

"That won't do, sir. Skipper knows, of course, after the way we went off, that it's just impossible."

"But the Count will tell him."

"Too far off for shouting, sir. You take my word for it that the skipper will make up his mind that we are stopping on board the brig till the tide runs slack again. If anything's done it will be by the Frenchies, and I don't believe they'll try."

"Oh, but the Count would. His son would make him."

"No, sir. The Count's a fine naval officer who has seen service, and he knows too well what he's about to send a boat's crew swirling down this river to go nobody knows where. The only folks as can help us is--"

"Yes--who?" cried Rodd, for the man broke off in his speech.

"Ourselves, sir; and we shall find it precious hard."

"That's right, Joe," said one of the other sailors. "Better speak out, mate, and say the worst on it."

"Say it yourselves," cried Joe Cross roughly.

"Yes, speak out," cried Rodd. "What do you think?"

"We can do nothing, sir, but keep her head straight and go down with the tide, doing all we can to keep from being sucked into the shore among the trees."

"But look here, Joe, aren't we very close in now?" cried Rodd, who had just noticed in the darkness that the sailor he addressed was leaning over the bows and straining his eyes in one particular direction.

For answer the man yelled to his messmates to pull with all their might.

The oars dipped, but at the second stroke there was a crashing rustling sound of twigs, followed by a sharp crackling and snapping, as they were swept in amongst the pendant branches of some huge forest tree, one bough striking Rodd across the shoulders and holding him as it were fast, so that the boat was being dragged from beneath him.

Then there was more grinding of the gunwale of the boat amongst the boughs, the water came swishing in over the side, and directly after the frail vessel partly turned over, with her keel lying sideways to the rushing tide.

Then more crackling and rustling amongst the boughs, mingled with shouting from the boat's crew, and from out of the confusion, and somewhere above him in the pitchy darkness and low-lying night mist, came the voice of Joe Cross--

"Now then, all of you! Where away?"

"Here!"

"Here!"

"All right, mate!"

"Lend a hand, some one!"

"Are you all here?" cried Joe Cross again.

"Ay, ay, ay, ay!" came in chorus.

"But I don't hear the young guvnor."

There was silence.

"Where's Mr Rodd?"

A moment's pause, and then--

"Mr Rodd! Ahoy!"

"Here, Joe, here!" came in half-suffocated tones.

"Wheer, my lad?" cried the man excitedly.

"Here! Here! Help!"

"But where's yer _here_, lad? I can't see you.--Can any of you? Oh, look alive, some on you! Get hold of the boy anywhere--arms or legs or anything--and hold on like grim death."

There was a sharp rustling of leaves and twigs which pretty well drowned Rodd's answer--

"I'm down here."

"Where's _down here_, my lad? Are you under the boat?"

"No, no. Hanging to a bough, with the water up to my chest, and something's tugging at me to drag me away."

"Oh, a-mussy me!" groaned the sailor. "Why aren't it to-morrow morning and sun up? Can't any of you see him?"

"No, no, no, no!" came back, almost as dismally as groans.

"Well, can't you feel him, then?"

"No."

"I am here, Joe--here!" panted the lad. "Higher up the river than you are. A big branch swept me out of the boat."

"Ah, yes, we went under it," groaned Joe. "Well, lads, he must be the other side of the tree. Here, where's that there boat? Can any of you see it?"

"No; we are all on us in the tree?"

"Well, I don't suppose you are swimming," roared Cross savagely. "Do something, some on you! Thinking of nothing but saving your own blessed lives! Are you going to let the poor lad drown?"

"Here, coxswain, why don't you tell us what to do?" snarled one of the men.

"How can I," yelled Joe, "when I don't know what to do mysen? Oh, don't I wish that I had got the skipper here! I'd let him have it warm!"

"Joe! Joe!" came out of the darkness. "I can't hold on! I can't hold on!"

"Yah, you young idgit!" roared the sailor. "You must!"

"I can't, Joe--I can't!" cried Rodd faintly, and there was a gurgling sputtering sound as if the water had washed over him.

"Oh-h!" groaned Joe. "Don't I tell you you must! Hold on by your arms and legs--your eyelids. Stick your teeth into the branch. We are a-coming, my lad.--Oh my! what a lie!" he muttered. Then aloud, and in a despairing tone, "Can any one of you get up again' the stream to where he is?"

"No!" came in a deep murmur. "If we go down we shall be washed away."

"Same here," groaned Joe. "I'm a-holding on with the water right up to the middle, and just about ready to be washed off. I can't stir. Oh, do one of you try and save the poor dear lad! I wish I was dead, I do!"

"Joe!" came faintly.

"Ay, ay, my lad!"

"Tell Uncle Paul--"

The words ended in a half-suffocated wailing cry, and almost the next moment there was a tremendous splashing of water, and the snapping of a good-sized branch, followed by sounds as of a struggle going on upon the surface of the rushing stream as it lapped and hissed amongst the tangled boughs and twigs.

"Hold hard!" yelled Joe. "Anywhere.--Got him, boys--_urrrrr_!--"

It was as if some savage beast had suddenly seized its prey. Then there was a loud panting and more crackling as of branches giving way, and directly after, in answer to a volley of inquiries, Joe Cross panted out--

"Yes, I've got him, my lads, and he's got his teeth into me; but I don't know how long we can hold on."

"You must hold on, Joe!" shouted a voice.

"Stick to him, messmate! I'm a-trying to get to you."

There was more crackling in the darkness, and a peculiar subdued sound as of men panting after running hard; but it was only the hard breathing of excitement.

"Have you got him still, Joe?" came in gasps.

"Yes, my lad, but he's awful still and I don't know that he aren't drowned.--No, he aren't, for he's got his teeth into my shoulder, and he's gripping hard. But the water keeps washing right up into my ear."

"Hoist him up a little higher," panted the other speaker.

"How can I? I've got my arm round him, but if I stir it means let go. What are you doing, mate?"

"Trying to get down to you, but as soon as I stir the bough begins to crack."

"Steady, mate, steady! I can't see you, but I can hear, and if you come down on us we are gone. Here, I say, it will be hours before it's morning, won't it?"

There was a groan in reply--a big groan formed by several voices in unison.

"But how long will it be before, the tide goes down and leaves us?"

There was no reply, and a dead silence fell upon the occupants clinging to different portions of the tree, all of whom had managed with the strength and activity of sailors to drag themselves up beyond the reach of the water and at varying distances from where Joe Cross clung with one messmate hanging just above his head.

"Well, look here, messmates," said Joe at last, "it's no use to make the worst on it. I've got the young skipper all right, and he's growing more lively, for he just give a kick. Now who's this 'ere? It's you, Harry Briggs, aren't it?"

"Ay, ay, mate; me and water, for I swallowed a lot before I got out of it."

"Now, look here; how are you holding on?"

"Hanging down'ards, my lad, with my hind legs tied in a knot round a big bough; and I keep on trying to get hold of you by the scruff, but I can't quite reach."

"Why, that's a-hinging like the bees used to do outside my old mother's skep. Well, you mustn't let go, my lad, else down you come."

"Well, I know that, mate," growled the man. "But I say, can't you reach up to my hands?"

"Yah! No!" growled Joe. "I've only got two. Can't you reach down a little further and get hold of my ears, or something?"

"My arms aren't spy-glasses, and they won't reach within a foot of you. Can any of you swarm out above us here?"

"No--no--no!" came in voice after voice, from points that were evidently fairly distant.

"Oh!" groaned the sailor addressed as Harry. "Fust time in my blessed life I ever wished I was a 'Merican monkey."

"What for, mate?" panted Joe.

"So as to make fast round this 'ere branch with my tail."

"Joe! Joe!" came in a low hoarse tone. "Where am I!"

"Well, you are here, my lad; but don't let go with your teeth. Take another good fast hold, but more outside like. Keep to the wool of the jumper--if you can."

"Hah! I recollect now. We are in the water, and I have got hold of you."

"That's right, my lad, and I'd say take a good fast holt of my hair, only Ikey Gregg scissored it off so short when it turned so hot that there's nothing to hold. But can you hyste yourself up a bit higher?"

"I'll try, Joe; but the water drags at me so. But, Joe, what are you holding on to?"

"What they'd call a arm of the tree, sir."

"But if I try to climb up you shan't I drag you loose?"

"Oh, I'm no consequence, my lad. If I'm washed off I shall get hold again somewheres. Never you mind me. There's Harry Briggs up aloft a-reaching down a couple of his hands. If you feel you've got stuff enough in you.--Take your time over it, my lad--you see if you can't swarm a bit up me and then stretch up and think you are at home trying to pick apples, till Harry gets a big grip of your wristies; and then you ought to be able to swarm up him. Now then, do you think you can try?"

"Yes, Joe; I think so," panted the boy. "That's right, my lad. I'd give you a lift, only I can't, for I'm in rotten anchorage, and we mustn't get adrift."

About a minute passed, in which little was heard but the whishing of the water through the leaves and twigs, and the sound of hard breathing. Then Joe spoke again--

"I don't want to hurry you, my lad, but if you think you can manage it I'd say, begin."

"I'm ready now, Joe," said the boy faintly. "But do you think you can hold on?"

"Aren't got time to think, my lad. You go on and do it. That's your job, and don't you think as it's a hard 'un. Just you fancy the doctor's yonder getting anxious about you, and then--up you goes."

"Yes, Joe," panted Rodd.

"And once you get hold of Harry Briggs' hands he'll draw you up a bit. He's a-hinging down like one of them there baboons, tail up'ards. Then, once he hystes you a bit, you get a good grip of him with your teeth anywhere that comes first. He won't mind. That'll set your hands free, and then up you goes bit by bit till you gets right into the tree."

"Yes, Joe; and then?"

"Well, my lad, then I'd set down striddling and have a rest."

"Below there! Ready!" cried Briggs. "I can't reach no further, youngster, but I think if you can climb up and grip we might manage it."

"Yes! Coming!" cried Rodd.

And then no one saw, and afterwards Rodd could hardly tell how he managed it, but with the water pressing him closer as he clung face to face with the partially submerged coxswain, he managed to scramble higher, clinging with arms and legs, till he occupied a hazardous position astride of the sailor's shoulder, holding on with his left hand and reaching up with his right, snatching for a few moments at nothing.

"Where are you, my lad?" came from above.

"Here! Here!" panted Rodd, and then, "Ah, it's of no use!"

As he spoke he felt himself going over, but at that moment his fingers touched the sleeve of a soft clinging jersey, a set of fingers gripped hard at his arm, and in a supreme effort he loosened his other hand, made a snatch, and then began swinging gently to and fro till another hand from above closed upon his jacket and lightened the strain.

"Got you, my lad!" came from overhead. "Now look here; I'm not going to hyste you up, 'cause I can't, but I am going to swing you back'ards and for'ards like a pendulo till you can touch this 'ere bough where I am hanging, and then go on till you can get your legs round it and hold fast. Understand?"

"Yes," panted Rodd.

"Now then. Belay, and when you get hold you shout."

It was the work of an acrobat, such as he would have achieved in doubt and despair.

The sailor began swinging the boy to and fro, to and fro, with more and more force, till Rodd felt his legs go crashing in amongst the thick twigs of the great bough that was drawn down by the weight of the two upon it a good deal below the horizontal.

"Harder!" he cried, as he swung back, and then as his legs went well in again he felt that a thick portion was passing between his knees, and thrusting forward his feet with all his might he forced them upwards and directly afterwards passed them one across the other in a desperate grip which left him dragging on the sailor's hands.

"Fast, my lad?"

"Yes."

"Can you hold on?"

"Yes."

"Then good luck to you!" cried the sailor, as, relieved of the boy's weight, he too swung head downwards for a moment or two, then with a quick effort wrenched himself upwards, got hold of the branch with both hands, and after hanging like a sloth for a few moments, succeeded in dragging himself upon the bough, which all the while was swaying heavily up and down and threatening to shake Rodd from where he hung, but at the same time inciting him so to fresh desperate action, that with all a boy's activity he too had succeeded in perching himself astride of the branch.

"All right, my lad?" cried Briggs.

"Ye-es!" came gaspingly.

"Then you wait a bit and get your wind, my lad.--Joe Cross! Ahoy!" he yelled, as if his messmate were half-a-mile away.

"Right ho!" came from below. "Where's the boy?"

"Here, Joe--here!" shouted Rodd, the sound of the man's voice seeming to send energy through him.

"Hah-h-h!" came from the sailor, and directly after from different parts of the tree there was a cheer.

"Now then, what about you, matey?" shouted Briggs.

"Well, I dunno yet, my lad; I'm just going to try and shape it round. I want to know where some of the others are, and whether if I let go I couldn't manage to make a scramble and swim so as to join a mate."

"No, no, no!" came in chorus. "Don't try it, lad. Aren't you safe where you are?"

"Well, I don't know about being safe," replied the sailor. "Mebbe I could hold on, but here's the water up to my chesty; and don't make a row, or you'll be letting some of those crocs know where I am. Look here, Mr Rodd, sir; are you all right?"

"Yes, Joe; I can sit here as long as I like.--That is," he added to himself, "if the branch doesn't break."

"Well, that's a comfort, sir. And what about you, Harry Briggs?"

"Well, I'm all right, mate; only a bit wet."

"Wet! You should feel me!" cried Cross, quite jocularly. "How about the rest on you?"

"Oh, we are up aloft here in the dark, mate," said one of the men. "I dunno as we should hurt so long as we didn't fall asleep."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that, mates," said Cross. "You might catch cold. You hang yourselves out as wide as you can, so as to get dry."

"But look here, Joe Cross," shouted Rodd, who was rapidly recovering his spirits, "you mustn't sit there in the water. Can't you manage to climb up?"

"Oh yes, sir, I can climb up easy enough, only it don't seem to me as there's anything to climb."

"But doesn't the branch you are sitting on go right up to the tree?"

"No, sir; it goes right down into it, and I'm sitting in a sort of fork, like a dicky bird as has been picking out a handy place for its nest."

"Then what are you going to try to do?"

"Nothing, sir, but think."

"Think?"

"Yes, sir--about what I'm going to say to the skipper if ever we gets back."

"Why, what can you say?"

"That's what I want to know, sir. I know what he'll say to me. He'll say, Look here, my lad, you were coxswain; I want to know what you have done with my gig."

"Ah, the boat!" said Rodd. "Do any of you know what's become of the boat?"

"I don't," said Briggs.

"Oh, she's half-way to South Ameriky by this time, sir," said Joe, "and I shall get all the credit of having lost her."

"Never mind about the boat, Joe."

"Well, sir, if you talk like that, I don't. But it's the skipper who will mind."

"It's nothing to do with him, Joe. It's uncle's boat; and it wasn't your fault."

"Thank you, sir. That's a bit comforting like, and warms one up a bit; but if it's all the same to you I'd raither not talk quite so much, for I don't know as crocs can hear, but if they can it mightn't be pleasant. Well, my lads, just another word; we have got to make the best of it and wait for daylight, and I suppose by that time the tide will have gone right down, and some on you will be getting dry."

There was silence then, and the men sat holding on to their precarious perches, listening to an occasional sound from the river or the shore, loud splashings right away out in the direction of what they supposed to be the main current, and an occasional trumpeting wail or shriek from the forest--sounds that chilled and produced blood-curdling sensations at the first, but to which the men became more and more accustomed as the hours slowly glided on.

"Look here," said Joe Cross, at last, "because I said I didn't want to talk, that wasn't meant for you who are all right up above the water. It's bad enough to be keeping a watch like this on a dark night, but that is no reason why you chaps shouldn't tell stories and talk and say something to cheer Mr Rodd up a bit. He had about the worst of it, swep' out of the boat as he was. So let go, some on you. You've got to do something, as you can't go to sleep. But I tell you one thing; you chaps are all much better off than I am. I shan't fall out of my bunk on the top of any of you. But look here, Harry Briggs, you always want a lot of stirring up before one can get you to move. Now then; you have got a bit of pipe of your own. Sing us a song. Good cheery one, with a chorus--one that Mr Rodd can pick up and chime in. Now then, let go."

"Who's a-going to sing with the water dripping down out of his toes?"

"Why, you, mate," cried Joe. "There, get on with you. You chaps as knows the best songs always wants the most stirring up, pretending to be bashful, when you want to begin all the time!"

"I tell you I don't, mate. I'm too cold."

"Then heave ahead, and that'll warm you up. You tell him he is to sing, Mr Rodd, sir. You're skipper now, and he must obey orders. It'll do us all good."

"Well," said Rodd, "it doesn't seem a very cheerful time to ask people to sing in the dark; but perhaps it will brighten us all up."

"Ay, ay, sir!" came from the rest.

"Am I to, Mr Rodd?" said the man appealingly; and after a little more pressing he struck up in a good musical tenor the old-fashioned sea song of "The Mermaid," with its refrain of--

"We jolly sailor boys were up, up aloft,
And the land lubbers lying down below, below, below,
And the land lubbers lying down below!"

right on through the several verses, telling of the sailors' superstition regarding its being unlucky to see a mermaid with a comb and a glass in her hand, when starting upon a voyage, right on to the piteous cry of the sailor boy about his mother in Portsmouth town, and how that night she would weep for him, till the song ended with the account of how the ship went down and was sunk in the bottom of the sea.

It was a wild sad air, sung there in the branches of that tree amidst the darkness and night mist, and in spite of a certain beauty in the melody the singer's voice assumed a more and more saddened tone, till he finished with the water seeming to hiss more loudly through the lower branches and the inundated trunks around, and then there was a sharp slapping noise on the surface of the stream that might very well have been taken for plaudits.

Then there was a strange braying sound like a weirdly discordant fit of laughter; and then perfect silence, with the darkness more profound than ever.

"I'm blessed!" came at last from Joe. "Hark at him, Mr Rodd. He calls hisself a messmate! Ast him, I did, to sing us a song to cheer us up. Why, it was bad enough to play for a monkey's funeral march. It's all very well for you others to join in your chorus about jolly sailor boys sitting up aloft, but what about poor me sitting all the time in a cold hipsy bath, as they calls it in hospitals, expecting every moment to feel the young crocs a-tackling my toes? Why, it's enough to make a fellow call out for a clean pocket-handkerchy. Here, some on you, set to and spin us a yarn to take the taste of that out of our mouths." _

Read next: Chapter 36. The Doctor Prescribes

Read previous: Chapter 34. How To Get Back?

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