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Syd Belton: The Boy who would not go to Sea, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 34 |
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_ CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. But the time seemed terribly tedious upon that parched rock, where not a single green thing grew. The heat was terrific, and the men sat and lay about panting, and glad of the relief afforded by the tobacco they chewed. It was impossible to hide the fact from them that they were using the last drops of the water; but there were no murmurs, not a mutinous voice was heard against the tiny portion that was served out so as to make what was left last for another forty-eight hours. After that? Yes; no one dared try to answer that question. A man was always on the watch by the flagstaff. But he swept the offing with the glass in vain. There was no ship in sight that could be signalled for help, and no sign of movement in the direction of the town. "It's seems horribly lowering to one's dignity," said Roylance, "coming here to occupy a rock and set the enemy at defiance, and then be regularly obliged to give up and say, 'Take us prisoners, please,' all for want of a drop of water." "If it would only rain!" cried Syd, as he thought of how bitter all this would be to his father. "Never will when you want it." "It is degrading," said Syd. "But we must wait. What does Terry say?" "Nothing. He has taken to chewing tobacco like the men, and I don't want to be hard upon him, but he seems on the whole to be pleased that we are in such a scrape." "But you are too hard on him," said Syd. "There, let's go and sit with poor Mr Dallas. We must keep him in good spirits." "I haven't the heart to go," said Roylance, sadly. "He is suffering horribly from the want of a drop of cold water, and we have none to give him." The long day dragged by, and was succeeded by a hot and pulseless night. The last drop of water had been voted by common consent to the sick man, and the sailors were face to face with the difficulty of passing the next day. It would be maddening, they knew, without water on that heated rock. They had tried to quench their thirst by drawing buckets of water down on the natural pier and drenching each other, for they dare not bathe on account of the sharks; but that was a poor solace, and the poor fellows gazed at each other with parched lips and wild eyes, asking help and advice in vain, and without orders climbed up high and perched themselves on points of vantage to watch for a sail, the only hope of salvation from a maddening death that they could see. The look-out man by the flagstaff was ready with the bunting for signals; and when he hauled it, all knew now that it would be no flaunting forth of defiance, but an appeal for aid. But no ship came in sight all that next long day. "It's all over, Belt," said Roylance, as the sun rose high once more, and his voice sounded harsh and strange. "I shall die to-day raving mad. We must go, but let's write something to your father to find when he does come." "I have done it," said Sydney. "I wrote it last night before I turned so queer and half mad-like with this horrible thirst." "Did you turn half mad?" "Yes, when I was alone after I had done it.--I told my father that we had all tried to do our duty, and had fought to the last; and said good-bye." "Where did you put it?" said Roylance, as they walked slowly to the upper gun, while Terry lay beneath a rock seeming to watch them. "Put what?" said Sydney, vacantly. "The letter to your father." "What letter to my father? Has Uncle Tom written to him?" "Belt, old fellow, hold up," cried Roylance, half frantically. "Don't you give way." "Oh, I did feel so stupid," said Syd, with a loud harsh laugh. "Said I wouldn't go to sea, and ran away, and then came sneaking back with my tail between my legs. Oh, there's Barney." "No, no, my dear fellow; there's no one here." "Yes, there is," cried Syd, angrily, as he stared with bloodshot eyes straight before him. "Barney, what does the dad say? Is he very cross?" "Oh, Belt; don't, don't," groaned Roylance.--"I must get him under shelter." He took his friend's arm. "No, no, you shan't," cried Sydney. "I won't be dragged in before them. I'll go in straight when I do go, and say I was wrong. Touch me again, Barney, and I'll hit you." "It is I, Belt. Don't you know me?" "Know you?--of course. What made you say that?" "I--I don't know." "Roy, poor fellow, you are suffering from the heat. There's no ship in sight, but you and I mustn't give up; we must set an example to the men.--No, no, Barney, I tell you I will not go." "Terry, Mike Terry, come and help me," cried Roylance; but the midshipman did not stir from where he lay under a shadowing rock. "Not for a hundred of you I would not go. Eh! Water--where? Ah, beautiful water! Can't you hear it splashing? Plenty to-night. Rain." "Come into the shade, Belt," said Roylance, who felt now that their last day had come, and that there was nothing to be done now but lie down and die. "No," said Syd, sharply, "I want to see the men. How are the poor fellows?" He staggered down to where the men not on duty were lying in the shade cast by the rocks, and the boatswain, who seemed to have been talking to them, rose. "Sad work, sir," he said, touching his hat; and several of the men rose and saluted, others lying staring and helpless, their lips black, and a horrible delirious look in their eyes. "No ship, Barney," whispered Syd, huskily. "No, sir. We must give it up, sir, like men; but it do seem hard work. Seen my boy Pan-y-mar?" "On board, on board," said Syd quickly. "What, sir?" "I did not speak," cried the boy, shaking his head, and Roylance and the boatswain exchanged glances. "Yes, yes, I spoke--you spoke," said Syd, strangely. "I know now, but my brain feels hot and dry, and I can't breathe. Yes. Pan. He's with Mr Dallas in the hut." The boy sank down on a stone, and placed his elbows upon his knees to make a resting-place for his head. "Poor lad! Oh, Mr Roylance, sir, I'd give my last drop o' blood if I could save him." Syd started up and then looked round wildly, as he made a desperate effort to ward off the delirium that was attacking him. "Keep in the shade, my lads," he said. "Please God we shall get rain to-night, or help will come." The men stared at him in stupid silence, all but Rogers, who feebly hacked off a bit of a cake of tobacco, and struggled up to offer it. "Take a bit, sir. Keeps you from feeling quite so bad." "No, my man," said Syd, smiling feebly, "keep it for yourself." Then turning to Roylance, he looked at him wonderingly. "Did I dream you said something about writing?" "No. You told me you had written a despatch." "No. No: I wrote nothing," said the boy, vacantly. "It ought to be done, to say that we held out to the last." "My father will see that," said Syd, gravely. "Amen!" cried the boatswain, in his deep hoarse voice, and he drew back, and then staggered forward to drop down for a few moments. He rose again. "Worst o' being an orficer, Mr Roylance, sir," he said. "Don't matter what happens we mustn't give way." How that day glided on none could tell. It was like some horrible dream, during which the sun had never been hotter to them, and the rock seemed to glow. Three times now in a half delirious way Syd had been into the hut, to find Mr Dallas sleeping, for though he suffered terribly, his pangs did not seem so bad as those of his stronger companions in adversity. But at last Syd passed Terry lying with his eyes closed; and with Roylance staggering after him almost as wild and delirious as he, they paused by the hut where Mr Dallas lay. Syd passed his hand over his eyes to clear away the mist which hung before him and obscured his sight, and then, fairly sane for the moment, he looked about him to see that every man was prostrate, and that his faithful henchman, Barney Strake, was leaning against a rock, helpless now. He saw it all; it meant the end. Had there been a cool, moist night even to look forward to, they might have lived till another day, but there were many hours of pitiless sunshine yet in the hottest time when the glare was right along the gap. "It is the end," he said, half-aloud. "Roy, lad, I should like to shake hands first with Terry." He took a step or two toward where the midshipman lay, but had to snatch at the rock to save himself, and he gave up with a groan. "I do it in my heart," he said. "Come and bid Mr Dallas good-bye." "Are--are we dying, Belt?" whispered Roylance, and his voice sounded very strange. "Yes; it can't be long. But I hope we shall go to sleep first and wake no more." He staggered in at the open doorway, for the canvas had been drawn aside, and stood gazing down at the lieutenant, who feebly raised his hand. Roylance remained there, leaning against the rough entrance, and on a case sat Pan, with his head resting against the wall and his eyes half-closed. That grip of the hand was all that passed, save a long, earnest look of the eyes, and an hour must have passed over them in the almost insupportable heat. There was not a breath of air, and the poor fellows felt as if they were being literally scorched up, and that before long it would be impossible to breathe. They had silently said good-bye, and Syd sat now on the floor with his hand in Mr Dallas's, thinking of his father, and of how he would come some time and find him lying there dead, and know by the work about that he had done his duty. "And poor Uncle Tom," he said to himself. "How sorry he will be! I liked Uncle Tom." Then there was a wave of delirium passed over, in which as in a dream he saw sparkling waters and bright rivers dancing in the sunshine, and all was happiness and joy, till he started into wakefulness once more at a low groan from Roylance, who lay close beside him. The hideous truth was there: they were all dying of thirst, and Syd's last thought seemed to be that he had forgotten to ask help from above till it was too late, and he could not form the words. It was but a half delirious fancy, for he had prayed long and earnestly. But the idea grew strong now, and he tried to repeat the Lord's prayer aloud. No word came but to himself, and he went on sinking fast into unconsciousness till he came to "Give us this day--" He started up, for something seemed to strike him, and he gazed wildly at the boy Pan, who had fallen from where he sat upon the box, and now struggled to his knees. "Water!" he gasped--"so thirsty. Master Syd--water--water--I know where there's lots o' water--lots!" He literally shrieked the words, and some one who had been leaning against the entrance stumbled in, electrified with strength as it were, as he shouted hoarsely-- "Water, my boy, water; where?" Pan gazed about him wildly in the delirium that had attacked him in turn, and did not seem to understand. The straw of hope that had been held out faded away again, and a mist came back over Syd's eyes till he heard Strake's voice, as he shook his son, shouting-- "Water, d'yer hear, Pan? to save us all." "Water," said the boy, hoarsely; "water. Yes, I know," he yelled. "I used to get lots--down there." "Where--where, boy?" cried the boatswain, wildly. "Down--where--I hid--father," he whispered. "Big hole--cave in the rocks. Plenty--water--give--water." He lurched over to the left, and lay insensible upon the floor. If it was true! The last hope gone unless the boy could be revived sufficiently to guide them to the spot. "He was mad," said the boatswain, slowly; and he looked wildly round with his bloodshot eyes. But the boy's words had brought hope and a temporary strength to Syd, who pressed his head with his hands and tried to think. "Would a bucket of sea-water revive him to make him tell us, Strake?" he croaked, more than spoke. "No, no, no; good-bye. It's all a dream." "It is not," cried Syd, wildly. "I know--the place. Heaven, give us strength. I know it now." "You're mad, sir, mad," groaned the boatswain. "No, Barney, do. Help, come. Water--I know--I can find it now." _ |
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