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Mother Carey's Chicken: Her Voyage to the Unknown Isle, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 46. How Safety Was Won |
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_ CHAPTER FORTY SIX. HOW SAFETY WAS WON The captain recovered himself, but he was helpless in such an emergency, and no words passed. There was nothing to be done but wait. "Are we in great danger, father?" whispered Mark, taking his hand. "Yes, my boy, in great danger," replied the captain in a solemn whisper. "I can do no more." "What is the great danger?" said the major quietly. "That," said the captain, pointing seaward. "The water retires like this, only to come back in force. There: it is coming back." They needed no telling, for the awful roar of the earthquake wave announced its coming, and with it as they remained fixed and helpless upon the rock they could see the prau, after being sucked out, as it were, for nearly a quarter of a mile, being carried back at terrific speed. There was a fascination in the scene of the others' peril that took away from their own, though, had they paused to think, it must have been to realise that the cutter would be lifted up by the coming wave and dashed upon the black perpendicular rocks at the head of the bay. But for the moment no one thought, for every faculty appeared to be concentrated upon the fate of that long low prau crowded with men, and now glistening in the volcanic light, as it seemed to be riding rapidly among so much golden foam. The roar of the wave was terrific as the waters surged, and for the moment it seemed to them that the prau would be hurled right upon the rocks where the cutter lay careened over, but with her bows to the coming wave that glistened luridly like a long wall of ruddy water crowned with foam. "Hold fast by the bulwark, boy," whispered the captain as he passed his arm round Mark. "Cling all tightly for your lives." Suddenly a low hoarse cry was uttered by all on board, for as the prau was borne toward them it must have caught upon the summit of some rock hidden by the wave, and that check was sufficient. As that cry arose the prau turned right over and disappeared completely from view, while at that moment there was another of the tremendous explosions from the mountain, succeeded by instantaneous darkness. The cutter was lifted up as the wave struck her, and then after a bound and a quiver she seemed to plunge down--down as if into hideous depths; while half suffocated by the broken water, drenched, shivering, and feeling as if his arms had been wrenched from their sockets, Mark Strong still clung to the bulwark, thinking of those below, and asking himself in his blank horror whether this was the end. He was conscious of a crash as of the vast wave striking the curved wall of rocks at the head of the bay; of the noise of many waters; of the cutter plunging and whirling round and then seeming to ride easily in the midst of subsiding waves; and then of hearing a low hoarse sigh close to his ear. "Father," he cried, "are you there?" "Yes, my boy," came out of the darkness close at hand. "Thank God we are so far safe!" Then, as if rousing himself to a sense of his position, he called aloud: "Major O'Halloran!" "Yes." "Gregory!" "Yes." "Morgan!" All answered to their names out of the pitchy blackness. The men, too, were safe, and upon crawling cautiously to the hatchway which closed in the cabin, Mrs Strong's voice replied, saying that all was well, only that they were in an agony of dread. It was a dread likely to continue for they were perfectly helpless, and all that the captain could make out was that the cutter had been uninjured by striking upon the rock, and that she was now floating upon an even keel, but in what direction it was impossible to say. People often talk of "dark as pitch," "black as ink," and the like; but if ever there was an exemplification of this darkness it was now, for a cloud of the most intense blackness shut them in, and the occupants of the cutter could only communicate by word of mouth or touch. "Surely this will lift soon!" said the major at last; and his voice sounded shut in and strange. "If that light would only shine out again!" "To show us to our enemies, major," said Gregory in a low voice. "I don't think any light would show us to them, Gregory," said the captain solemnly. "No," said the major, "we have no more to fear from them." A dead silence succeeded for a few minutes as all realised how completely the slight prau had been engulfed while in such a chaos of waters no swimmer could possibly have been saved with a level sandy shore before him, far less among the black rocks of that walled-in bay. Hours passed away, hours of dread, for from time to time the hull of the cutter seemed to be struck from below, vibrating through every timber as earthquake shock after shock was felt. Fearful booming sounds were heard from the island telling them where it lay, and again and again there were thunderous crashes, as if the whole of the vast globe were being crumpled up, and the end of all things was at hand. But in spite of all this, as from being quiescent the sea heaved, and the cutter was tossed here and there like a cork in some torrent, not a gleam of light came to her occupants, neither the glow of the eruption nor the rays from the sun. It must have been day for many hours, but all around was a breathless calm, and the dense black cloud grew thicker, and they could feel that the deck of the cutter was thick with a soft powdery ash. The anxiety of all was so great, the care induced by their position so terrible, that no attempt was made to obtain food or water till quite twenty-four hours must have passed, and then, utterly worn out with the awful explosions, as of a cannonade going on, one by one all fell asleep, save the captain and Mark, who sat there in the darkness talking in whispers, and listening to the distant sounds. "We are drifting slowly in some current, Mark," said the captain at last. "How do you know, father?" "The reports are more distant. If we could but have light once more." It was a weary time before the captain's desire was granted, and the first harbingers of that coming light were forty-eight hours after the first embarkation in the cutter. They came in the shape of a pleasant cool breeze which it was delicious to breathe, and by slow degrees there was first a faint light, then a glow as if the glare of the burning mountains were shining through, and then a joyful shout of thankfulness arose from officers and crew, for the light was from the rising sun, and they could see blue dancing water, and then, with one bound, they were in broad day, with a great black curtain riding slowly away from them across the sea. Away south of the sun there was a huge black mountain of vapour quite twenty miles away, and evidently covering the island, while the cutter was drifting slowly farther and farther away in the light current in which she had been caught. As for those on board, after they had each in his own way, and then collectively at the captain's wish, returned thanks for their preservation, the first thing to be done was to remove the blackening ashes from their faces, while Jimpny swept pretty well half a ton of the curious volcanic dust from the cutter's decks. "What now?" said the major. "Back to the island to see what damage has been done?" "No," said the captain; "we have a stout little well-tried vessel beneath our feet, and the next land I hope to tread is that at Singapore." There was no further difficulty in this project, for the wind was favourable, and the dark cloud that overhung the island soon sank below the horizon, though during the following night a distant sound, as of cannonading, told that the explosion was still going on. Captain Strong's navigation during the next few days was a good deal by guesswork, and consisted in making all the headway he could westward. At the end of the fifth day, however, a large steamer was made out going east, and in answer to their signals she hove to; and upon going on board the captain for the first time learned their position. This proved to be about midway between Sumatra and Borneo, and the island lay to the south-east as far as could be judged, though the officers of the great steamer could not give it a name. Nothing could exceed the kindness of the captain and officers, and at their special request the major, and his wife and daughter, continued their voyage in the steamer, which was bound for Canton, from which place, if the steamer did not touch at it, the major would have no difficulty in reaching his original destination. It was rather a painful parting, the major gripping the hands of Captain Strong and Mark very firmly as he said "good-bye;" while Mrs O'Halloran and Mary displayed for the first time the womanly weakness that their education as soldier's wife and daughter taught them to hide. "Good-bye, my brave boy!" the major's wife cried. "Someday I hope we shall come back to England, and then we can go over our island troubles all again." She kissed him very tenderly as she finished speaking; and then came Mark's parting from Mary--a true frank boy and girl parting, in the hope that some day they might meet again. An hour later Mark was standing alone on the deck of the cutter, fancying he could still hear the O'Hallorans' words as he watched the hull of the steamer growing more distant, and her dense smoke trailing behind for miles. "Life is made up of meetings and partings, Mark, my lad," said the captain. "That has been a pleasant friendship, and some day we shall meet again." Mark sighed, and went to sit by his mother and watch the sunlit sea, for the cutter seemed to have grown dull and empty, and the gambols of Bruff, and the pranks of Jack fell as flat as the cheery words of Billy Widgeon and the stowaway. _ |
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