The Wheel of Fortune, page 21
Connell was right about the weather; within an hour the sky had darkened, seeming to bear down upon them like a roof of lead gradually sinking under its own weight. A wind came rolling down the slope up which they were so painfully struggling; it was like a stream of icy water tipped from some receptacle resting upon the summit. Then it began to rain, and the rain dashed wildly at their faces as the wind carried it.
Seeing a boulder some yards to the left, they made towards it and took shelter for a while beneath the overhang of this mass of rock. They could hear the wind screaming over and around them and see the rain scattering down the hillside, beating up off the stony ground like steam.
“Proper Cape weather,” Connell muttered; “proper Cape weather.”
John pulled up the collar of his oilskin coat and tried to think of other things than food.
“What’s your bet on our chances, bos’n?”
Connell fingered the red growth on his face. “How I look at it,” he said, “is like this: we sailed nearly two thousand miles in an open boat and we missed being blown on the rocks be a gnat’s whisker. Now if we got through all that I reckon we was meant to live. That’s how I see it, Mister Baxter.”
“You think it’s our destiny to survive, then?”
“Hell, I don’t know nothing about destiny; but I’ve been in worse scrapes than this and I’m still alive and kicking. Two wars I’ve been through, two doses of flaming convoy work. If that didn’t kill me I don’t reckon this will.”
“And Captain Haggard?”
Connell’s head came round sharply, and his face set in that defensive expression which it wore under criticism. Then the lines softened.
“See here, Mister Baxter, I wouldn’t say this to them others; I wouldn’t given ’em that satisfaction, the moaning set of bastards. But you — why, hell, you’re different somehow, and I know you won’t go blabbing about anything I say to you. The plain fact is, Mister Baxter, that the Old Man acted wrong. He had no right to take a whole ship’s company to the middle of the Pacific in a vessel like that — no right to risk all those lives. He must have known what things were like; he must have known it was a risk, if nothing worse. Stenning was right; Stenning was right all along the line, blast his rotten bones. But there — maybe we haven’t heard the last of that. He may make trouble yet — always supposing he ain’t already at the bottom of the sea.”
The wind and rain having eased, they got to their feet and continued their journey. The slope was becoming steeper; sometimes their feet slipped on loose stones, and pebbles would roll away from them down the hill. They panted, their breath coming hard and short. But there was little farther to go; they could see above them the small tree which was their guide growing almost at the edge of a cliff, its roots protruding from the cliff-side, as though at some time there had been a fall of rock which had torn away part of the hill.
Connell looked up at the cliff and at the tree spreading its branches above them. “That’s a stiff proposition and no mistake. But it’ll be a good view from the top.”
There was little doubt about that; but the problem was to reach the top. Had they been fit and strong it would have been no mean task to scale that last hundred or so feet of precipitous rock; in their present condition it was impossible. “There may be an easier way. Perhaps to the left.”
It seemed the only thing to do. They slid and stumbled along the cliff-bottom for about a hundred yards and came at last to a narrow gully that appeared to have been worn out at some period by a torrent of water. The slope of the gully was less steep than the cliff-face, and using their hands to aid them, pausing often to recover breath and strength, they struggled finally to the summit. And there the secret of this land on which they had been cast up was revealed to them.
They were standing on a ridge, little more than ten yards wide at its highest point. To left and right of them it stretched away for a distance of possibly half a mile, undulating like a scenic railway. Before them the ground dropped away steeply and was completely bare of trees or any but the sparsest of vegetation. There was nothing to interrupt the view, and they could see clear before them to the bottom of the slope, where the ocean dashed furiously upon a rocky, serrated coast. The roar of the breakers was just audible as the sound of distant thunder. To the south they knew was the channel through which they had sailed, and now, gazing northward, they could just discern the glimmer of more water.
They had landed upon an island, devoid both of human life and of the means of sustaining it.
Connell appeared neither disappointed nor surprised. “I expected as much. Islands along this coast are like fleas on a dog’s back. There’s only one thing for us to do now; we’ve got to sail on. This land isn’t all dead; there’s life in some parts.”
The wind was pulling at them. There was no shelter on the ridge, and the wind was sweeping in from the sea. Connell turned his back to it.
“Better go home. We’ll be late for tea.”
“Well, that’s the lot,” said the second engineer, peering at the others through his horn-rimmed glasses; “thirty biscuits between a dozen people. That’s just two and a half each.”
“The Old Man don’t want his,” Slewkin muttered, licking his lips. “That makes more for the rest of us.”
Connell glared at him. “Two and a half each was what Mr Wales said. That’s what it is. You got any more to say??”
“I on’y thought”
“Then don’t.”
The second engineer continued, “You’ve heard the bos’n’s report. We’re on an island, and the only course open to us is to get off it. Consequently, we propose to set sail first thing in the morning.”
“Why not to-night?” Garrett asked. “Why waste time?”
Connell inquired sarcastically, “If you can see in the dark perhaps you can navigate by night? Personally, I’m handicapped; I only got normal eyesight.”
“Do you know the way?”
“No, I don’t know the way,” Connell snarled. “But I’m damned certain if we keep going north we’ll get somewhere in the end. South is the Horn, and you’ve had a taste of what’s to the west. North is the way we’re going.”
The daylight was already fading into the grey mistiness of evening, but the fire cast a cheerful warmth upon the men gathered round it. In the shelter they had erected Captain Haggard lay motionless. Ruth was with him, and John, crawling through the opening, saw that she was rearranging the folded coat that served him as a pillow.
“How is he?”
She shook her head, but made no other answer to his question. And indeed there was little necessity to do so. Haggard lay on his back, his thin features showing palely in the half-light. His breathing was scarcely audible; yet if you put your ear close to his mouth it was possible to hear it, a rapid ebb and flow, with now and then a pause, as if he had caught his breath to listen; then again, the rapid in and out. John thought at first that he was sleeping; then he saw that the eyes were open. Yet they appeared to see nothing; they were like the eyes of a blind man — sightless orbs.
“Has he eaten anything?”
“Nothing. He has sipped a little water. John, I am afraid.”
He tried to reassure her. “We’re leaving to-morrow; you heard that. To-morrow we may reach some settlement where he can be cared for.”
She answered firmly, “That is out of the question. You see how he is. It would kill him to go in the lifeboat.”
“But there’s no other way.”
She put her hand on her father’s forehead, then smoothed back the thin grey hair.
“You and the others must go. You can send help. I will stay here with him. That would be the best way — ”
John said earnestly, vehemently, “No — no, I won’t leave you — you can’t expect that — no, you must come — both of you.”
“It’s impossible,” she repeated. “There is no telling what weather, what further hardship, may have to be faced in the boat. I tell you it would kill him.”
John saw that she was determined. She had inherited some of her father’s iron will. He shrugged his shoulders.
“Very well. Then I shall stay with you.”
It was a wild morning, wet and blustery. The wind, sweeping across the bay, wrinkled its surface into leaping waves.
“Don’t worry, Miss Haggard,” Connell said; “whatever you do, don’t worry. We’ll have help back here for you in next to no time. The captain’ll be all right, see if he ain’t. And Mister Baxter will look after you, I’m sure of that.”
“Thank you, Mr Connell. I’m sure everything is going to work out.”
Connell made an awkward gesture with his hand and splashed through the shallow water to the boat.
“Righto, lads; heave her off.”
They had put their shoulders to the bows and were about to thrust the boat out into deeper water when there was a shout.
“Wait! wait just a moment!”
It was the apprentice, Regan, one of those already in the boat. As if compelled by a sudden idea, he jumped out and ran splashing up the beach to where Ruth was standing. Regan, his black hair tumbling over his forehead, colour flushing his thin cheeks, seized one of Ruth’s hands, stooped and kissed it. Then he pressed a small package into the palm and closed her fingers over it.
“Don’t look at it yet,” he stammered. “Not till we’ve gone.”
Connell was shouting, “Come here; come along with you; we can’t wait all day.”
There were tears in Regan’s eyes; his lips trembled. “Goodbye, Miss Haggard, good-bye.”
One minute later he was in the boat, and the men were pulling it out into deep water. John and Ruth stood watching as the oars were shipped and the yellow sail was hauled up. The wind filled it and the boat heeled over, gathering speed, moving off towards the north. Connell was hunched over the tiller as he had so often been in the past weeks. He glanced momentarily back at them, raised one gnarled hand and let it drop. The boat seemed to leap forward as the wind squall struck it.
John said, “I hate to see them go. But they’ll be back. Trust old Connell.”
He looked at Ruth and saw that she was staring at the parcel in her hand; it was wrapped in a sheet of paper which looked as though it had been torn from a note-book.
“See what it is.”
Slowly she unwrapped the paper and found lying in her hand two ship’s biscuits. Regan had left her all that remained of his ration.
CHAPTER XVII
COMPANIONS GONE
The wind rose suddenly. It whirled across the bay with hurricane force. Waves mounted as though in mid-ocean. And these tumultuous waves raced along the foreshore, tearing at rocks and shingle as a madman with frenzied fingers will tear at the bars of his prison. Within the space of minutes the bay had been transformed into a cauldron of broken and scattered waters. It was as though the wind, driving all before it, had forced an arm of the sea round each end of the island to meet in the bay and struggle wildly for supremacy.
Half an hour had passed since the boat had gone, to be swallowed up in the murk of driven rain and lowering cloud.
“Pray God, they’re safe,” Ruth murmured.
“They’re safe,” John assured her. “Trust Connell; trust the bos’n.” But he did not care for the look of things.
To hold down the covering of their shelter he piled heavy stones along the bottom of the canvas and built a low wall along the windward side.
“It’ll ease soon. It’ll be calmer before long.”
But evening came and the storm had not abated. Inside the shelter they crouched shivering in the darkness, listening to the shrieking of the wind and the drumming of the canvas, wondering about the others. And beside them lay the old man whose headstrong folly had brought them to this pass.
Half the night had passed before the wind slackened. Then, exhausted by watching, they fell at last asleep.
The morning was already well advanced when they awoke, and, crawling out from the shelter, John discovered that the wind had died to a gentle breeze and the bay was merely rippled. Looking northward along its surface, he thought for a moment perhaps to see the boat with Connell crouched at the tiller; but the foolishness of any such expectation struck him immediately, and he turned away.
He saw Ruth with the flush of sleep still in her face, her eyelids drooping, as though reluctant yet to lift themselves to the challenge of a new day. He went to her and grasped her hands, rubbing them between his own, trying to bring the warmth into them.
“Cold — too cold,” he said. “I must see about that fire.”
She was gazing past him — the way the boat had gone. “I wonder if they’re safe. I dreamed about them; and there was Teddy Regan handing me his biscuits and saying, “Take them; I don’t need them; not anymore.”
“Of course he doesn’t. He’s safe; he’s got other food — plenty of it by now. Don’t worry; don’t worry yourself at all.”
The day passed slowly. John spent much of the time gathering fuel — driftwood, of which there was much washed up on the beach, branches ripped from the trees by the gale. With the axe he split this wood and piled it by the side of the fire. Half a biscuit was the ration of food they allowed themselves, not knowing how long it would be before their rescuers arrived. Haggard could eat nothing, but they forced a little warm water between his lips, and he swallowed it. For the rest of the time he lay almost motionless, still breathing with a rapid, shallow motion that was barely audible.
On the second day after the departure of the lifeboat John went exploring northward. He crossed the stream that Warren had discovered on the first day and went on, keeping close to the water’s edge where the going was easiest. Soon, owing to the curve of the shore, he was out of sight of the camp; but he could still see, above and rather behind him, that small tree which reared itself from the humped backbone of the island.
Strangely, despite the lack of food, he felt stronger now than he had done when they landed, and he could only suppose that this was because, free from the cramped conditions in the boat, there was now less strain upon his body. Certainly it was no longer subjected to that continual movement which had been so wearisome; the ground was firm under his feet, and that at least was something for which to be thankful.
He had walked about a mile, keeping a sharp look-out for any sign of a boat in the bay, when his eye fell upon an object which roused disquieting thoughts in his mind. It was lying just above high-water mark, where it had obviously been flung by the waves, and one end had, by some combination of forces, been thrust into the ground, so that it appeared at first glance to have been broken off short. But it was not so; it was all there, unbroken; and it was an oar.
John stooped and picked it up, pulling it away from the soil and shingle. Then he stood for a few minutes, twisting it round in his fingers, searching for some mark, some means of identifying it. There was none; and yet, by the very appearance of the oar, he could tell that it had but recently been cast up on the beach. It had not acquired that bleached, washed-out look of wood that has been long exposed to sun and salt water. It was a new-looking oar, such as those in the lifeboats of the Wheel of Fortune had been.
He dropped the oar and walked on. But now he watched, not so much for a boat coming to the rescue, but for something else — something that he prayed he might not find. In the distance he could see a line of rocks stretching out into deep water like a row of stepping-stones. There was a space between each rock and that next to it, and the whole line was so symmetrically spaced out that it seemed almost as though they were piles driven in for the construction of a breakwater or a jetty. Only in one place was the symmetry of the design spoiled. At that point the space between two successive rocks was blocked by some object.
They were too far away for John to see what it was that lay between them; but he suspected what it might be, and this suspicion drove him forward in a shambling, heart-bursting run. Stumblingly he ran, tripped by stones lying in his path, but keeping his eye always on that shape wedged between two rocks, against which on this day of lighter winds only the smallest waves slapped playfully and without force.
It was a boat; there could be no doubt about that. It was stuck there with its keel uppermost. As John came panting to the shoreward end of the line of rocks he could see that it was some fifty yards away. Knowing what boat it was, what boat it must surely be, he yet felt the imperative need to make quite certain. Only when he had examined it closely, had read the name painted upon its timbers, would he abandon all hope.
Yet the boat lay fifty yards off-shore, and there was no way of reaching it save by the rocky stepping-stones that were its prison. He looked at the rocks, trying to gauge the distance between them. Six feet perhaps; it was an easy leap. But what leap could be easy for a man in his weakened state? To jump six feet from one slippery rock to the next might tax his strength beyond its limit. Nevertheless, it was the only way.
He took off his coat and waded through the shallow water to the first rock, scrambled on to it, and looked towards the second. It was slightly higher than the first, but fewer than six feet away. He gathered himself, leaped for it, and landed safely with a foot to spare. This success gave him confidence for the second jump, and the third was easy. But between the fourth and fifth rocks a wider gap of water lay, and here he misjudged the distance and his own strength.
His right foot missed the fifth rock altogether, his left just touched the edge and slipped down the side of it. He flung his body forward in a desperate effort to save himself, and the rock struck him like a hammer in the chest. His fingers scrabbled for a hold, slipped with tearing nails upon the rough and slimy surface; then held. He was lying half on, half off the rock, his body curved round the angle of its edge. Sweating, he felt with his dangling feet for some toe-hold and could find none. He felt his arm muscles knotting, weakening under the strain.
