We will now, with the reader’s permission, retrace our history to the night on which the captain and passenger of the “Merry Maid” consigned to the waves the body of the man whom they firmly believed to have murdered.
The barque “Halcyon,” bound from Lisbon for Callao, was proceeding quietly on her course and had, up to now, encountered nothing out of her usual experience. The captain, contentedly smoking a big cigar, was leaning idly over the rail and scanning the horizon, on the faint chance of seeing something that would relieve the monotony of the scene. It was a fine moonlight night, but now and again a cloud, carried along a higher strata than that by which the movements of the “Halcyon” were dominated, obscured the radiance of the orb of night, and enveloped sea and sky in a temporary mantle of darkness, rendering invisible everything but the distant lights of some vessel crossing the track pursued by the “Halcyon.” CaptainQuaco Pereiro, being of an adventurous disposition, would have preferred more variety in the scenery. But he was withal of a philosophical turn of mind, and never fretted for that which was unobtainable. Being content, therefore, to accept his somewhat isolated position uncomplainingly, he was nevertheless prepared to welcome relief in any form, and followed with considerable interest the course of a steamer, of which he obtained an occasional feeble glimpse, and which he concluded, from the track pursued, to be bound for the Mediterranean. Not that there was anything special about the steamer to attract his attention. But it chanced to be the nearest object in sight, therefore possibly the most profitable to observe.
But nothing occurred on board that he was near enough to distinguish, and Captain Pereiro, having finished his cigar, and having bethought himself that it would be as well to go below for a drink of wine, was raising himself up from the rail against which he had been leaning, when his eyes caught sight of a dark object bobbing quietly about on the waters, offering no resistance beyond that inert resistance which is inherent in any solid substance.
“H’m! what is that?” he questioned himself. “A log of wood? Yes—no—ah! Sancta Maria! it is the body of a man! Holy Mother, preserve us!”
Such a sight always saddened Captain Pereiro, for it reminded him of what might possibly be his own fate, and made him pray the more fervently that the beloved wife and children whom he had left at home might be long ere they were deprived of their bread winner. Imagining that it was the body of some shipwrecked sailor that was now within a boat’s length of him, he was about to turn awayfrom the painful sight, when his heart gave a startled bound on hearing a weird cry, as of some human being in the depths of agony and despair.
“Mother of God!” he cried, crossing himself vigorously, “what was that?”
Convinced that the cry he had heard did not originate on board, Captain Pereiro turned his gaze over the side again in the direction of the weird object which had already impressed him painfully. With ears and eyes strained to their utmost tension, he waited for he scarcely knew what. Would the body float quietly past, with not a sign of life or vitality about it? Or would his impressions be realised, and would it turn out that the awful scream he had heard proceeded from that which he had shudderingly looked upon as a corpse?
He was not left many seconds to conjecture, for once more the moonlit air was rent with the desponding shriek of the dying, and this time all doubt and superstitious fear were simultaneously removed from his mind. For not only was it evident whence the cry proceeded, but the hands of the supposed corpse were thrown up imploringly, yet feebly, as though by one from whom the vital spark had nearly fled.
Others had now also both seen and heard what was going on, and it scarcely needed Captain Pereiro’s sharp command to back the mainyard in order to induce his sailors to bring about the end he desired. In an incredibly short space of time the course of the “Halcyon” was arrested, a boat was lowered, the drowning man secured, and preparations for starting again made. As soon as rescuers and rescued were safely on board, CaptainPereiro gave the order to brace the mainyard, and speedily, with well-filled sails, the barque was being steered on her course once more.
It seemed, however, that the fine fellows had wasted their energies in a vain cause, for the stranger had relapsed into total unconsciousness, which was so profound that for a long time it resisted every benevolent effort to dispel it.
“The fates are against the poor fellow,” murmured the captain, sorrowfully. “I fear we were too late to help him. And yet it is a shame to be so cheated after all the trouble. Pedro, we will have another try, and by the Virgin, I will renounce—I mean I will be angry with—my patron saint if he does not help us to succeed in keeping this man’s soul out of purgatory a while longer.”
Pedro, who, by the way, was the steward of the “Halcyon,” was already fatigued by the vigorous exertions he had made. He was, moreover, convinced that the thing upon which he had been operating no longer contained a soul, and he felt a horror at the idea of pulling and twisting a dead body about. But he dared not refuse to do as he was told, so, invoking the aid of St. Peter as a corollary to the help St. George had been asked to extend to the captain, he set bravely to work once more, and soon became as full of faith and energy as Pereiro himself.
Fortunately for St. George, the captain had no need to be angry with him, for after a prolonged and fatiguing spell of rubbing, fomenting, dosing, and artificial respiration, the stranger’s eyelids began to quiver, and short, gasping sighs escaped his labouring breast. Thanks to Pereiro’s clever treatment, he was already partially relieved of the brine which he had perforce swallowed, but no sooner didthe latter realise that his efforts were being rewarded by success, than he promptly administered another emetic, which proved thoroughly effectual, and left the patient gasping with exhaustion, but on the high road to recovery.
As the reader no doubt guesses, it was Hilton Riddell who was thus miraculously saved from what appeared to be certain death. His would-be murderers were so anxious to avoid observation on their own ship that they had not noticed the proximity of the barque at right angles with them, and felt as sure that they had compassed their desired end, as that they themselves were alive and well.
Thus they sped on their course, hugging the belief that they had taken the most effectual means of silencing an enemy, and feeling secure in the reflection that, as the sea was not likely to give up its dead, they were not likely to be confronted with Hilton Riddell again.
Meanwhile the latter was receiving every care and attention on board the “Halcyon.” Captain Pereiro was greatly delighted to observe the gradual recovery of the prey he had rescued from the ocean, all the more so as he had already convinced himself that Hilton had been the victim of foul play. The blow on the head had been a terrible one—so terrible, indeed, that it threatened to kill him, many symptoms of concussion of the brain showing themselves. Thus it was weeks before poor Hilton recovered his wonted vigour, and, under God, it was due to the unremitting care and attention with which Captain Pereiro nursed him that he was enabled to evade death. Pedro, too, being of a generous disposition, grudged no pains in the preparation of dainties likely to stimulate theinvalid’s for some time languishing appetite. Had Hilton been their patron saint himself, he could not have been treated with more care and tenderness, and his returning consciousness of what he had been saved from invested them, in turn, with every saint-like attribute.
Short, stout, of stolid feature; black-haired, rough-bearded, and carelessly shaven; with dark eyes, whose kindly light was almost obscured by bushy, overhanging eyebrows; of the swarthiest complexion; with big, coarse hands, and a rough gait, and with all the eccentricities of his appearance accentuated by a sublime indifference to the advantages of becoming attire, Captain Pereiro was not one to strike the casual observer with enthusiastic admiration. The steward, Pedro, did not come in a bad second as far as personal appearance went, except that he was taller, thinner, and more pronouncedly ungainly. But ask Hilton Riddell to this day to name the two finest fellows on earth, and he will at once utter a verdict in favour of the captain and steward of the Portuguese barque “Halcyon.”
It was at first a source of wonderment to his rescuers how he had kept afloat so long, until they discovered that much of his apparent bulk was caused by a life-saving waistcoat with which he had had the forethought to provide himself.
“This man is English, and he comes from London. So much I can make out from his speech, but no more,” said the captain, when talking things over with the mate of his ship, who, though not taking an active part in the nursing of the foundling, yet felt a considerable interest in his progress towards recovery. “He is a beautiful man, as beautiful as the fabled gods must have been; but Iburn with curiosity to know how he has been thrown on to our hands. He has met with foul play, that is sure, and he has been among people whom he knew to be his enemies. That is also sure. It is also evident that he was to some extent prepared for the risk he ran, and that his enemies were ignorant of the fact. Otherwise he would not have worn this waistcoat, ready for inflation, under his shirt, or his enemies, after thinking they had killed him by the blows on the head, would have removed the wonderful garment which ensured his floating on the surface of the water.”
“But,” objected the mate, “he may have been wrecked, and the wound on his head may have been caused by a blow from floating wreckage.”
“No, that is not so, for when I took a marlingspike, and pretended to hit my own head with it, at the same time pointing to his, he nodded vigorously, as much as to say that his wound was inflicted purposely. I am sure he has a strange history, and, for the first time in my life, I wish I knew how to talk English.”
“If he could talk Portuguese it would do just as well.”
“Yes; but he doesn’t talk Portuguese, so there’s an end of it. I will go below again now, and see how he is getting on.”
Captain Pereiro found his patient very much better, and anxious to know where he was, how he came there, and whither he was being taken. But his eager questions, and the captain’s willing answers, only resulted in their becoming more hopelessly befogged with each other. Neither could elicit or communicate anything satisfactory. At last the captain was seized with a bright idea, whichinduced him to rush to the chart-room as quickly as his unwieldy body would let him, leaving Hilton wondering what was the matter with him. Presently he returned with a triumphant look on his face, bearing in his hands a large roll, which he laid carefully on the locker for a while. Then he assisted Hilton into a sitting position, piling behind him a pair of sea boots, some oilskins, a camp stool, and sundry other things, upon which substantial foundation he arranged various pillows in the dexterous manner which had become habitual to him. Having thus made the patient as comfortable as possible, he produced the roll from the top of the locker and unfolded what proved to be a large chart.
Hilton smiled his sudden comprehension, and eagerly bent his eyes upon the chart. The captain, seeing that his purpose was likely to be understood, pointed first to Hilton, then to the chart, in effect asking him to give as much information as he could. Very soon Hilton put his finger on London and looked at the captain, who nodded comprehension. Then he slowly traced the course of the “Merry Maid” on the chart until nearly abreast Lisbon, when he stopped, feigned to go to sleep; to strike his head with his eyes shut; to awake struggling in the water; to withdraw a tube from his waistcoat pocket; and to inflate by its means a concealed life-saving garment. The captain thoroughly understood this pantomime, and clenched his fist in anger at those who had perpetrated so dastardly a deed. Then, once more pointing questioningly to the chart, he gave Hilton to understand that he wished to know whither the “Merry Maid” was bound, whereupon the remainder of the route to Malta was tracedout for him. After this, being mutely questioned in his turn, Pereiro made a start at Lisbon, Hilton following his movements with breathless attention. Stopping near the spot indicated by the latter, he gave a sharp cry, tossed his arms as if struggling in the water, made a pantomimic rescue, and then began to rub himself vigorously, and to pump his arms up and down to show that artificial respiration had been resorted to. Hilton squeezed his hands gratefully, and murmured words of thanks, of which Pereiro had no difficulty in grasping the import, although they were uttered in a tongue of which he knew nothing but that it was English. After this, anxiously watched, he slowly traced a course which filled Hilton’s heart with dismay, for he never stopped until he had rounded Cape Horn, and followed what seemed to his companion to be an interminable coastline.
Finally, he stopped at Callao, and was astounded to see that his information was received with every symptom of distress. For a time, Hilton knew not what to do, for he felt stunned. To go all that distance, and in a sailing vessel, too, was equivalent to being dead to friends and foes alike for many months. Moreover, he was rendered utterly useless, and could do nothing but fret and worry at the trouble which would be felt at home on his own account.
“My mother will wonder why she does not hear from me. Those scoundrels will forge some plausible tale to account for my disappearance, and poor Harley will be doomed to undergo the whole of his horrible sentence in prison, if, indeed, he lives so long. Between grief for Harley, and grief for me, my poor mother will fret herselfinto the grave. And poor Annie! My God! how everything is playing into the hands of those villains! It seems unbelievable—and there is that bottle of papers I threw overboard, too. Perhaps that will soon disclose the true state of affairs, and Harley’s liberation may be effected without any further help from me.”
Could he have foreseen the fate of the papers he had prepared so carefully, his distress of mind would have been much greater than it was. Fortunately, this knowledge was denied him, but he already suffered enough to cause him to have a relapse, and for some time his condition gave great anxiety to his nurses.
After many days he was sufficiently convalescent to come on deck, and after that his physical progress was rapid. As he recovered his wonted strength and vigour, the admiration of those around him increased considerably. Some of them—indeed, all—used as they were to swarthy skins, and dusky locks, looked upon his smart, upright physique, his clear, fair skin, just relieved from effeminacy by being slightly tanned, his finely-cut features, his wavy, flaxen hair, his expressive grey eyes, and his small hands and feet, as the perfection of all that was gallant and beautiful in man. By-and-bye they also began to admire him for other than his physical qualities. For he was not disposed to be the idle and ungrateful recipient of bounty, but lost no opportunity of doing a service to his deliverers.
Ships are never overmanned. There is always room for the help of another hand or two. And even then, in squally weather, it taxes everybody’s energies to keep pace with the exigencies of the hour. Thus, it often happenedthat Hilton proved himself invaluable, and though Captain Pereiro, with whom he was fast learning to converse in broken Portuguese, remonstrated with him for working so hard, he could not renounce any part of the active life he was now leading. For it served to save him from the despondency which he could not otherwise have resisted.
Nevertheless, he counted the months, the weeks, the days that must elapse ere he could obtain any news of what was transpiring at home, and every spell of adverse weather caused him acute anguish, since it lengthened the time during which he would have to remain inactive. But as all things come to those that wait, even so did the last day of his voyage dawn on Hilton Riddell, and it was with curiously mingled emotions that he once more found himself ashore. True, it was in a strange country, among a strange people, and thousands of miles away from the place in which he was anxious to find himself.
But it was, at any rate, a civilised country, to which English news might penetrate, and he was not without a faint hope that he might come across an English paper containing some account of progress made on Harley’s behalf. How fallacious this hope was will be apparent to the reader, but one has to picture oneself in his destitute, lonely, and desperate condition, to realise to what mere straws of comfort one can cling for consolation. The “Halcyon” would be some weeks before it would be ready to leave Callao, and Captain Pereiro, who by this time knew a great deal of the Englishman’s story, very generously urged him to make it his home until he could get himself transported back to England.
Being without money, and possessing no credit with anyone here, Hilton took the only course open to him under the circumstances, unless he had been willing to seek work, and remain here long enough to save money for his passage. This he could not do, as he deemed his speedy presence in England imperative, in Harley’s interests. He therefore went to the British Consul, and represented himself as a seafarer, who had been washed overboard in a squall. His reason for being thus uncommunicative concerning what really occurred was that he feared that any report should reach England through the Consulate, and find its way into the English papers before he could arrive himself. He was fully alive to the fact that news of his safety would be gladly welcomed by his mother and friends. But he also knew that if his enemies were to suspect him to be in the land of the living, they would be on their guard, and would, perhaps, succeed once more in baulking him of the prey he meant to run to earth, in spite of what appeared to be a malignantly adverse fate.
“The bitterness of my loss is past,” he said. “My people already mourn me dead, and my enemies triumph over my removal from their path. I will awaken neither the hopes of the one nor the fears of the other until the right moment for striking arrives. My blow will then be more deadly and sure, and I shall be able to work with much more freedom if my continued existence is unsuspected.”
It was in conformity with this resolution that he gave fictitious names to the consul, both of himself and the ship from which he was supposed to have been washedoverboard. Had there been much doubt expressed concerning the matter, there was the evidence of Captain Pereiro and his crew to show how he had come aboard the “Halcyon.” Asked what he wished the consul to do for him, he replied that he was anxious to reach England as soon as possible; that, if chance afforded, he would gladly work his passage home; otherwise, he wished to be shipped free of charge to himself, on board a London-bound steamer, this request being in strict accordance with English usage and custom.
His request was looked upon as reasonable enough, and, upon the whole, he was well treated. But there was no vessel in the port that was likely to proceed to England immediately, and he was forced to submit to a heart-breaking delay. By this time Pereiro was very much attached to him, and would fain have persuaded him to wait until the “Halcyon” had discharged her cargo and reloaded, in order to return in the barque to Lisbon, thence to proceed by the quickest route to London.
“One of my sailors has asked me to let him off articles. He has come across a chance of making money more quickly than would be the case at sea. You can ship in his place, earn his pay, and have money to buy some clothes, and take you home to London. You will also be more at home with us than on another strange ship. Say the word, my friend, and make me happy.”
But to this plan Hilton did not feel himself able to consent. The idea of another long voyage in a sailing vessel filled him with horror. Yet, as the weeks sped by, and no better opportunity offered itself, his hopes sank to zero. At last, when he was feeling thoroughly weary anddespondent, another steamer bearing the English flag steamed into the harbour. This was the “Lorna Doone.” Both officers and crew bore evidence of having undergone great privations, and the story they had to tell was enough to make anybody’s heart ache. Head winds and heavy seas had delayed their outward passage, and sickness, in the shape of yellow fever, had overtaken them at their discharging port. All in turn had been seriously ill. Some of their shipmates had never recovered from the grip of Yellow Jack. Water, provisions, and men were alike scarce, and the captain, being in dire straits, had found it necessary to run into Callao for relief, before proceeding on the return voyage to Liverpool.
In all this Hilton hailed his opportunity. No sooner was the quarantine flag hauled down, than he boarded the “Lorna Doone,” and asked to be shipped as an able seaman. Too sorely pushed to insist upon discharges or references, the captain gladly engaged him, and in another day or two the Blue Peter was flying on the foremast head of his new home.
It was with some regret, and many manifestations of sorrow, that the parting between Hilton and his demonstrative benefactors took place. But at last the painful scene was over; he was fairly installed on board the “Lorna Doone,” and in a few hours more was being borne to the goal he was so anxious to reach—England.