Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1788 page)

Though she spoke these kind words in a cheering manner, she spoke them compassionately.  I said nothing.  It will appear to be another strange confession, that I paced to and fro, within call, all that night, a most unhappy man, reproaching myself all the night long.  “You are as ignorant as any man alive; you are as obscure as any man alive; you are as poor as any man alive; you are no better than the mud under your foot.”  That was the way in which I went on against myself until the morning.

With the day, came the day’s labour.  What I should have done — without the labour, I don’t know.  We were afloat again at the usual hour, and were again making our way down the river.  It was broader, and clearer of obstructions than it had been, and it seemed to flow faster.  This was one of Drooce’s quiet days; Mr. Pordage, besides being sulky, had almost lost his voice; and we made good way, and with little noise.

There was always a seaman forward on the raft, keeping a bright look-out.  Suddenly, in the full heat of the day, when the children were slumbering, and the very trees and reeds appeared to be slumbering, this man — it was Short — holds up his hand, and cries with great caution: “Avast!  Voices ahead!”

We held on against the stream as soon as we could bring her up, and the other raft followed suit.  At first, Mr. Macey, Mr. Fisher, and myself, could hear nothing; though both the seamen aboard of us agreed that they could hear voices and oars.  After a little pause, however, we united in thinking that we
could
hear the sound of voices, and the dip of oars.  But, you can hear a long way in those countries, and there was a bend of the river before us, and nothing was to be seen except such waters and such banks as we were now in the eighth day (and might, for the matter of our feelings, have been in the eightieth), of having seen with anxious eyes.

It was soon decided to put a man ashore, who should creep through the wood, see what was coming, and warn the rafts.  The rafts in the meantime to keep the middle of the stream.  The man to be put ashore, and not to swim ashore, as the first thing could be more quickly done than the second.  The raft conveying him, to get back into mid-stream, and to hold on along with the other, as well is it could, until signalled by the man.  In case of danger, the man to shift for himself until it should be safe to take him on board again.  I volunteered to be the man.

We knew that the voices and oars must come up slowly against the stream; and our seamen knew, by the set of the stream, under which bank they would come.  I was put ashore accordingly.  The raft got off well, and I broke into the wood.

Steaming hot it was, and a tearing place to get through.  So much the better for me, since it was something to contend against and do.  I cut off the bend of the river, at a great saving of space, came to the water’s edge again, and hid myself, and waited.  I could now hear the dip of the oars very distinctly; the voices had ceased.

The sound came on in a regular tune, and as I lay hidden, I fancied the tune so played to be, “Chris’en — George — King!  Chris’en — George — King!  Chris’en — George — King!” over and over again, always the same, with the pauses always at the same places.  I had likewise time to make up my mind that if these were the Pirates, I could and would (barring my being shot) swim off to my raft, in spite of my wound, the moment I had given the alarm, and hold my old post by Miss Maryon.

“Chris’en — George — King!  Chris’en — George — King!  Chris’en — George — King!” coming up, now, very near.

I took a look at the branches about me, to see where a shower of bullets would be most likely to do me least hurt; and I took a look back at the track I had made in forcing my way in; and now I was wholly prepared and fully ready for them.

“Chris’en — George — King!  Chris’en — George — King!  Chris’en — George — King!”  Here they are!

Who were they?  The barbarous Pirates, scum of all nations, headed by such men as the hideous little Portuguese monkey, and the one-eyed English convict with the gash across his face, that ought to have gashed his wicked head off?  The worst men in the world picked out from the worst, to do the cruellest and most atrocious deeds that ever stained it?  The howling, murdering, black-flag waving, mad, and drunken crowd of devils that had overcome us by numbers and by treachery?  No.  These were English men in English boats — good blue-jackets and red-coats — marines that I knew myself, and sailors that knew our seamen!  At the helm of the first boat, Captain Carton, eager and steady.  At the helm of the second boat, Captain Maryon, brave and bold.  At the helm of the third boat, an old seaman, with determination carved into his watchful face, like the figure-head of a ship.  Every man doubly and trebly armed from head to foot.  Every man lying-to at his work, with a will that had all his heart and soul in it.  Every man looking out for any trace of friend or enemy, and burning to be the first to do good or avenge evil.  Every man with his face on fire when he saw me, his countryman who had been taken prisoner, and hailed me with a cheer, as Captain Carton’s boat ran in and took me on board.

I reported, “All escaped, sir!  All well, all safe, all here!”

God bless me — and God bless them — what a cheer!  It turned me weak, as I was passed on from hand to hand to the stern of the boat: every hand patting me or grasping me in some way or other, in the moment of my going by.

“Hold up, my brave fellow,” says Captain Carton, clapping me on the shoulder like a friend, and giving me a flask.  “Put your lips to that, and they’ll be red again.  Now, boys, give way!”

The banks flew by us as if the mightiest stream that ever ran was with us; and so it was, I am sure, meaning the stream to those men’s ardour and spirit.  The banks flew by us, and we came in sight of the rafts — the banks flew by us, and we came alongside of the rafts — the banks stopped; and there was a tumult of laughing and crying, and kissing and shaking of hands, and catching up of children and setting of them down again, and a wild hurry of thankfulness and joy that melted every one and softened all hearts.

I had taken notice, in Captain Carton’s boat, that there was a curious and quite new sort of fitting on board.  It was a kind of a little bower made of flowers, and it was set up behind the captain, and betwixt him and the rudder.  Not only was this arbour, so to call it, neatly made of flowers, but it was ornamented in a singular way.  Some of the men had taken the ribbons and buckles off their hats, and hung them among the flowers; others had made festoons and streamers of their handkerchiefs, and hung them there; others had intermixed such trifles as bits of glass and shining fragments of lockets and tobacco-boxes with the flowers; so that altogether it was a very bright and lively object in the sunshine.  But why there, or what for, I did not understand.

Now, as soon as the first bewilderment was over, Captain Carton gave the order to land for the present.  But this boat of his, with two hands left in her, immediately put off again when the men were out of her, and kept off, some yards from the shore.  As she floated there, with the two hands gently backing water to keep her from going down the stream, this pretty little arbour attracted many eyes.  None of the boat’s crew, however, had anything to say about it, except that it was the captain’s fancy.

The captain — with the women and children clustering round him, and the men of all ranks grouped outside them, and all listening — stood telling how the Expedition, deceived by its bad intelligence, had chased the light Pirate boats all that fatal night, and had still followed in their wake next day, and had never suspected until many hours too late that the great Pirate body had drawn off in the darkness when the chase began, and shot over to the Island.  He stood telling how the Expedition, supposing the whole array of armed boats to be ahead of it, got tempted into shallows and went aground; but not without having its revenge upon the two decoy-boats, both of which it had come up with, overhand, and sent to the bottom with all on board.  He stood telling how the Expedition, fearing then that the case stood as it did, got afloat again, by great exertion, after the loss of four more tides, and returned to the Island, where they found the sloop scuttled and the treasure gone.  He stood telling how my officer, Lieutenant Linderwood, was left upon the Island, with as strong a force as could be got together hurriedly from the mainland, and how the three boats we saw before us were manned and armed and had come away, exploring the coast and inlets, in search of any tidings of us.  He stood telling all this, with his face to the river; and, as he stood telling it, the little arbour of flowers floated in the sunshine before all the faces there.

Leaning on Captain Carton’s shoulder, between him and Miss Maryon, was Mrs. Fisher, her head drooping on her arm.  She asked him, without raising it, when he had told so much, whether he had found her mother?

“Be comforted!  She lies,” said the Captain gently, “under the cocoa-nut trees on the beach.”

“And my child, Captain Carton, did you find my child, too?  Does my darling rest with my mother?”

“No.  Your pretty child sleeps,” said the Captain, “under a shade of flowers.”

His voice shook; but there was something in it that struck all the hearers.  At that moment there sprung from the arbour in his boat a little creature, clapping her hands and stretching out her arms, and crying, “Dear papa!  Dear mamma!  I am not killed.  I am saved.  I am coming to kiss you.  Take me to them, take me to them, good, kind sailors!”

Nobody who saw that scene has ever forgotten it, I am sure, or ever will forget it.  The child had kept quite still, where her brave grandmamma had put her (first whispering in her ear, “Whatever happens to me, do not stir, my dear!”), and had remained quiet until the fort was deserted; she had then crept out of the trench, and gone into her mother’s house; and there, alone on the solitary Island, in her mother’s room, and asleep on her mother’s bed, the Captain had found her.  Nothing could induce her to be parted from him after he took her up in his arms, and he had brought her away with him, and the men had made the bower for her.  To see those men now, was a sight.  The joy of the women was beautiful; the joy of those women who had lost their own children, was quite sacred and divine; but, the ecstasies of Captain Carton’s boat’s crew, when their pet was restored to her parents, were wonderful for the tenderness they showed in the midst of roughness.  As the Captain stood with the child in his arms, and the child’s own little arms now clinging round his neck, now round her father’s, now round her mother’s, now round some one who pressed up to kiss her, the boat’s crew shook hands with one another, waved their hats over their heads, laughed, sang, cried, danced — and all among themselves, without wanting to interfere with anybody — in a manner never to be represented.  At last, I saw the coxswain and another, two very hard-faced men, with grizzled heads, who had been the heartiest of the hearty all along, close with one another, get each of them the other’s head under his arm, and pommel away at it with his fist as hard as he could, in his excess of joy.

When we had well rested and refreshed ourselves — and very glad we were to have some of the heartening things to eat and drink that had come up in the boats — we recommenced our voyage down the river: rafts, and boats, and all.  I said to myself, it was a
very
different kind of voyage now, from what it had been; and I fell into my proper place and station among my fellow-soldiers.

But, when we halted for the night, I found that Miss Maryon had spoken to Captain Carton concerning me.  For, the Captain came straight up to me, and says he, “My brave fellow, you have been Miss Maryon’s body-guard all along, and you shall remain so.  Nobody shall supersede you in the distinction and pleasure of protecting that young lady.”  I thanked his honour in the fittest words I could find, and that night I was placed on my old post of watching the place where she slept.  More than once in the night, I saw Captain Carton come out into the air, and stroll about there, to see that all was well.  I have now this other singular confession to make, that I saw him with a heavy heart.  Yes; I saw him with a heavy, heavy heart.

In the day-time, I had the like post in Captain Carton’s boat.  I had a special station of my own, behind Miss Maryon, and no hands but hers ever touched my wound.  (It has been healed these many long years; but, no other hands have ever touched it.)  Mr. Pordage was kept tolerably quiet now, with pen and ink, and began to pick up his senses a little.  Seated in the second boat, he made documents with Mr. Kitten, pretty well all day; and he generally handed in a Protest about something whenever we stopped.  The Captain, however, made so very light of these papers, that it grew into a saying among the men, when one of them wanted a match for his pipe, “Hand us over a Protest, Jack!”  As to Mrs. Pordage, she still wore the nightcap, and she now had cut all the ladies on account of her not having been formally and separately rescued by Captain Carton before anybody else.  The end of Mr. Pordage, to bring to an end all I know about him, was, that he got great compliments at home for his conduct on these trying occasions, and that he died of yellow jaundice, a Governor and a K.C.B.