Chapter 91
As quietly as he could manage, Murray filled the cocoanut he had brought, raised his brother middy's head upon his arm, and held the hard, dark-brown cup to the lad's lips.
There was no response for a few minutes, during which Murray contrived to moisten the parched and cracking membrane as if in vain, and he was about to try in despair to bathe the poor lad's temples when the lips softened, there was a choking gurgling sound, a gasp or two, and then with strange avidity the mids.h.i.+pman drank and drank, spilling much, but drinking a fair proportion, and as the cup was drained asking in a hoa.r.s.e, dry voice for more.
Instead of refilling the half nut Murray tore off another banana, hastily skinned it, and placed that in his companion's hand, watching him eat it, gazing about him the while, and then as he found that the lad was recovering himself, he asked him if he could speak.
"Speak! Yes," cried the lad. "It is like life."
"That's right. Cheer up!"
"Water! More water;" cried Roberts.
"Yes, soon. Eat that first;" and he gave him another of the bananas.
"Where's t.i.tely?"
"t.i.tely? There," said Roberts, pointing.
"No, he is not there," said Murray excitedly. "Where has he gone?"
"He was there when I fell asleep."
"Has Tom May been back?"
"No; I have not seen him. But have you found more water and more fruit?"
"Yes; I have found a plantation and a stream or long pool. But where can t.i.tely be?"
"I don't know. Can Tom May have fetched him?"
"No; he would have spoken to you."
"Perhaps he did, but I was half insensible and did not hear. Oh, Frank, old man, you've saved my miserable life!"
"Thank heaven, old fellow! If we can only avoid the slavers we may hold out till Mr Anderson or the captain comes to our help. But I must find t.i.tely. Perhaps he has crawled away. There, go on eating while I search round. Go on eating and drinking; only leave enough for Tom May when he comes back, and for t.i.tely when I have found him."
"You have some too," said Roberts, who was beginning to recover fast, save that his wound gave him increasing pain.
And now began a search which grew more and more hopeless as hours glided by. There was no trace of the injured sailor, and no sign of Tom May's return; and at last, when the first signs of the coming brief tropical evening began to show themselves, and with them the desire for more water and fruit, Murray made up his mind to guide his companion to the negro's hut, after leaving by way of refreshment all the fruit and water that was left, trusting to the fact that upon finding the refreshments Tom May might go further and trace the way they had gone by means of the blazings and other signs he had left upon the canes and trees.
It took some making up of the boy's mind before he could decide to leave the place where they had hidden themselves for so long; but he felt himself bound to try hard to place his wounded comrade in safety, and where he could supply him amply with food and water; and at last, hesitating no longer, he induced his companion to make an effort to rise, and they started off together, after a final look round, for the idea had forced itself upon Murray that if they did not go at once they would not reach their haven of rest and refreshment before it grew dark.
As it was the task proved to be anxious enough before Murray succeeded in getting his companion within the hut, where he sank down in weariness and pain, but glad enough to drink heartily from a fresh nut cup of the sweet, rather peculiarly coloured water, after which he dropped into a complete state of insensibility, with a half-eaten banana grasped in his hand, while Murray eagerly seized his opportunity to follow his brother middy's example, drinking with avidity, and for his part eating almost ravenously to master the weakness and hunger from which he suffered.
Satisfied with this, he set himself to
"Tom must have come upon poor t.i.tely somewhere, wandering from our hiding-place," he thought, "and taken him back after I had gone with d.i.c.k, and it is madness to go back to him. I couldn't do it in the darkness, any more than he could track me out; and yet I don't know--I ought to try and find him. Perhaps, poor fellow, he has found no food, and may be nearly starved. I think I could find him, even if it is dark. I ought to know the way to him after going over the ground twice.
I ought to, and I will--after I've had about an hour's rest. I must have that, and then I'll start."
The mids.h.i.+pman sat and thought of the scene when they crouched together, expecting moment by moment to be discovered.
The next minute his mind had wandered away to his search, the fortunate discovery of the old hut and the cultivation carried out by some slave; and then he came to the determination that he would crawl to where d.i.c.k Roberts lay sleeping so heavily that his breathing had become a deep snore.
"Poor fellow," he sighed; "he has suffered badly enough, but I ought to try and put him in an easier position. It is his wound which makes him so uneasy."
Then he thought he would wait a little longer before waking his comrade and telling him that he was going back to the old hiding-place to say where they were.
Murray had just come to the conclusion that he ought to be content with the rest he had s.n.a.t.c.hed, when there was a faint rustling sound just beyond the doorway where he had seated himself, and like a flash he recalled the scene in the planter's cottage where Tom May had shrunk from going up into the chamber behind the screen on account of the snakes--poisonous or not. This was a thatched cottage place, up whose angles or sides one of the reptiles that had lurked among the bananas and maize of the plantation could easily have made its way to the roof, ready to descend upon any one sleeping on the floor.
So suggestive was this thought that the mids.h.i.+pman felt startled and drew himself up slightly, feeling that he ought to go to his companion's a.s.sistance.
"Perhaps poisonous," he thought, "and I may get a bite if I disturb it in the darkness. Perhaps, too, it may be tired out as I am, and drop asleep without molesting either me or Roberts. He's not sleeping so heavily now," he thought, "and I ought to be off trying to find poor worn-out and hungry t.i.tely. I wonder how far he has wandered away from where he was left. I ought to have found him, but it wasn't to be helped. Tom will know now. I wonder how long it will take me to get to where we left the poor fellow? But is that d.i.c.k Roberts breathing hard--snoring--or is it one of those snakes creeping about in the maize-leaf thatch? I wonder what I had better do! Of course I can't leave poor d.i.c.k, but it's a pity that he should make all that noise. It is like trying to betray himself.
"I think I must go and wake the poor fellow. It isn't fair to leave him, of course. And it isn't fair to leave poor Tom May lying done up and faint for want of water. It's rather hard, though, when I'm so done up too;" and then he thought how beautiful it was with the soft yellow moonlight of the tropical night s.h.i.+ning through the Indian corn leaves down through the roof of the flimsy hut, on to the floor close by where d.i.c.k Roberts was sleeping so heavily.
But no, he was not sleeping so deeply now, for he was not snoring.
And then there was the snake, or snakes, that had been rustling about so heavily. It or they were quite silent now. They had not bitten the mids.h.i.+pman, for of course he would have shrieked out in pain or fear.
So perhaps the reptiles had crept right away, and it was quite time that he, Frank Murray, started upon his quest to find Tom May and Bill t.i.tely. He ought in fact to have gone before, but he was so wearied-out that he felt obliged to rest for a few minutes; and now the moon was s.h.i.+ning so brightly that it would be much better and easier to make a start through the forest lit-up by the soft yellow rays of the tropic night.
"Yes," he muttered to himself; "it will be much better. What a beautiful night!"
And then he sat up; and again another moment and he had crawled out of the hut doorway with his eyes widely open from wonder.
"Why, it isn't the moon, nor night!" he exclaimed, half aloud. "It's morning, with the sun glowing through the shades of the forest, and I must have been asleep for hours.--Or else," faltered Murray, after a pause, "I'm off my head with fever, and don't know what I'm about."
CHAPTER FORTY TWO.
WITHOUT A DOCTOR.
Fever? Brain heat? The poor fellow turned cold with horror, and hurried back, careless of any impending danger that there might be, into the rough hut within whose shades he could dimly make out the figure of his comrade, who appeared to be sleeping heavily, but not well, for he was muttering.
"I say, d.i.c.k," he whispered, "how's your wound?"
There was no reply.
"d.i.c.k," he continued, "your wound doesn't hurt much, does it?"
Still there was no reply, and beginning to realise now that his own brain was clear, and that he really had been fast asleep, wearied-out beyond the power of watching by the previous night's exertions, he sank down upon one knee to lay his hand upon Roberts's forehead, when, feeling that it was burning, and that at the slightest touch the poor fellow started with pain, he began to master himself.
"What fancies one does get into one's head at a time like this! Of course I've been asleep, and no wonder. I was done up; but, thank heaven, I'm all right and able to think and act, while poor d.i.c.k's feverish and bad with his wound."
"Asleep, d.i.c.k?" he whispered again; and once more he laid his hand upon the poor fellow's brow, but with no fresh result. His comrade was insensible, and as Murray bent over the mutterer a fresh chill of horror ran through him as he thought of his position.
Suppose he grew worse, and no help came. What should he do? The idea was horrible. Suppose he were to--
He determined not to dwell upon the thought, and drawing a deep breath, he whispered to himself, now full of excitement--
"That's not the way to do any good," he said. "It's only playing the coward and thinking of one's self. I'm playing with shadows."