Under the Waves: Diving in Deep Waters

“How terribly some of the poor wretches have been starved!” muttered Edgar as he bent over one of the captives, attempting to draw together the edges of a sword-cut in his arm; “why, there is not enough of flesh on him to cover his wound.”

“There an’t much, sir,” assented Joe Baldwin, in a sympathetic tone, as he stood close by holding the needle and thread in readiness. “There’s one man for’ard, sir, that I saw in passing to the chest for this thread, that has scarcely as much flesh on him as would bait a rat-trap. But he seems quite contented, poor fellow, at bein’ freed from slavery, and don’t seem to mind much the want o’ flesh and blood. Perhaps he counts on gettin’ these back again.”

“Hm! These are not so easily regained when lost as you seem to imagine, my friend,” exclaimed a pompous but rather weak voice. Joe looked up. It was Mr Hazlit, whose bloodless countenance and shrunken condition had become more apparent than ever after he had been enabled to reclothe himself in the garments of civilisation.

“Why, sir,” said Joe, gently, “you seem to have bin badly shaken. Not bin wounded, I hope, sir?”

“No,—at least not in body,” replied the merchant, with a faint smile and shake of the head; “but I’ve been sadly bruised and broken in spirit.”

Joe, remembering somewhat of Mr Hazlit’s former state of spirit, had almost congratulated him on the beneficial change before it occurred that his meaning in doing so might have been misunderstood. He therefore coughed slightly and said, “Ah—indeed!”

“Yes, indeed, my man,” returned the merchant; “but I have reason to be supremely thankful that I am here now in any condition of mind and body worthy of being recognised.”

As the amateur surgeon here desired Joe to assist him in moving his patient a little, Mr Hazlit turned away, in a stooping attitude because of weakness, and, with his vest flapping against the place where his chief development had once been, shuffled slowly towards the quarter-deck.

It was at this time that the boat which captured Pungarin came alongside, and there was a general movement of curiosity towards the gangway as he was passed on board.

The hands of the pirate-chief were tied behind his back, but otherwise he was free, the cords that had bound his legs having been cast loose.

A howl of execration burst from the captives when they saw him, and several ran forward with the evident intention of spitting on him, but these were promptly checked by the sailors.

Pungarin drew himself up and stood calmly, but not defiantly, as if waiting orders. There was no expression on his bold countenance save that of stern indifference for the crowd around him, over whose heads he gazed quietly out to sea. His brow remained as unflushed and his breathing as gentle as though his struggles for life had occurred weeks ago, though the wet garments and the ragged red jacket told eloquently of the share he had taken in the recent fight.

“Take him below and put him in irons,” said the captain.

“Please, sir,” remarked the man whose duty it was to secure the prisoners, “we’ve got no more irons on board. We had only thirty pair, and there’s now thirty-eight prisoners in the hold.”

“Secure him with ropes, then,” returned the captain;—“where is Mr Berrington?” he added, looking round hurriedly.

“For’ard, sir, lookin’ after the wounded,” answered a sailor.

While the pirate-chief was led below, the captain walked quickly to the place where Edgar was busy.

“Can you spare a minute?” he asked.

“Not easily,” said Edgar, who had just finished the dressing with which we left him engaged; “there are several here who require prompt attention; but of course if the case is urgent—”

“It is urgent: come and see.”

Without a word our amateur surgeon rose and walked after the captain, who led him to the companion-hatch, leaning against which he found the Singapore man, with his head split across and apparently cut down nearly from ear to ear. From this awful wound two small spouts of blood, about the thickness of a coarse thread, rose a foot and a half into the air. We use no exaggeration, reader, in describing this. We almost quote verbatim the words of a most trustworthy eye-witness from whose lips we received the account.

The man looked anxiously at Edgar, who turned at once to the captain and said in an undertone, but hurriedly, “I can be of no use here. It is quite impossible that he can live. To attempt anything would really be taking up time that is of vast importance to more hopeful cases.”

“Sir, do try,” faltered the poor man in English.

“Ha! You speak English?” said Edgar, turning quickly towards him; “forgive me, my poor fellow, I did not know that you understood—”

“Yis, me speak Engleesh. Me Singapore man. Go for vist me friends here. Cotch by pirits. Do try, doctir.”

While he was speaking Edgar quickly took off the man’s necktie and bound it round his head; then, using a little piece of wood as a lever, he passed it through the tie and twisted it until the two sides of the gaping gash were brought together, which operation stopped the bleeding at once. This done he hastily left him; but it will interest the reader to know that this Singapore man actually recovered from his terrible wound after a month of hospital treatment. He was afterwards taken over to Singapore as a natural curiosity, and exhibited there to several doctors who had refused to believe the story. For aught we know to the contrary, the man may be alive and well at the present day. Certain it is that his cure at that time was complete. (Note. We were told this fact by a trustworthy eye-witness.)

It was evening before all the wounds were dressed, and it was dark night ere the disorder caused by the action and its consequences were removed, and the gun-boat restored to somewhat of its wonted tidiness and appearance of comfort. But there was little comfort on board during the silence of that long night, which seemed to many as though it would never end; and which, in the case of a few, ended in Eternity.

Although silence began to descend on all, sleep was not there. Excitement, fatigue, and the awful scenes they had witnessed, drove it from the pillows of Aileen and her friend. Frequent calls for the aid of the surgeon put anything like refreshing rest—much though he required it—quite out of the question, and at whatever hour of the night or early morning he entered the temporary hospital where the sufferers lay, he was sure to be met by the white flash of the many eyes in haggard swart faces that turned eagerly and expectantly towards him—proving that sleep had little or no influence there.

There was less of this want of repose, strange to say, in another part of the vessel.

Down in the dark hold, where one feeble lamp cast a mere apology for light on the wretched surroundings, many of the pirates slept soundly. Their days were numbered—each one knew that full well—yet they slept. Their hearts ought to have been fall of dark forebodings, but they slumbered—some of them with the profound quietude of infants! One might wonder at this were it not a familiar fact. This condition of “the wicked” has been observed in every age, and is stated in holy writ.

But all were not asleep in that dismal prison-house. There were among them, it seemed, a few who were troubled with fears—perhaps some who had consciences not yet utterly seared. At all events, two or three of them moved uneasily as they sat huddled together, for there was little room for so many in such a confined space, and now and then a bursting sigh escaped. But such evidences of weakness, if such it may be called, were few. For the most part silence reigned. In mercy the captain had ordered a chink of the hatch to be left open, and through this the stars shone down into the dark chamber.

Looking up at these, in statue-like silence, sat the pirate-chief. No one had spoken to him, and he had spoken to none since his entry there. Sleep did not visit his eyes, nor rest his heart, yet he sat perfectly still, hour after hour. Perchance he experienced the rest resulting from an iron will that abides its approaching time for action.

The tending of the wounded, the cleansing of the ship, the feeding of survivors, the shutting up and arranging for the night, had passed away—even the groaning of sufferers had dwindled down to its lowest ebb—long before Pungarin moved with the intent to carry out his purpose.

The night-watch had been set and changed; the guard over the prisoners had been relieved; the man in charge of them had gone his rounds and examined their fetters; the careful captain had himself inspected them,—all was perfectly quiet and deemed safe, when Pungarin at last moved, and gave vent to one deep prolonged sigh that seemed to be the opening of the escape-valve of his heart, and the out-rush of its long-pent-up emotions.

Slowly, but persistently, he began to struggle, and in the darkness of the place it seemed to those of his comrades who observed him as if he were writhing like a snake. But little did his fellow-pirates heed. Their hearts had long ago ceased to be impressible by horrid fancies. They could not help but see what went on before their eyes—it did not require an effort to help caring!

We have already said that some of the prisoners had been bound with ropes for want of irons. Pungarin was among the number, and his almost superhuman efforts were directed to freeing himself from his rope, either by tearing his limbs out of it, or by snapping it asunder. In both attempts he failed. Sailors are, of all men, least likely to tie a knot badly, or to select a rope too weak for its purpose. The pirate at length made this discovery, and sank down exhausted. But he rose again ere long.

Those of the prisoners who had been secured by ropes were fastened to a beam overhead. The place was very low. None of them could have stood erect under this beam. While endeavouring to free himself, Pungarin had struggled on his knees. He now raised himself as high as possible on his knees. His hands, although tied in front of him, could be raised to his head. He quickly made a loop on the rope and passed it over his head.

Just then the guard removed the hatchway, and descended to make the last inspection for the night. Pungarin hastily removed the rope, sank down and lay quite still as if in slumber.

Night passed slowly on. The morning-star arose. The sun soon chased away the shadows, and brought joy to the awaking world. It even brought some degree of comfort to the comfortless on board the gun-boat. The sleepers began to rouse themselves, the wounded to move and relieve themselves, if possible, by change of position. The cook set about his preparations for the morning meal, and the captain, who, being dangerously close to shore, had taken no rest whatever during the night, gave up the charge of his vessel to the first officer, and went below to seek that repose which he had so well earned.

Ere he had closed an eye, however, his attention, was arrested by a cry, and by a peculiar noise of voices on deck. There are tones in the human voice which need no verbal explanation to tell us that they mean something serious. He jumped up and sprang on deck. As if by instinct he went towards the hatchway leading to the hold.

“He’s dead, sir!” were the first words that greeted him.

A glance into the hold was enough to explain.

The pirate-chief had hanged himself. With difficulty, but with inflexible resolution, he had accomplished his purpose by fastening the rope round his neck and lifting his legs off the ground, so that he was actually found suspended in a sitting posture.

His comrades in guilt, little impressed, apparently, by his fate, sat or reclined around his body in callous indifference.

Chapter Twenty One.

Difficulties of various Kinds, also Troubles, and a Discovery

“Gentlemen,” said the captain of the gun-boat to Mr Hazlit and Edgar as they sat that morning at breakfast, “it is my intention to run to the nearest town on the coast—which happens to be Muku—have these pirates tried and shot, then proceed to Singapore, and perhaps run thence to the coast of China. I will take you with me if you wish it, or if you prefer it, will put you on board the first homeward-bound passenger-ship that we can find. What say you?”

Now, reader, we possess the happy privilege of knowing what Mr Hazlit and Edgar thought as well as what they said, and will use that privilege for purposes of our own.

In the first place, Edgar thought he should very much like to hear Mr Hazlit’s views on that subject before speaking. He therefore said nothing.

The course being thus left clear to him, the merchant thought as follows:—