The Island of Gold: A Sailor's Yarn

And the men knelt there, with bent heads, as if ashamed of the deed they had been about to commit.

Ah! but the tears were flowing fast from their eyes. Poor James was dead!

Book Three – Chapter Twelve.

Leaves from First Mate Tandy’s Log

Like all the other dead, poor James Malone received the honours of a sailor’s burial on the very next day.

But, unlike the rest, he was not slipped over the cliff.

On the contrary, Halcott determined he should rest far out in the blue, lone sea, where nothing might disturb his rest until “the crack of doom.” The last words were those of Halcott himself.

So the lightest boat was dragged all the way to the beach, and there, with the body sewn up in a hammock and covered with a red flag, it was launched.

There had been no return of the earthquake, but all the previous night flames and smoke had issued from Fire Hill, and no one doubted that an eruption on a vast scale was imminent. There was, however, no danger in leaving little Nelda and her brother alone in the hulk with Janeira and Chips – who was already able to walk – for the savages were far away, indeed, by this time. So Tandy accompanied Halcott, and with them went the others – only five in all.

Not a word was spoken until the boat was beyond the bay and in very deep water.

“Way enough!” cried Halcott. “In oars!”

All sat there with bent, uncovered heads while the captain read the service; but his voice was choked with emotion, and when the shotted hammock took the water with a melancholy boom and disappeared, he closed the book. He could say no more for a time.

As a rule seafarers are not orators, though what they do say is generally to the point.

Halcott sat for fully a minute like one in a trance, gazing silently and reverently at the spot where the body had disappeared.

The bubbles had soon ceased to rise, and there was nothing now to mark the sailor’s cemetery. Though —

“He was the loved of all,

Yet none on his low grave might weep.”

“My friends,” said Halcott, “there in peace rests the body of my dearest friend, my adopted brother. I never had a brother save him. How much I loved him none can ever know. The world and the ship will be a deal more lonesome to me now that James has gone. For many and many a long year we sailed the seas together, and weathered many a gale and storm. Sound, sound may he sleep, while wind and waves shall sing his dirge. Unselfish was he to the end, and every inch a sailor. His last word was ‘Victory;’ and well may we now add, ‘O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’

“Out oars, men! Give way with a will!”

They reached the shore in safety, and drew up the boat high and dry. But none too soon; for, before they got on board once more, a terrible thunderstorm had come on, with lightning more vivid than any one on the hulk ever remembered.

I have Tandy’s log before me as I write, and I do not think I can do better than make a few extracts therefrom.

“The lost Barque, Sea Flower. – On the rocks, in Treachery Bay, Isle of Misfortune, latitude – , longitude – , August 5, 18 – . Buried poor James Malone to-day. Halcott terribly cut up. Doesn’t seem to be the same man. But we all miss James; he was so gentle, so kind, and true. We miss Fitz also. His merry ways and laughing face made him a favourite with us all. And honest Tom Wilson; we shall never again hear his sweet music. Thank Heaven that, though the thunder is now rolling, the lightning flashing, and a rain that looks like mud falling, I have my darlings both beside me! In the darkest hours I have ever spent in life, I’ve always had something to comfort me. Yes, God is good.

“The sun is setting. I never saw a sun look so lurid and red before. The thunder continues, but the rain has ceased. There are frequent smart shocks of earthquake.

“August 8. – Two awful days and nights have passed, and still we are all alive. The days have been days of darkness; the ashes and scoriae have been falling constantly, and now lie an inch at least in depth upon our deck. Nights lit up by the flames that spout cloud-high from the volcano, carrying with them rocks and stones and steam. There is a terribly mephitic vapour over everything. How long this may last Heaven alone can tell.”

“August 12. – Four more fearful days. The eruption continues with unabated horror – the thunderings, the lightnings, the showers of stones and ashes, and the rolling clouds of dust through which, even at midday, the sun glares like a ball of crimson fire.

“Poor Chips is dead; we buried him yesterday. More of us are ill. Halcott himself is depressed, and my wee Nelda cares for nothing save lying languidly on the sofa all day long. The thought that she may die haunts me night and day.”

“August 13. – Almost at the last of our provisions. The biscuit is finished; the very dust has been scraped up and eaten. Not more than a score of tins of soupe en bouille left in the ship, and about one gallon of rum. Served out to-day what remained of the salmon, and gave double allowance of rum to-night.

“Not a green thing seems to be left on the island.”

“August 15. – Feel languid and weary. Went to prayers to-day. All our hopes must now centre in the life to come; we have none for this.”

“August 18. – The strange crane lies trussed in a corner of the saloon. We force him to eat a little, and Bob sits near him and licks his face.

“To-day Bob went off by himself. He was away for hours, and we thought we should never see him again; but in the afternoon he returned, driving before him five little black pigs. Thin and miserable are they, but a godsend nevertheless.

“Lava pouring down the hill-side all night long, shimmering green, red, and orange through the sulphurous haze.”

“August 20. – Men more cheerful to-day. The clouds have cleared away, and we can see the sea, and the sun is less red.

“Halcott and I climbed Observatory Hill. What a scene! The once beautiful island is burnt as it were to a cinder. Trees are scorched; all, all is dead. We could not bear to look at it. But we cut down the flag-pole, and brought away the ensign. They are useless now.

“Who will be the next to die? ‘O Father,’ I cry in my agony, ‘spare my life while my little one lives, that I may minister to her till the last! Then take my boy and me!’”

“August 22. – Four bells in the middle-watch. I awoke an hour ago with a start. Halcott, too, had rushed into the saloon.

“‘Did you hear it?’ he cried wildly.

“Yes, I had heard.

“The unusual sound awoke us all – the sound of a ship blowing off steam in the bay yonder, far beneath us. The sound of anchor chains rattling out, the sound of voices – the voices of brave British sailors!

“‘Halcott! Halcott!’ I cried; ‘we are saved!’

“I’m sure I have been weeping. Nelda is on my knee at this moment while I write, her cheek pressed close to mine. Oh, how good God has been to me! We have fired off guns, and raised our voices in a feeble cheer, and the people have replied.

“It is no dream then.

“Surely I am not mad!

“Oh, will the morning never come? and will the sun never shine again? I – ”

The log breaks off abruptly just here, and all that I have further to say was gleaned from Halcott and Tandy themselves.

The steamer, then, that had arrived so opportunely to save the few unhappy survivors of the lost Sea Flower was the trader Borneo. The very first to welcome them when they went on board at early dawn was honest Weathereye himself. He had a hand for Halcott and a hand for Tandy – a heart for both.

“God bless you!” he hastened to say. “Ah! do not tell me your sad story now – no, never a bit of it. The Dun Avon brought your letters, and I could not rest till I came out.

“But run below, Halcott; some one else wants to welcome you. You’ll be surprised – ”

Halcott never knew rightly whether he had descended to the saloon on wings or on his feet, or whether he had jumped right down through the skylight.

A minute afterwards, however, Doris was weeping in his arms – ah! such glad, glad tears – and Doris’s mother arose from a couch with a happy smile.