Philosopher Jack Part 7

They had reached the top of the ridge at the moment, and the view of the verdant islet that burst upon them might well have called forth admiration from men of coa.r.s.er mould than they.

O'Rook forgot for a few minutes the subject of his curiosity, and compared the prospect to some of the beautiful scenery of Ireland, though there was no resemblance whatever between the two. He soon returned, however, to the previous subject of conversation, but Mr Luke had ceased to be communicative.

"What is that lying on the beach there?" he said, pointing in the direction referred to.

"It's more than I can tell," answered O'Rook; "looks like a boat, don't it?"

"Very," said Mr Luke, "and there is something lying beside it like a man. Come, let's go see."

The two explorers went rapidly down the gentle slope that led to the beach, and soon found that the object in question was indeed a boat, old, rotten, and blistered with the sun. Beside it lay the skeleton of a man, with a few rags of the garments that had once formed its clothing still clinging to it here and there. It was a pitiful sight. Evidently the unfortunate man had been cast away in an open boat, and had been thrown on that beach when too much exhausted to make a last struggle for life, for there was no sign of his having wandered from the boat or cut down bushes, or attempted to make a fire. His strength had apparently enabled him to get out of the boat, that was all, and there he had lain down to die.

For some time the two wanderers stood contemplating the sight in silence, and when at length they spoke it was in low, sad tones.

"Poor, poor fellow," said Mr Luke, "he must have been s.h.i.+pwrecked, like ourselves, and cast adrift in the boat. But I wonder that he is alone; one would expect that some of his comrades must have got into the boat along with him."

"No doubt," said O'Rook, "they was all starved at sea and throw'd overboard. Come, Mr Luke, let's bury him; it's all we can do for him now."

Saying this, O'Rook threw off his jacket and, with his companion's a.s.sistance, soon sc.r.a.ped a hole in the sand. Into this they were about to lift the skeleton, when they observed that its right hand covered a decayed remnant of rag, under which was seen a glittering substance. It turned out to be the clasp of a notebook, which, however, was so decayed and glued together that it could not be opened. O'Rook therefore wrapped it in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket. Then they buried the skeleton, and rolled a large ma.s.s of coral rock upon the grave to mark the spot.

A careful examination was next made of the old boat and the locality around it, but nothing whatever was found to throw light on the fate of the vessel to which the man had belonged.

Returning to the encampment, O'Rook and his companion found their friends busy preparing supper, which consisted of some provisions saved from the raft, and cocoa-nuts.

In a few seconds the whole party was a.s.sembled in front of Polly's bower, listening attentively, while O'Rook described the discovery of the skeleton to the captain, and produced the old notebook. Deep was the interest of every member of that little community as the captain attempted to open the book, and intense was the expression of disappointment on each countenance--especially on that of Polly--when, after a prolonged trial, he utterly failed.

"Let Philosopher Jack try it," exclaimed Watty Wilkins eagerly.

The captain at once handed the book to Jack with a smile.

"To be sure," said he, "a philosopher ought to understand the management of books better than a skipper; but when a book is glued hard and fast like that, it may puzzle even a philosopher to master its contents."

Jack made the attempt, however. He went to work with the calm deliberation of a thorough workman. By the aid of heat and gentle friction and a little moisture, and the judicious use of a penknife, he succeeded at last in opening the book in one or two places. While he was thus engaged, the rest of the party supped and speculated on the probable contents of the book.

"Here is a legible bit at last," said Jack, "but the writing is very faint. Let me see. It refers to the state of the weather and the wind.

The poor man evidently kept a private journal. Ah! here, in the middle of the book, the damp has not had so much effect."

As he turned and separated the leaves with great care, Jack's audience gazed at him intently and forgot supper. At last he began to read:--

"`_Sat.u.r.day, 4th_.--Have been three weeks now on short allowance. We are all getting perceptibly weaker. The captain, who is not a strong man, is sinking. The boat is overcrowded. If a gale should spring up we shall all perish. I don't like the looks of two of the men. They are powerful fellows, and the captain and I believe them to be quite capable of murdering the most of us, and throwing us overboard to save their own lives.'

"Here there is a blank," said Jack, "and the next date is the 8th, but there is no month or year given. The writing continues:--

"`I scarce know what has pa.s.sed during the last few days. It is like a horrible dream. The two men made the attempt, and killed big George, whom they feared most, because of his courage and known fidelity to the captain; but, before they could do further mischief, the second mate shot them both. The boat floats lighter now, and, through G.o.d's mercy, the weather continues fine. Our last ration was served out this morning--two ounces of biscuit each, and a wine-gla.s.s of water. _Sunday, 11th_.--Two days without food. The captain read to us to-day some chapters out of the Bible, those describing the crucifixion of Jesus. Williams and Ranger were deeply impressed, and for the first time seemed to lament their sins, and to speak of themselves as crucifiers of Jesus. The captain's voice very weak, but he is cheerful and resigned. It is evident that _his_ trust is in the Lord. He exhorts us frequently. We feel the want of water more than food. _Wednesday_.--The captain and Williams died yesterday. Ranger drank sea water in desperation. He went mad soon after, and jumped overboard. We tried to save him, but failed. Only three of us are left. If we don't meet with a s.h.i.+p, or sight an island, it will soon be all over with us. _Thursday_.--I am alone now. An island is in sight, but I can scarcely raise myself to look at it. I will bind this book to my hand. If any one finds me, let him send it to my beloved wife, Lucy. It will comfort her to know that my last thoughts on earth were of her dear self, and that my soul is resting on my Redeemer. I grow very cold and faint. May G.o.d's best blessing rest--'"

The voice of the reader stopped suddenly, and for some moments there was a solemn silence, broken only by a sob from Polly Samson.

"Why don't you go on?" asked the captain.

"There is nothing more," said Jack sadly. "His strength must have failed him suddenly. It is unfortunate, for, as he has neither signed his name nor given the address of his wife, it will not be possible to fulfil his wishes."

"Maybe," suggested O'Rook, "if you open some more o' the pages you'll find a name somewheres."

Jack searched as well as the condition of the book would admit of and found at last the name of David Ban--, the latter part of the surname being illegible. He also discovered a lump in one place, which, on being cut into, proved to be a lock of golden hair, in perfect preservation. It was evidently that of a young person.

"That's Lucy's hair," said O'Rook promptly. "Blessin's on her poor heart! Give it me, Philosopher Jack, as well as the book. They both belong to me by rights, 'cause I found 'em; an' if ever I set futt in old England again, I'll hunt her up and give 'em to her."

As no one disputed O'Rook's claim, the book and lock of hair were handed to him.

Soon afterwards Polly lay down to rest in her new bower, and her father, with his men, made to themselves comfortable couches around her, under the canopy of the luxuriant shrubs.

A week pa.s.sed. During that period Captain Samson, with Polly, Jack, and Wilkins, walked over the island in all directions to ascertain its size and productions, while the crew of the _Lively Poll_ found full employment in erecting huts of boughs and broad leaves, and in collecting cocoa-nuts and a few other wild fruits and roots.

Meanwhile the bottle thrown overboard by Watty Wilkins, with its "message from the sea," began a long and slow but steady voyage.

It may not, perhaps, be known to the reader that there are two mighty currents in the ocean, which never cease to flow. The heated waters of the Equator flow north and south to get cooled at the Poles, and then flow back again from the Poles to get reheated at the Equator.

The form of continents, the effect of winds, the motion of the earth, and other influences, modify the flow of this great oceanic current and produce a variety of streams. One of these streams, a warm one, pa.s.sing up the coast of Africa, is driven into the Gulf of Mexico, from which it crosses the Atlantic to the west coast of Britain, and is familiarly known as the Gulf Stream. If Watty Wilkins's bottle had been caught by this stream, it would, perhaps, in the course of many months, have been landed on the west of Ireland. If it had been caught by any of the other streams, it might have ended its career on the coasts of j.a.pan, Australia, or any of the many "ends of the earth." But the bottle came under a more active influence than that of the ocean streams. It was picked up, one calm day, by a British s.h.i.+p, and carried straight to England, where its contents were immediately put into the newspapers, and circulated throughout the land.

The effect of little Wilkins's message from the sea on different minds was various. By some it was read with interest and pathos, while others glanced it over with total indifference. But there were a few on whom the message fell like a thunderbolt, as we shall now proceed to show.

CHAPTER FIVE.

TELLS OF PLOTTINGS AND TRIALS AT HOME, WITH DOINGS AND DANGERS ABROAD.

In a dingy office, in a back street in one of the darkest quarters of the city, whose name we refrain from mentioning, an elderly man sat down one foggy morning, poked the fire, blew his nose, opened his newspaper, and began to read. This man was a part-owner of the _Lively Poll_. His name was Black. Black is a good wearing colour, and not a bad name, but it is not so suitable a term when applied to a man's character and surroundings. We cannot indeed, say positively that Mr Black's character was as black as his name, but we are safe in a.s.serting that it was very dirty grey in tone. Mr Black was essentially a dirty little man. His hands and face were dirty, so dirty that his only clerk (a dirty little boy) held the firm belief that the famous soap which is said to wash black men white, could not cleanse his master. His office was dirty, so were his garments, and so was his mean little spirit, which occupied itself exclusively in sc.r.a.ping together a paltry little income, by means of little ways known only to its owner. Mr Black had a soul, he admitted that; but he had no regard for it, and paid no attention to it whatever. Into whatever corner of his being it had been thrust, he had so covered it over and buried it under heaps of rubbish that it was quite lost to sight and almost to memory. He had a conscience also, but had managed to sear it to such an extent that although still alive, it had almost ceased to feel.

Turning to the s.h.i.+pping news, Mr Black's eye was arrested by a message from the sea. He read it, and, as he did so, his hands closed on the newspaper convulsively; his eyes opened, so did his mouth, and his face grew deadly pale--that is to say, it became a light greenish grey.

"Anything wrong, sir?" asked the dirty clerk.

"The _Lively Poll_," gasped Mr Black, "is at the bottom of the sea!"

"She's in a lively position, then," thought the dirty clerk, who cared no more for the _Lively Poll_ than he did for her part-owner; but he only replied, "O dear!" with a solemn look of hypocritical sympathy.

Mr Black seized his hat, rushed out of his office, and paid a sudden visit to his neighbour, Mr Walter Wilkins, senior. That gentleman was in the act of running his eye over his newspaper. He was a wealthy merchant. Turning on his visitor a bland, kindly countenance, he bade him good-morning.

"I do hope--excuse me, my dear sir," said Mr Black excitedly, "I do hope you will see your way to grant me the accommodation I ventured to ask for yesterday. My business is in such a state that this disaster to the _Lively Poll_--"

"The _Lively Poll_!" exclaimed Mr Wilkins, with a start.

"Oh, I beg pardon," said Mr Black, with a confused look, for his seared conscience became slightly sensitive at that moment. "I suppose you have not yet seen it (he pointed to the paragraph); but, excuse me, I cannot understand how you came to know that your son was on board-- pardon me--"

Mr Wilkins had laid his face in his hands, and groaned aloud, then looking up suddenly, said, "I did not certainly know that my dear boy was on board, but I had too good reason to suspect it, for he had been talking much of the vessel, and disappeared on the day she sailed, and now this message from--"

He rose hastily and put on his greatcoat.

"Excuse me, my dear sir," urged Mr Black; "at such a time it may seem selfish to press you on business affairs, but this is a matter of life and death to me--"