The Coral Island: A Tale of the Pacific Ocean by R. M. Ballantyne (free ebook reader for pc .TXT) 📕

I was;” and he attempted to rise, but sank back again immediately with a deep groan.

“Nay, Bill you must not move, but lie still while I look at your wound. I’ll make a comfortable bed for you here on deck, and get you some breakfast. After that you shall tell me how you got it. Cheer up, Bill,” I added, seeing that he turned his head away; “you’ll be all right in a little, and I’ll be a capital nurse to you though I’m no doctor.”

I then left him, and lighted a fire in the caboose. While it was kindling, I went to the steward’s pantry and procured the materials for a good breakfast, with which, in little more than half an hour, I returned to my companion. He seemed much better, and smiled kindly on me as I set before him a cup of coffee and a tray with several eggs and some bread on it.

“Now then, Bill,” said I, cheerfully, sitting down beside him on the deck, “let’s fall to. I’m very hungry myself, I can tell you; but—I forgot—your wound,” I added, rising; “let me look at it.”

I found that the wound was caused by a pistol shot in the chest. It did not bleed much, and, as it was on the right side, I was in hopes that it might not be very serious. But Bill shook his head. “However,” said he, “sit down, Ralph, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“You see, after we left the boat an’ began to push through the bushes, we went straight for the line of my musket, as I had expected; but by some unlucky chance it didn’t explode, for I saw the line torn away by the men’s legs, and heard the click o’ the lock; so I fancy the priming had got damp and didn’t catch. I was in a great quandary now what to do, for I couldn’t concoct in my mind, in the hurry, any good reason for firin’ off my piece. But they say necessity’s the mother of invention; so, just as I was givin’ it up and clinchin’ my teeth to bide the worst o’t, and take what should come, a sudden thought came into my head. I stepped out before the rest, seemin’ to be awful anxious to be at the savages, tripped my foot on a fallen tree, plunged head foremost into a bush, an’, ov coorse, my carbine exploded! Then came such a screechin’ from the camp as I never heard in all my life. I rose at once, and was rushin’ on with the rest when the captain called a halt.

“‘You did that a-purpose, you villain!’ he said, with a tremendous oath, and, drawin’ a pistol from his belt, let fly right into my breast. I fell at once, and remembered no more till I was startled and brought round by the most awful yell I ever heard in my life, except, maybe, the shrieks o’ them poor critters that were crushed to death under yon big canoe. Jumpin’ up, I looked round, and, through the trees, saw a fire gleamin’ not far off, the light o’ which showed me the captain and men tied hand and foot, each to a post, and the savages dancin’ round them like demons. I had scarce looked for a second, when I saw one o’ them go up to the captain flourishing a knife, and, before I could wink, he plunged it into his breast, while another yell, like the one that roused me, rang upon my ear. I didn’t wait for more, but, bounding up, went crashing through the bushes into the woods. The black fellows caught sight of me, however, but not in time to prevent me jumpin’ into the boat, as you know.”

Bill seemed to be much exhausted after this recital, and shuddered frequently during the narrative, so I refrained from continuing the subject at that time, and endeavoured to draw his mind to other things.

“But now, Bill,” said I, “it behoves us to think about the future, and what course of action we shall pursue. Here we are, on the wide Pacific, in a well-appointed schooner, which is our own,—at least no one has a better claim to it than we have,—and the world lies before us. Moreover, here comes a breeze, so we must make up our minds which way to steer.”

“Ralph, boy,” said my companion, “it matters not to me which way we go. I fear that my time is short now. Go where you will. I’m content.”

“Well then, Bill, I think we had better steer to the Coral Island, and see what has become of my dear old comrades, Jack and Peterkin. I believe the island has no name, but the captain once pointed it out to me on the chart, and I marked it afterwards; so, as we know pretty well our position just now, I think I can steer to it. Then, as to working the vessel, it is true I cannot hoist the sails single-handed, but luckily we have enough of sail set already, and if it should come on to blow a squall, I could at least drop the peaks of the main and fore sails, and clew them up partially without help, and throw her head close into the wind, so as to keep her all shaking till the violence of the squall is past. And if we have continued light breezes, I’ll rig up a complication of blocks and fix them to the top-sail halyards, so that I shall be able to hoist the sails without help. ’Tis true I’ll require half a day to hoist them, but we don’t need to mind that. Then I’ll make a sort of erection on deck to screen you from the sun, Bill; and if you can only manage to sit beside the tiller and steer for two hours every day, so as to let me get a nap, I’ll engage to let you off duty all the rest of the twenty-four hours. And if you don’t feel able for steering, I’ll lash the helm and heave to, while I get you your breakfasts and dinners; and so we’ll manage famously, and soon reach the Coral Island.”

Bill smiled faintly as I ran on in this strain.

“And what will you do,” said he, “if it comes on to blow a storm?”

This question silenced me, while I considered what I should do in such a case. At length I laid my hand an his arm, and said, “Bill, when a man has done all that he can do, he ought to leave the rest to God.”

“Oh, Ralph,” said my companion, in a faint voice, looking anxiously into my face, “I wish that I had the feelin’s about God that you seem to have, at this hour. I’m dyin’, Ralph; yet I, who have braved death a hundred times, am afraid to die. I’m afraid to enter the next world. Something within tells me there will be a reckoning when I go there. But it’s all over with me, Ralph. I feel that there’s no chance o’ my bein’ saved.”

“Don’t say that, Bill,” said I, in deep compassion, “don’t say that. I’m quite sure there’s hope even for you, but I can’t remember the words of the Bible that make me think so. Is there not a Bible on board, Bill?”

“No; the last that was in the ship belonged to a poor boy that was taken aboard against his will. He died, poor lad, I think, through ill treatment and fear. After he was gone the captain found his Bible and flung it overboard.”

I now reflected, with great sadness and self-reproach, on the way in which I had neglected my Bible; and it flashed across me that I was actually in the sight of God a greater sinner than this blood-stained pirate; for, thought I, he tells me that he never read the Bible, and was never brought up to care for it; whereas I was carefully taught to read it by my own mother, and had read it daily as long as I possessed one, yet to so little purpose that I could not now call to mind a single text that would meet this poor man’s case, and afford him the consolation he so much required. I was much distressed, and taxed my memory for a long time. At last a text did flash into my mind, and I wondered much that I had not thought of it before.

“Bill,” said I, in a low voice, “‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.’”

“Ay, Ralph, I’ve heard the missionaries say that before now, but what good can it do me? It’s not for me that. It’s not for the likes o’ me.”

I knew not now what to say, for, although I felt sure that that word was for him as well as for me, I could not remember any other word whereby I could prove it.

After a short pause, Bill raised his eyes to mine and said, “Ralph, I’ve led a terrible life. I’ve been a sailor since I was a boy, and I’ve gone from bad to worse ever since I left my father’s roof. I’ve been a pirate three years now. It is true I did not choose the trade, but I was inveigled aboard this schooner and kept here by force till I became reckless and at last joined them. Since that time my hand has been steeped in human blood again and again. Your young heart would grow cold if I—; but why should I go on? ’Tis of no use, Ralph; my doom is fixed.”

“Bill,” said I, “‘Though your sins be red like crimson, they shall be white as snow.’ ‘Only believe.’”

“Only believe!” cried Bill, starting up on his elbow; “I’ve heard men talk o’ believing as if it was easy. Ha! ’tis easy enough for a man to point to a rope and say, ‘I believe that would bear my weight;’ but ’tis another thing for a man to catch hold o’ that rope, and swing himself by it over the edge of a precipice!”

The energy with which he said this, and the action with which it was accompanied, were too much for Bill. He sank back with a deep groan. As if the very elements sympathized with this man’s sufferings, a low moan came sweeping over the sea.

“Hist! Ralph,” said Bill, opening his eves; “there’s a squall coming, lad. Look alive, boy. Clew up the fore-sail. Drop the main-sail peak. Them squalls come quick sometimes.”

I had already started to my feet, and saw that a heavy squall was indeed bearing down on us. It had hitherto escaped my notice, owing to my being so much engrossed by our conversation. I instantly did as Bill desired, for the schooner was still lying motionless on the glassy sea. I observed with some satisfaction that the squall was bearing down on the larboard bow, so that it would strike the vessel in the position in which she would be best able to stand the shock. Having done my best to shorten sail, I returned aft, and took my stand at the helm.

“Now, boy,” said Bill, in a faint voice, “keep her close to the wind.”

A few seconds afterwards he said, “Ralph, let me hear those two texts again.”

I repeated them.

“Are ye sure, lad, ye saw them in the Bible?”

“Quite sure,” I replied.

Almost before the words had left my lips the wind burst upon us, and the spray dashed over our decks. For a time the schooner stood it bravely, and sprang forward against the rising sea like a war-horse. Meanwhile clouds darkened the sky, and the sea began to rise in huge billows. There was still too much sail on the schooner, and, as the gale increased, I feared that the masts would be torn out of her or carried away, while the wind whistled and shrieked through the strained rigging. Suddenly the wind shifted a point, a heavy sea struck us on the bow, and the schooner was almost laid on her beam-ends, so that I could scarcely keep my legs. At the same moment Bill lost his hold of the belaying-pin which had served to steady him, and he slid with stunning violence against the sky-light. As he lay on the deck close beside me, I could see that the shock had rendered him insensible, but I did not dare to quit the tiller for an instant, as it required all my faculties, bodily and mental, to manage the schooner. For an hour the blast drove us along, while, owing to the sharpness of the vessel’s bow and the press of canvass, she dashed through the waves instead of breasting over them, thereby drenching the decks with water fore and aft. At the end of that time the squall passed away, and left us rocking on the bosom of the agitated sea.

My first care, the instant I could quit the helm, was to raise Bill