Blown to Bits: The Lonely Man of Rakata

A CLIMAX.

Three of those who had tumbled thus unceremoniously on the deck of the Sunshine were soon sufficiently recovered to sit up and look around in dazed astonishment—­namely Nigel, Moses, and the monkey—­but the hermit still lay prone where he had been cast, with a pretty severe wound on his head, from which blood was flowing freely.

“Nigel, my boy!”

“Father!” exclaimed the youth.  “Where am I?  What has happened?”

“Don’t excite yourself, lad,” said the mariner, stooping and whispering into his son’s ear.  “We’ve got her aboard!”

No treatment could have been more effectual in bringing Nigel to his senses than this whisper.

“Is—­is—­Van der Kemp safe?” he asked anxiously.

“All right—­only stunned, I think.  That’s him they’re just goin’ to carry below.  Put ’im in my bunk, Mr. Moor.”

“Ay ay, sir.”

Nigel sprang up.  “Stay, father,” he said in a low voice. “She must not see him for the first time like this.”

“All right, boy.  I understand.  You leave that to me.  My bunk has bin shifted for’id—­more amidships—­an’ Kathy’s well aft.  They shan’t be let run foul of each other.  You go an’ rest on the main hatch till we get him down.  Why, here’s a nigger!  Where did you pick him—­oh!  I remember.  You’re the man we met, I suppose, wi’ the hermit on Krakatoa that day o’ the excursion from Batavia.”

“Yes, das me.  But we’ll meet on Krakatoa no more, for dat place am blown to bits.”

“I’m pretty well convinced o’ that by this time, my man.  Not hurt much, I hope?”

“No, sar—­not more ‘n I can stan’.  But I’s ’fraid dat poor Spinkie’s a’most used up—­hallo! what you gwine to do with massa?” demanded the negro, whose wandering faculties had only in part returned.

“He’s gone below.  All right.  Now, you go and lie down beside my son on the hatch.  I’ll see to Van der Kemp.”

But Captain David Roy’s intentions, like those of many men of greater note, were frustrated by the hermit himself, who recovered consciousness just as the four men who carried him reached the foot of the companion-ladder close to the cabin door.  Owing to the deeper than midnight darkness that prevailed a lamp was burning in the cabin—­dimly, as if, infected by the universal chaos, it were unwilling to enlighten the surrounding gloom.

On recovering consciousness Van der Kemp was, not unnaturally, under the impression that he had fallen into the hands of foes.  With one effectual convulsion of his powerful limbs he scattered his bearers right and left, and turning—­like all honest men—­to the light, he sprang into the cabin, wrenched a chair from its fastenings, and, facing round, stood at bay.

Kathleen, seeing this blood-stained giant in such violent action, naturally fled to her cabin and shut the door.

As no worse enemy than Captain Roy presented himself at the cabin door, unarmed, and with an anxious look on his rugged face, the hermit set down the chair, and feeling giddy sank down on it with a groan.

“I fear you are badly hurt, sir.  Let me tie a handkerchief round your wounded head,” said the captain soothingly.

“Thanks, thanks.  Your voice is not unfamiliar to me,” returned the hermit with a sigh, as he submitted to the operation.  “I thought I had fallen somehow into the hands of pirates.  Surely an accident must have happened.  How did I get here?  Where are my comrades—­Nigel and the negro?”

“My son Nigel is all right, sir, and so is your man Moses.  Make your mind easy—­an’ pray don’t speak while I’m working at you.  I’ll explain it all in good time.  Stay, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

The captain—­fearing that Kathleen might come out from curiosity to see what was going on, and remembering his son’s injunction—­went to the girl’s berth with the intention of ordering her to keep close until he should give her leave to come out.  Opening the door softly and looking in, he was startled, almost horrified, to see Kathleen standing motionless like a statue, with both hands pressed tightly over her heart.  The colour had fled from her beautiful face; her long hair was flung back; her large lustrous eyes were wide open and her lips slightly parted, as if her whole being had been concentrated in eager expectancy.

“What’s wrong, my girl?” asked the captain anxiously.  “You’ve no cause for fear.  I just looked in to—.”

“That voice!” exclaimed Kathleen, with something of awe in her tones—­“Oh!  I’ve heard it so often in my dreams.”

“Hush! sh! my girl,” said the captain in a low tone, looking anxiously round at the wounded man.  But his precautions were unavailing,—­Van der Kemp had also heard a voice which he thought had long been silent in death.  The girl’s expression was almost repeated in his face.  Before the well-meaning mariner could decide what to do, Kathleen brushed lightly past him, and stood in the cabin gazing as if spell-bound at the hermit.

“Winnie!” he whispered, as if scarcely daring to utter the name.

“Father!”

She extended both hands towards him as she spoke.  Then, with a piercing shriek, she staggered backward, and would have fallen had not the captain caught her and let her gently down.

Van der Kemp vaulted the table, fell on his knees beside her, and, raising her light form, clasped her to his heart, just as Nigel and Moses, alarmed by the scream, sprang into the cabin.

“Come, come; away wi’ you—­you stoopid grampusses!” cried the captain, pushing the intruders out of the cabin, following them, and closing the door behind him.  “This is no place for bunglers like you an’ me.  We might have known that natur’ would have her way, an’ didn’t need no help from the like o’ us.  Let’s on deck.  There’s enough work there to look after that’s better suited to us.”

Truly there was enough—­and more than enough—­to claim the most anxious attention of all who were on board of the Sunshine that morning, for hot mud was still falling in showers on the deck, and the thunders of the great volcano were still shaking heaven, earth, and sea.

To clear the decks and sails of mud occupied every one for some time so earnestly that they failed to notice at first that the hermit had come on deck, found a shovel, and was working away like the rest of them.  The frequent and prolonged blazes of intense light that ever and anon banished the darkness showed that on his face there sat an expression of calm, settled, triumphant joy, which was strangely mingled with a look of quiet humility.

“I thank God for this,” said Nigel, going forward when he observed him and grasping his hand.

“You knew it?” exclaimed the hermit in surprise.

“Yes.  I knew it—­indeed, helped to bring you together, but did not dare to tell you till I was quite sure.  I had hoped to have you meet in very different circumstances.”

“‘It is not in man that walketh to direct his steps,’” returned the hermit reverently.  “God bless you, Nigel.  If you have even aimed at bringing this about, I owe you more than my life.”

“You must have lost a good deal of blood, Van der Kemp.  Are you much hurt?” asked Nigel, as he observed the bandage round his friend’s head.

“Somewhat.  Not much, I hope—­but joy, as well as blood, gives strength, Nigel.”

A report from a man who had just been ordered to take soundings induced the captain at this time to lay-to.

“It seems to me,” he said to Nigel and the hermit who stood close beside him, “that we are getting too near shore.  But in cases o’ this kind the bottom o’ the sea itself can’t be depended on.”

“What part of the shore are we near, d’ you think, father?”

“Stand by to let go the anchor!” roared the captain, instead of answering the question.

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the second mate, whose cool, sing-song, business-like tone at such a moment actually tended to inspire a measure of confidence in those around him.

Another moment, and the rattling chain caused a tremor through the vessel, which ceased when the anchor touched bottom, and they rode head to wind.  Coruscations of bluish light seemed to play about the masts, and balls of electric fire tipped the yards, throwing for a short time a ghastly sheen over the ship and crew, for the profound darkness had again settled down, owing, no doubt, to another choking of the Krakatoa vent.

Before the light referred to went out, Moses was struck violently on the chest by something soft, which caused him to stagger.

It was Spinkie!  In the midst of the unusual horrors that surrounded him, while clinging to the unfamiliar mizzen shrouds on which in desperation the poor monkey had found a temporary refuge, the electric fire showed him the dark figure of his old familiar friend standing not far off.  With a shriek of not quite hopeless despair, and an inconceivable bound, Spinkie launched himself into space.  His early training in the forest stood him in good stead at that crisis!  As already said he hit the mark fairly, and clung to Moses with a tenacity that was born of mingled love and desperation.  Finding that nothing short of cruelty would unfix his little friend, Moses stuffed him inside the breast of his cotton shirt.  In this haven of rest the monkey heaved a sigh of profound contentment, folded his hands on his bosom, and meekly went to sleep.

Two of the excessively violent paroxysms of the volcano, above referred to, had by that time taken place, but the third, and worst—­that which occurred about 10 A.M.—­was yet in store for them, though they knew it not, and a lull in the roar, accompanied by thicker darkness than ever, was its precursor.  There was not, however, any lull in the violence of the wind.

“I don’t like these lulls,” said Captain Roy to the hermit, as they stood close to the binnacle, in the feeble light of its lamp.  “What is that striking against our sides, Mr. Moor?”

“Looks like floating pumice, sir,” answered the second mate, “and I think I see palm-trees amongst it.”

“Ay, I thought so, we must be close to land,” said the captain.  “We can’t be far from Anjer, and I fear the big waves that have already passed us have done some damage.  Lower a lantern over the side,—­no, fetch an empty tar-barrel and let’s have a flare.  That will enable us to see things better.”

While the barrel was being fastened to a spar so as to be thrust well out beyond the side of the brig, Van der Kemp descended the companion and opened the cabin door.

“Come up now, Winnie, darling.”

“Yes, father,” was the reply, as the poor girl, who had been anxiously awaiting the summons, glided out and clasped her father’s arm with both hands.  “Are things quieting down?”

“They are, a little.  It may be temporary, but—­Our Father directs it all.”

“True, father.  I’m so glad of that!”

“Mind the step, we shall have more light on deck.  There is a friend there who has just told me he met you on the Cocos-Keeling Island, Nigel Roy;—­you start, Winnie?”

“Y—­yes, father.  I am so surprised, for it is his father who sails this ship!  And I cannot imagine how he or you came on board.”

“Well, I was going to say that I believe it is partly through Nigel that you and I have been brought together, but there is mystery about it that I don’t yet understand; much has to be explained, and this assuredly is not the time or place.  Here, Nigel, is your old Keeling friend.”

“Ay—­friend! humph!” said old Roy softly to himself.

“My dear—­child!” said young Roy, paternally, to the girl as he grasped her hand.  “I cannot tell you how thankful I am that this has been brought about, and—­and that I have had some little hand in it.”

“There’s more than pumice floating about in the sea, sir,” said Mr. Moor, coming aft at the moment and speaking to the captain in a low tone.  “You’d better send the young lady below—­or get some one to take up her attention just now.”

“Here, Nigel.  Sit down under the lee of the companion, an’ tell Kathy how this all came about,” said the captain, promptly, as if issuing nautical orders.  “I want you here, Van der Kemp.”

So saying, the captain, followed by the hermit, went with the second mate to the place where the flaming tar-barrel was casting a lurid glare upon the troubled sea.