CHAPTER XXI

WE SIGHT A SAIL

I should but tease you by attempting to narrate the passage of the hours from this point. All day long it rained; no air stirred, and the leaden sea flattened into sulky heavings wide apart, on which the hull rolled quietly. Possessing but the clothes in which I stood, I fetched an oilskin from the ’tweendecks to save me from a wet skin, and thus attired made several journeys into the foretop, where I lingered, straining my gaze all around into the shrouded horizon till my eyeballs seemed to crack to the stretching of my vision. Sometimes, when in the deck-house, I would start to my feet on fancying I heard a sound of oars, but it was never more than some sobbing wash of swell, or some stir of the rudder swayed on its pintles by the movement of the fabric. There was plenty of stuff below with which to produce smoke, but no preparation for such a signal could be made whilst it rained, nor could any purpose be served by having the materials ready until the weather cleared, and wind blew, and something hove into sight.

Miss Temple’s miserable dejection grieved me bitterly. The horror of our situation seemed to increase upon her, and say what I might I never succeeded in coaxing the least air of spirit into her face. It was distressing beyond language to see this haughty, beautiful, high-born woman, accustomed to every refinement and elegance that was to be purchased or contrived, reduced to such a pass as this: languidly putting her lips to the rough pannikin in which I would hand her a draught of wine and water; scarcely able to bite the flinty biscuit which, with marmalade and cheese, formed our repasts; sitting for weary long spells at a time motionless in a corner of the rough structure, her eyelids heavy, her gaze fixed and listless, her lips parted, with all their old haughty expression of imperious resolution gone from them, her fingers locked upon her lap, her breast now and again rising and falling with hysteric swiftness to some wrenching emotion which yet found her face marble-like, and her eyes without their familiar impassioned glow.

I recollect wondering once, whilst watching her silently, whether there would prove anything in this experience to change her character. Should the Indiaman recover us, there might be a full fourteen or even sixteen weeks of association before us yet. Once safely aboard the _Countess Ida_, would she let this experience slip out of her mind as an influence, and repeat in her manner towards myself the cold indifference, the haughty neglect, the distant supercilious usage which I had found so objectionable, that I was coming very near to as cordially hating her character as I deeply admired the beauties and perfections of her face and person. Was she not a sort of woman to accept an obligation and to look, if it suited her to do so, very coldly afterwards upon the person who had obliged her? Ridiculous as the emotion was at such a time, when, for all I knew, in a few hours the pair of us might be floating a brace of corpses, fathoms deep in that leaden ocean over the side, yet I must confess to a small stir of exultation to the thought that supposing us to be rescued, let her behave as she pleased, she never could escape the memory of having been alone with me in this horrible hull, nor avert the discovery of this circumstance by her relatives and friends. It was a consideration, indeed, to bring her mightily closer to me than ever she had dreamt of, and to my mind it was as complete a turning of the tables as the most romantic fancy could have invented--that she who could scarce address me on board the Indiaman for pride, and for dislike too, for all I could tell, should now be in the intimate and lonely association of shipwreck with me, clinging to me, entreating me not to leave her side; dependent upon such spirit and energy as I possessed for the food and drink that was to support us, and again and again talking to me with a freedom which she would have exhibited to no living creature in the Indiaman, her aunt excepted.

When that second night came down black as thunder, raining hard, the ocean breathless, I entreated her to rest.

‘You must sleep, Miss Temple,’ said I; ‘I will keep watch.’

She shook her head.

‘Nay,’ I continued, ‘you will rest comfortably upon this locker. You need but a pillow. There is nothing in the cabins to be thought of for that purpose; but I believe I can contrive a soft bolster for you out of my coat.’

‘You are very kind, but I shall not be able to sleep.’

I continued to entreat her, and I saw she was affected by my earnestness.

‘Since it will please you if I lie down, Mr. Dugdale, I will do so,’ said she.

I whipped off my coat and rolled it up, and she removed her hat with a manner that made me see she abhorred even this trifling disturbance of her apparel, as though it signified a sort of settling down to the unspeakable life of the wreck. The fabric swayed so tenderly that the bottle containing the candle stood without risk of capsizal upon the table, and the small but steady flame shone clearly upon her. How delicate were her features by that light; how rich and beautiful the exceeding abundance of the dark coils of her hair, the richer and the more beautiful for the neglect in it, for the shadowing of her white brow by the disordered tresses, for the drooping of it about her ears, with the sparkle of diamonds there! Presently she was resting.

I removed the candle to the stanchion, and secured the bottle where the light would be off her eyes, and sat me down near the doorway as far from her as the narrow breadth of the structure would permit, where I filled a pipe and smoked, expelling the fumes into the air, and listening with a heavy heart to the faint sounds breaking from the interior of the hull to the washing moan at long intervals of some passing heave of swell, and to the squeaking of the rats in the cabin below--a most dismal and shocking sound, I do protest, to hearken to amidst the hush and blackness of that ocean night, scarce vexed by more than the pattering of the rain.

From time to time Miss Temple would address me; then she fell silent, and by-and-by looking towards her, and observing her to lie motionless, I softly crept to abreast of her, keeping the table between, and found her sleeping.

It was then something after ten by my watch, and she slept for five hours without a stir, though now and again she spoke in her sleep. I know not why I should have remained awake unless it was to keep my weather-eye lifting for the rats. There was nothing to watch for or to hope for in such weather as that. Once, when the beasts below were very noisy--for, as you will suppose, in that solemn stillness their squeakings rose with a singularly sharp edge to the ear--I bethought me of the pantry, and could not remember whether I had shut the door. For all I could yet tell, the stores we had to depend upon were in that little cabin, and if the rats found their way to the food, we might speedily starve. I lighted a second candle, that, should the girl suddenly awake, she might not find herself in the dark, and stepped below, and found the door closed. I opened it, and minutely surveyed the interior, and observing all to be well, shut the door and came away; but never can I forget the uncontrollable chills and shudders which seized me on passing through that cabin! I do not doubt my mind had been a little weakened. The remains of the mainmast pierced the deck, and stood like a pillar; it stirred to the movement of the candle in my hand, and I stopped with a violent start to gaze at it while the perspiration broke from my forehead. Vague indeterminable shapes seemed to flit past and about the stand of arms. The dull noises in the hold took to my alarmed ear the notes of human groans. Several rats scurried in flying forms of blackness towards the after cabins: they seemed to start up through the deck at my feet!

When I resumed my seat on the locker, I was trembling from head to foot, and my heart beat with feverish rapidity. A draught of wine rallied me, and I tried to find something ridiculous in my fears. But all the same my dejection was as that of a man under sentence of death, and again and again I would put up a prayer to God for our speedy deliverance, whilst I sat hearkening to the noises below, to the steady pattering of the rain, to the occasional melancholy sob of water, and to the broken, unintelligible muttering of the sleeping girl.

At some hour between three and four my companion awoke. She sat up with a cry of wonder, and by the candle-light I observed her staring around, with looks of astonishment and horror such as might appear in the face of a person who starts from some pleasant dream into the realities of a dreadful situation. I waited until she should have recollected herself, to use the fine expressive word of the old writers.

‘I have been dreaming of home,’ she said, in a low voice, ‘of safety, of comfort, of everything that I am now wanting. What time is it, Mr. Dugdale?’

I put my watch close to my face and told her the hour.

‘How black the night continues!’ she said--‘how silent, too!’ she added, after hearkening awhile. ‘It has ceased to rain, and there is not a breath of air.’

‘It has not rained for these two hours past,’ said I. ‘I am impatient for the day to break. The horizon should be tolerably clear, if there be no rain; yet what can daybreak possibly disclose to us on top of such a night of stagnation as this has been?’

‘Have you slept?’

‘No.’

‘Then you will take some rest now. It is my turn to watch.’

‘The dawn will be breaking in a couple of hours,’ said I; ‘I will wait till it comes to take a look. Should nothing be in sight, I will endeavour to rest. You will not suffer in the daylight from the feeling of loneliness that would make you wretched now if I slept.’

‘Whilst you are here, although sleeping, Mr. Dugdale, I should not feel lonely. Your voice assures me that you need sleep. I have been resting five hours. How patient you are!’

She took up my jacket, reformed it pillow-fashion, placed it on the locker where her own head had lain, and moved to make room for me, seating herself where my feet would about come.

‘Pray lie down, Mr. Dugdale. I shall be closer to you here than you have been to me, and I can awaken you in an instant if there should be occasion to do so.’

I complied, rather to please her than to humour my own wishes; for though my eyelids had the heaviness of lead, there was a thrilling and hurrying of nervous sensation in me which were as good as a threat that I should not sleep. And so it proved, for after I had held my head pillowed for some half hour, I was still broad awake; and then growing impatient of my posture, I sat erect.

‘No use, Miss Temple, I cannot sleep; and since that is so, pray resume this hard couch and finish out your slumbers.’

But this she would not do, protesting that she was fully rested. I was too desirous of her company to weary her with entreaties, and until the day broke we sat at that narrow table with the light close enough to enable us to see each other clearly. I remember saying to her:

‘Since this is an experience you were fated to pass through--I suppose we must all believe in the pre-ordination of our lives--my sincere regret is that you should not have been imprisoned in this hull with somebody more agreeable to yourself than I.’

‘Why do you say that?’ she exclaimed, giving me a look that carried me back. ‘In this state of misery a compliment would be shocking.’

‘I seek no compliment,’ said I. ‘I am merely expressing a regret.’

‘You regret that you are here?’ she exclaimed. ‘So do I, for then I should not be here. But since it is my lot to be here, I am satisfied with my companion; I would not exchange him for any other person on board the _Countess Ida_.’

I bowed.

‘Should we be rescued,’ she continued, keeping her dark gaze full upon me as she spoke (and something of their beauty and brilliancy of light had returned to her eyes with her rest), ‘I shall be deeply in your debt. My mother will thank you, Mr. Dugdale.’

‘I have done nothing, Miss Temple. It is you who are now complimentary, and I fear ironical.’

She slightly shook her head and sighed, then remained silent for a minute or two, and said: ‘How small and contemptible my spirit shows itself when I am tested! Do you recollect when this wretched brig was lying near us, how I took a parasol from my aunt and levelled it at this vessel and talked of wishing to see a sea fight and of shooting a man? How brave I was when there was nothing particularly to be afraid of, and how cowardly I have shown myself here.’

‘I should have scarcely believed,’ said I, ‘that you were sensible of my presence at the time you speak of.’

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘Indeed,’ I continued, ‘I should have scarcely believed that you were sensible that I was on board the ship.’

‘Mr. Dugdale, if my manner did not please you, this is no time to reproach me with it.’ Her eyes sparkled and her lip curled peevishly.

‘Hark!’ I exclaimed; ‘I hear a rippling noise as of approaching wind.’ I passed round the table, gained the door, and looked out. The atmosphere was still motionless, but the sounds of rippling drew near, and presently I felt a pleasant little air blowing over the stern of the hull, accompanied with the tinkling and lipping noises of water set in motion trembling to the brig’s side. But it was still pitch dark, and search the sky where I would, I could observe no break of faintness, no leanest vision of star, no vaguest outline of cloud in the impenetrable obscurity.

I returned to the table, this time seating myself opposite to Miss Temple. It was easily seen in her face that she was sensible I did this consciously. Indeed, the gaze she rested upon me was a look of inquiry as though she would discover whether this holding aloof on my part was due to respect or to dislike. Then, as though she suddenly sickened to such idle considerations, she exclaimed with an eager awakening of her in her whole manner, ‘Does this breeze come from the direction where the ships are, or where you may suppose them to be, Mr. Dugdale?’

‘For the life of me I could not tell you,’ I responded; ‘there are no quarters of the compass for human senses on such a night as this, in a hull that may be headed on all sorts of courses by the set of the swell; but the dawn will be here anon, and if this draught hold, we shall be able to find out whence it proceeds.’

It was still blowing the same light breeze when day broke, and I then knew that the wind sat about north-west. Miss Temple and I stepped on to the deck, where we stood in an agony of impatience awaiting the full revelation of the sea. One saw why it should have been so pitch dark throughout the night; the sky was overcast from horizon to horizon by a sheet of sallowish leaden-hued vapour. Yet the atmosphere had cleared so as to enable the sight to penetrate to the verge of the normal sea-line, where the ocean stood in a firm rim of the darkness of indigo in the east against the grey of the morning that was spreading out behind it. I took a long and steady view of the circle; my companion’s eyes were riveted upon me as I did so; she had rather trust my sight than hers, and her gaze glowed with an inexpressible eagerness to witness in my face an expression that should inform her I beheld a sail.

‘It is the same inhuman abominable blankness as that of yesterday,’ said I, fetching a deep breath of rage and grief; then shocked by the air of horror and despair in Miss Temple, I added: ‘Yet this gives us a view of but little more than seven miles. Here is an air, surely, to whip something along. The ships of this ocean cannot all have rotted in yesterday’s pestilential calm. Oh for such another telescope as Mr. Prance’s!’ and so saying I trudged forwards, and in a few minutes was sweeping the horizon from the elevation of the foretop.

I ran my eyes slowly and piercingly along the sea-line, starting from the part into which the vessel’s mutilated bowsprit pointed, and when my vision was over the starboard quarter, I beheld trembling upon the utmost verge of the livid waters stretching to the shrouded sky a minute fragment of white--a tip as of a seagull’s pinion, but of a certainty a sail! I lingered to make sure. Miss Temple watched me from abaft the deck-house. My glance went to her for an instant, and I saw her bring her hands together and lift them, as though she witnessed in my posture that I descried something. My heart hammered violently in my ears, and my breathing was short and laboured.

‘What do you see?’ Miss Temple cried at last, her rich voice, tremulous with excitement and expectation, floating up like the notes of a flute.

‘A sail!’ I exclaimed, calling with an effort. ‘Patience! I must stay here to make sure of the direction she is taking,’ and I stood for a minute pointing while she strained her sight; but there was nothing for her to see down there.

The breeze had weight enough to determine the matter with some despatch, and I knew that if the sail were heading away from us, it must speedily vanish, so mere a speck was it that showed. Instead, though I will not say that it _grew_ whilst I stood staring, it hung with a fixedness to satisfy me that the vessel was steering a course that must bring us into the sphere of her horizon; and not having the least doubt of this, I dropped over the short futtock shrouds of the wreck and sprang on to the deck.

‘It is a ship, Mr. Dugdale!’ cried Miss Temple with something of an hysteric accent of inquiry in her voice.

‘Assuredly,’ I answered.

‘Will she see us, do you think?’

‘Ay, if she does not shift her helm. But we will _compel_ her to see us.’

The girl suddenly grasped my hand in both hers, bowed her head over it, and I felt a tear. I was so affected that I stood looking, unable to speak. It was a sort of submission in its way. I cannot convey my thoughts of it. She was without her hat; I see her now as she bent over my hand; I feel the ice-cold pressure of her fingers, and recall the tears glittering through the beauty of her downcast lashes as they rose. She slowly lifted her large wet eyes to my face.

‘What an experience this has been!’ she whispered; ‘how shall I be able to persuade people that I underwent it and lived?’

She still unconsciously held my hand. I put my lips to her fingers, and she released me.

‘It must always be one of the very happiest memories of my life to me,’ said I. ‘I shall never make you believe in the joy your deliverance will fill me with.’

‘Oh yes, yes!’ she cried passionately; then sending a look over the quarter, she added: ‘Are we not losing time? Is there not something we can do to summon her to us? Will it be long before she appears?’

‘No; we are not losing time,’ I answered. ‘I shall have plenty of leisure to make a smoke, and that is what we must presently do. If she be the Indiaman or the corvette, all that is visible of her from yonder foretop is her royals. Her topgallant sails, her topsails, and her courses will have to climb before her hull shows. Her speed to this air will not exceed four knots. She is probably twenty miles distant yet, and we must allow her, unless the breeze freshens, a good three hours to give us a full sight of herself on that horizon out there. So let us first get something to eat, Miss Temple, and then I will go to work.’

But our excitement was too strong to suffer us to make more than a phantom of a meal. A little biscuit soaked in wine formed my companion’s breakfast, but her spirits had returned to her; the remembered brilliancy was in her eyes again; a faint, most delicate flush was on her cheek; with unconscious fingers she caressed her hair as though, influenced by a womanly instinct of which she was insensible, she adjusted her tresses in preparation of our reception by the people of the ship. She was sure it was the _Countess Ida_. There was real gaiety in the laugh with which she said that she knew Mrs. Radcliffe’s character, that she could well imagine how her aunt had tormented Captain Keeling, how ceaselessly the old lady would importune the captain to make haste and recover her niece.

‘Oh, what a meeting it will be!’ she cried.

‘The sail may prove the corvette, though,’ said I.

‘But she will rescue us, Mr. Dugdale, and hunt after the Indiaman, and Sir Edward will put us on board of her.’

I left her to enter the ’tweendecks, where I collected a number of mats, blankets, staves of casks, and other material, which would burn and produce a thick smoke; and presently, with the assistance of Miss Temple, had a great heap of these things stacked on deck betwixt the foremast and the mainhatch. It was a hard job to get the stuff to kindle, for the mats were damp and the staves not to be set on fire by a sulphur match. But on overhauling the lockers in the deck-house I found a tin can half full of oil and a small parcel of rags; and by means of these I set my bonfire alight. The planks of the deck were thick and wet, and securely calked, and the burning stuff was well clear of the hatch; there was no fear then, as I believed, of the fire penetrating the deck. It made a prodigious smoke. The mass of damp blankets and rags smouldered into a dark thick column, which mounted high ere it arched over to the wind. It was a signal to be sighted as far away as the ship was, and I stood watching it with transported eyes as it soared in belching folds gyrating into and blackening out upon the breeze till it showed like a steamer’s smoke or a ship on fire.

I waited a little, and then got into the fore-shrouds to mark the sail afresh, and beheld the gleam of her canvas when I was still two or three ratlines below the futtock shrouds: good assurance, indeed, of her rising, and nimbly too, and heading square for us. I strained my gaze at her from the height of the top, but she was far too remote to be distinguishable; nothing more, indeed, than a little ivory shaft against the sulky sallow of the sky.

It now occurred to me that I might accentuate the signal of the smoke by letting fall the foresail, for here was a space of canvas that would not only catch the eye, but suggest the hull as a still inhabited wreck that was on fire. I called to Miss Temple. She looked up eagerly.

‘Do you see those ropes leading to the deck from the arms of this yard?’ said I, pointing.

‘Yes.’

‘I want you to haul them taut, Miss Temple--gather in the slack to prevent the yard from swinging, as I mean to get upon it.’

She understood me perfectly. Her jewelled fingers flashed upon the rope as she threw the brace off the belaying pin, and I gazed down with a smile of deep admiration at her noble figure whilst she swayed at the line tightening and then belaying it again.

‘You should have been a sailor’s daughter,’ I cried; ‘there is the true skill of the ancient mariner in your trick of holding on with one hand and making fast with the other. Will you please now tighten the brace on the right-hand side.’

She did so, and I got upon the yard and, ‘laying out’ upon it, as it is called, severed with my knife the ropes with which the canvas was frapped to the spar, and down fell the sail with a large rent right amidships of it, though that signified nothing in a square of white that was to serve as a signal only. I descended to the deck.

‘Why have you loosed that sail?’ inquired Miss Temple. I explained. ‘But will not the wreck now blow away from that ship?’

‘No,’ said I; ‘she will fall off and come to. But the yard must be trimmed to achieve that.’

So saying I let go the weather-brace and swung the yard fore and aft as far as I could bring it, then overhauled the clew-garnets, that all there was of the sail might show. The hull slewed to the pressure, then hung quiet; meanwhile I continued to feed the blaze, heaping on rugs and blankets and so firing up that at times the smoke hung as thick to leeward as a thundercloud.