CHAPTER XLV

NO LONGER A KING

The force of the bomb must have been tremendous. I believe it was hours before I regained consciousness. When at last I did revive, I was dizzy and deafened, the world about me was black, a storm was raging in the heavens and the boat was heaving with a great commotion. Everything was puzzling. Finally I remembered something of what had happened and knew where I was.

“Dearest,” I said, giving the goddess the name which I had only dared to call her to myself, “dearest—are you there?” and I crawled toward the stern.

“Here—John,” said a faint, sweet voice, and then I found her hand and knew that she too had been long unconscious, after that moment of terrible things.

We were on the sea! Of that I was soon made sure. The wind was driving us—the Lord only knew where; the waves were tossing the boat about as if she had been but a thimble afloat; and the spray flung across us and drenched us both repeatedly. This had doubtless fetched us around, the goddess first, for she had been less injured than I by the explosion, having been seated, while I was standing, at the fateful moment. The tide had carried us straight out to the ocean, as we lay helpless in the craft.

We crouched in the bottom of the boat and clung to the seat for an age. The rain came driving down; the force of the gale appeared to increase, and we scudded away into the black abyss which had for its limits the ends of mighty ocean.

We were out of our prison, adrift on the boundless main. When morning came, we raised our heads and searched that wilderness of water—in vain. No island—no ship—nothing was there in sight, save tumbling mountains of water. We were lost in that trackless jungle of billows.

Of the day and the night of physical and mental anguish that followed, I have no desire to think. Two souls made one by sufferings long endured, we sought and found our only consolation in the words of hope and affection, which each could give to each.

What water remained, or had been collected from the downpour, in the shell of the tortoise, got slopped out soon in the boat. It mingled with the salt water, shipped from time to time, and swashing about, ruined the meat and fruits, put out the fire and soaked the skins. Then the sun and the scorching air played their tricks at parching and burning us up. How useless and vain seemed the sack of gold, lying there in the wash!

I cut and broke the pole I had taken along, and lashing the shorter piece across the boat, to the oar-lock pins, made the other stand upright, with a bit of skin flapping idly, for a signal of distress.

Toward the evening of the second day we sighted a steamer. As we were low to the water and they were high, this boat was comparatively near before we saw her loom above the horizon. She made us out, at last, and we breathed our thanks, to see her put about and bear down toward the good old boat which had served so nobly.

Then it was that a surge of feeling welled up within me, thoughts of my long exile, the friendly Links—who had saved my life,—and of poor old Fatty, who had sacrificed himself like a hero at the end—poor old Fatty, my loving and beloved friend.

“What is it, John?” said the goddess tenderly.

“Oh nothing,” I faltered, swallowing hard at the lump in my throttle, “I—I was just thinking that now—that now I’m no longer King of the Missing Links;—I’m just an ordinary man.”

END.

Transcriber’s Notes

--Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public domain in the country of publication.

--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard (or amusing) spellings, dialect, and idiosyncratic punctuation unchanged.

--In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)

End of Project Gutenberg's The Crystal Sceptre, by Philip Verrill Mighels