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Chapter 21 - The Boy Tar by Mayne Reid

Entombed Alive

I could now comprehend why the night had seemed so long. There had been light enough, but it reached me not. The great box had intercepted it. There had been day, and I knew it not. The men had been working by day, when I thought it was after midnight. Instead of a single night, at least two nights and a day had passed since I crouched into my hiding-place. No wonder I had hungered, and was thirsty—no wonder I felt an aching in my bones. The short intervals of silence I had observed were the hours when the crew were at their meals. The long silence that preceded the weighing of the anchor, had been the second night, when all were resting and asleep.

I have stated, that I fell asleep almost instantly after I had crept into my lurking-place. It then still wanted several hours of sunset. My sleep had been sound and long, lasting, no doubt, till the following morning. But on the previous evening, the stowers had been at work—though I heard them not; and during my deep, unconscious slumber, the box, and no doubt many others, had been placed before the aperture.

Every point was now clear to me, and clearer than all was the horrifying fact, that I was “boxed up.”

I did not at first comprehend the full horror of my situation. I knew that I was shut in, and that no strength I could exert would be enough to get me out; but for all that, I did not apprehend any great difficulty. The strong sailors, who had stowed the packages, could remove them again; and I had only to shout and bring them to the spot.

Alas! alas! little did I think that the loudest shout I might raise, could not have been heard by human being. Little did I suspect, that the hatchway, through which I had descended to the hold, was now closed with its strong hatches and these again covered with a thick tarpaulin—to remain so, perhaps, to the end of the voyage! Even had the hatches not been down, there would have been little chance of my being heard. The thick wall of bales and boxes would have intercepted my voice, or it might have been drowned altogether by the hoarse and constant rushing of the waves, as they broke along the sides of the ship.

I say, that, on first discovering that I was closed in, my apprehensions were but slight, I thought, only, that I should be delayed awhile from getting water, which I now longed for exceedingly. It would take some time, no doubt, for the men to remove the boxes and relieve me; and meanwhile I was in misery. These alone were the thoughts that troubled me.

It was only when I had screamed and shouted at the highest pitch of my voice—after I had thundered upon the planks with the heels of my shoes—after I had repeated my cries again and again, and still heard no reply; it was only then, that I began to comprehend the true nature of my situation. Then, indeed, did I perceive its full and perfect horror. Then, did the conviction burst upon me, that I had no prospect of escape—no hope of being relieved; in short, that I was entombed alive!

I cried, I screamed, I shouted. Long and loudly I cried, but how long I cannot tell. I did not leave off till I was weak and hoarse.

At intervals I listened, but no response reached me—no sound of human voice. The echoes of my own reverberated along the sides of the ship, throughout the dark hold; but no voice responded to its lamentable tones.

I listened to discover whether I could not hear the voices of the sailors. I had heard them in their chorus, when they were weighing anchor, but then the ship was at rest, and the waves were not lashing her timbers. Moreover, as I afterwards learned, the hold hatches had then been up, and were only put down on our standing out to sea.

For a long while I listened, but neither command nor chorus reached my ears. If I could not hear their loud baritone voices, how could they hear mine?

“Oh! they cannot hear me! They will never hear me! They will never come to my rescue! Here I must die—I must die!”

Such was my conviction, after I had shouted myself hoarse and feeble. The sea-sickness had yielded for a time to the more powerful throes of despair; but the physical malady returned again, and, acting in conjunction with my mental misery, produced such agony as I never before endured. I yielded to it; my energies gave way, and I fell over like one struck down by paralysis.

For a long while, I lay in a state of helpless stupor. I wished myself dead, and indeed I thought I was going to die. I seriously believe, that at that moment I would have hastened the event if I could; but I was too weak to have killed myself, even had I been provided with a weapon. I had a weapon, but I had forgotten all about it in the confusion of my thoughts.

You will wonder at my making this confession—that I desired death; but you would have to be placed in a situation similar to that I was in, to be able to realise the horror of despair. Oh, it is a fearful thing! May you never experience it!

I fancied I was going to die, but I did not. Men do not die either from sea-sickness or despair, nor boys either. Life is not so easily laid down.

I certainly was more than half dead, however; and I think for a good while insensible. I was in a stupor for a long time—for many hours.

At length my consciousness began to return, and along with it a portion of my energies. Strange enough, too, I felt my appetite reviving; for, in this respect, the “sea-sickness” is somewhat peculiar. Patients, under it, often eat more heartily than at other times. With me, however, the appetite of thirst was now far stronger than that of hunger, and its misery was not allayed by any hope of its being appeased. As for the other, I could still relieve it; some morsels were in my pocket.

I need not recount the many fearful reflections that passed through my mind. For hours after, I was the victim of many a terrible paroxysm of despair. For hours I lay, or rather tossed about, in a state of confused thought; but at last, to my relief, I fell asleep.

I fell asleep, for I had now been a long time awake, and this, with the prostration of my strength from mental suffering, had at length deadened the nerve of pain; so that, despite all my misery, I fell asleep.

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