Chapter 46 - The Boy Tar by Mayne Reid
The Bale of Linen
My sleep was neither very sweet nor very sound. In addition to my gloomy prospects, I was rendered uncomfortable by the hot atmosphere, now closer than ever, in consequence of the stoppage of every aperture. No current of air, that might otherwise have cooled me, was permitted to reach my prison, and I might almost as well have been inside a heated oven. I got a little sleep, however, and with that little I was under the necessity of being satisfied.
When fairly awake again, I treated myself to a meal, which might be called my breakfast; but it was certainly the lightest of all breakfasts, and did not deserve the name. Of water I again drank freely, for I was thirsty with the fever that was in my blood, and my head ached as if it would split open.
All this did not deter me from returning to my work. If two boxes contained broadcloth, it did not follow that all the cargo was of this sort of merchandise, and I resolved to persevere. I had made up my mind to try in a new direction—that is, to tunnel through the end of the packing-case as I had done through its side—the end which was turned towards the outside—for I knew that the other rested against the side of the ship, and it would be no use searching in that direction.
Taking my bread-bag with me as before, I went to work with renewed hope, and after long and severe labour—severe on account of the crouching attitude I had to keep, as also from the pain caused by my wounded thumb—I succeeded in detaching one of the end pieces from its place.
Something soft lay beyond. There was encouragement even in this. At all events, it was not another case of broadcloth; but what it was, I could not guess until I had laid bare the full breadth of the board. Then my hands were eagerly passed through the aperture, and with trembling fingers I examined this new object of interest. Coarse canvas it appeared to the touch; but that was only the covering. What was there inside?
Until I had taken up my knife again, and cut off a portion of the canvas, I knew not what it was; but then, to my bitter disappointment, the real nature of the package was revealed.
It proved to be linen—a bale of fine linen, packed in pieces, just as the cloth had been; but so tight that if I had used all my strength I could not have detached one piece from the bale.
The discovery of what it was, caused me greater chagrin than if it had proved to be broadcloth. This I could take out with less difficulty, and make way to try farther on; but with the linen I could do nothing, for, after several attempts, I was unable to move any of the pieces, and as to cutting a way through them, a wall of adamant would scarce have been more impervious to the blade of my knife. It would have been the work of a week at least. My provision would not keep me alive till I had reached the other side. But I did not speculate on such a performance. It was too manifestly impossible, and I turned away from it without giving it another thought.
For a little while I remained inactive, considering what should be my next movement. I did not rest long. Time was too precious to be wasted in mere reflection. Action alone could save me; and, spurred on by this thought, I was soon at work again.
My new design was simply to clear out the cloth from the second box, cut through its farther side, and find out what lay in that direction.
As I had already made a way into the box, the first thing was to remove the cloth. For the time my knife was laid aside, and I commenced pulling out the pieces. It was no light labour, getting out the first three or four. Unfortunately, the ends of the webs were towards me, and this rendered it more difficult to separate them; but I continued to tug and pull until I had extracted a few; and then the work became easier.
Just as in the other case, I found large coarse pieces that would not pass through the aperture I had made; and not liking to take the pains to make a wider opening in the wood, I adopted the same plan I had tried before; that is, to cut the cloth loose from its fastenings, unroll it, and draw it out by the yard.
This was easier, I thought; but, alas! it proved the source of a new and unexpected dilemma, as I had occasion soon after to perceive.
I was getting on well enough, and had succeeded in clearing out a space almost large enough to work in, when I was suddenly brought to a stop, by finding that I had no room for any more cloth behind me! The whole of the open space—including my little apartment, the biscuit-box, and the other case—was quite full, for I had filled each in succession as I went along. There was not a foot of space left—not so much as would hold another web!
This discovery did not create an immediate alarm; for I did not at first perceive the full consequence of it. It was only after a little reflection, that I recognised the difficulty; and then I saw that it was indeed a difficulty—a very dangerous dilemma.
It was plain that I could proceed no farther in my work without clearing off the “back-water” that I had so thoughtlessly accumulated; and how was this to be done? I could not destroy the cloth by burning, nor in any other way that I could think of. I could not lessen its bulk, for I had already pressed it together as closely as I had strength. How, then, was it to be disposed of?
I now perceived the imprudence I had committed in unrolling the webs. This was the cause of its having increased so in bulk though not altogether, for the very taking out of the pieces—on account of the tight pressure they had originally undergone while being packed in the cases—of itself greatly enlarged their mass. To restore them to the state in which I had found them, was no longer possible. They were littered through and through in the most complete confusion, and I had no room to work in, even to refold them again, since I could scarce move about in the constrained quarters and attitude I was compelled to assume. Even had I had ample space to work in, I could not easily have got the stuff back to a suitable bulk; for the coarser material, elastic as it was, would have required a screw-press to bring it to its former size. I felt quite disheartened as I thought the thing over—more than disheartened, again almost despairing.
But, no! it had not yet reached the point of despair with me. By getting enough space for another piece or two, I should have room to cut a hole through the opposite side of the box, and there was still hope beyond. If, indeed, another case of broadcloth, or another bale of linen, should be found there, it would then be time to yield myself up to despair.
But hope in the human breast is hard to destroy, and it was so in mine. So long as there is life, thought I, let there be hope; and, inspired with the old proverb, I renewed my exertions.
After awhile, I succeeded in stowing away two more pieces; and this gave me just room to creep inside the now nearly empty box, and go to work again with my knife.
This time I had to cut the board across the middle, as the cloth on both sides would not permit me to get at either end. It made little difference, however; and when I had finished carving at the wood, I was able to push out both sections, and make an aperture sufficient for my purpose. I say sufficient for my purpose, for it only needed a hole large enough to admit my hand; and, once protruding my fingers, I was satisfied, as before, with a most melancholy result. Another bale of linen!
Fatigued and faint, I could have fallen, had it been possible to fall lower; but I was already upon my face, alike prostrate in body and soul!