Chapter 67 - Ran Away to Sea by Mayne Reid
I can ill describe the emotions that agitated my bosom. Though delivered from the terror of immediate death, there was nothing in the respite to give me any feeling of joy. It would be only a short procrastination of my doom, for certainly in the morning I must die. The slender chances of our seeing a sail were scarce worth contemplating; and I derived no consolation by dwelling upon such a contingency.
My fate, therefore, I looked upon as sealed. My protector could not save me. He had done the utmost in his power, in procuring the reprieve that was to give me this slight chance for my life. If it failed, he would undoubtedly have to keep his word and surrender me up.
I felt as the condemned criminal whose hour of execution has been fixed, and who knows it—with perhaps, only the difference that I could look forward to the event with a clear conscience. I felt not as a criminal, but a victim—a martyr among ruffians.
Of course I thought not of sleep—all sleep was banished from my eyelids. With such a prospect before me how could I sleep? Sadly at that crisis did I think of home, of parents, and kindred. Bitterly did I repent that I ever ran away to sea!
Alas! like many others who have acted disobediently and rashly—my experience had been too dearly purchased—my repentance came too late.
To-morrow by sunrise must I die; and oh! such a dreadful doom! My fate would never be known; for, though I was made a sacrifice, it was not likely that my executioners would long survive me. The chances that any of them would ever reach land were slight indeed; and, even if they should, it was not likely they would ever divulge that secret. I should never more be heard of; neither friends or kindred would ever know my sad fate, and it would be better that they should not. Oh! it was a dreadful doom!
Suffering under such reflections, I lay stretched along the plank; my protector was still by my side—so near that our shoulders touched, and our heads were close together—I could have heard anything he might have said, though uttered only in a whisper; but for a long time he did not address a word to me. He appeared to be busied with his own thoughts—as if buried in some deep cogitation—and did not desire to be spoken to. Noticing this, I too remained silent.
The night came down and promised to be dark, most of the preceding nights had been very clear, as there had been moonlight and scarce a cloud in the sky for weeks before. On this day, however, and particularly towards the close of it, black clouds had shown themselves above the horizon, and although the sea was still under a calm, it appeared as if some change was at hand.
After the sun had set, these clouds rose higher and higher—until a black pall of them covered the whole firmament, completely shrouding the moon, and, not only hiding her from our eyes, but hindering her beams from casting their light over the sea.
The surface of the water, instead of glittering around us, as it had done upon preceding nights, was now of a grey, gloomy complexion—for it reflected the colour of the clouds that hung over it. Both wore fit emblems of my own sad spirit.
Almost mechanically I remarked to my companion this change in the heavens, and spoke about the darkness of the night.
“So much the better, lad,” was his laconic reply, and he again relapsed in silence, as if he did not desire to be led into conversation.
I lay for awhile pondering upon his reply. How was it better?—what signified the darkness?—what advantage could be gained by that? A dark night could not bring ships upon the sea; nor could it save me from the doom that had been decreed. The sun would rise all the same; and at his rising I must die! The darkness could not avail me! What could he mean?
I pondered a long while upon his answer, but could not make out its signification. Had he intended it as a phrase of encouragement—something to hold out a hope to me—something to cheer me? for indefinitely it had this effect—or was the answer given mechanically and without thought?
The former I dared not hope. Since the moment in which my respite had been granted, he had not spoken nor offered a word of hope, for certain was I that he had none to offer. What then meant he by the words he had just uttered—“So much the better, lad?”
I would at length have asked him; but, just as I had made up my mind to do so, I perceived that he was twisting himself about, and before I could speak to him, he had turned his head away—so that he could no longer have heard me in a whisper. Not desirous that others should overhear the question I was about to put to him, I remained silent and waited for a better opportunity.