“I have a toothache,” said she, putting her hand to her face.
“Take some laudanum,” says Blunt, with dim recollections of his mother’s treatment of such ailments. “Old Pine’ll give you some.”
To his astonishment she burst into tears.
“There–there! Don’t cry, my dear. Hang it, don’t cry. What are you crying about?”
She dashed away the bright drops, and raised her face with a rainy smile of trusting affection. “Nothing! I am lonely. So far from home; and–and Dr. Pine hurt my arm. Look!”
She bared that shapely member as she spoke, and sure enough there were three red marks on the white and shining flesh.
“The ruffian!” cried Blunt, “it’s too bad.” And after a hasty look around him, the infatuated fellow kissed the bruise. “I’ll get the laudanum for you,” he said. “You shan’t ask that bear for it. Come into my cabin.”
Blunt’s cabin was in the starboard side of the ship, just under the poop awning, and possessed three windows–one looking out over the side, and two upon deck. The corresponding cabin on the other side was occupied by Mr. Maurice Frere. He closed the door, and took down a small medicine chest, cleated above the hooks where hung his signal-pictured telescope.
“Here,” said he, opening it. “I’ve carried this little box for years, but it ain’t often I want to use it, thank God. Now, then, put some o’ this into your mouth, and hold it there.”
“Good gracious, Captain Blunt, you’ll poison me! Give me the bottle; I’ll help myself.”
“Don’t take too much,” says Blunt. “It’s dangerous stuff, you know.”
“You need not fear. I’ve used it before.”
The door was shut, and as she put the bottle in her pocket, the amorous captain caught her in his arms.
“What do you say? Come, I think I deserve a kiss for that.”
Her tears were all dry long ago, and had only given increased colour to her face. This agreeable woman never wept long enough to make herself distasteful. She raised her dark eyes to his for a moment, with a saucy smile. “By and by,” said she, and escaping, gained her cabin. It was next to that of her mistress, and she could hear the sick child feebly moaning. Her eyes filled with tears–real ones this time.
“Poor little thing,” she said; “I hope she won’t die.”
And then she threw herself on her bed, and buried her hot head in the pillow. The intelligence of the fever seemed to have terrified her. Had the news disarranged some well-concocted plan of hers? Being near the accomplishment of some cherished scheme long kept in view, had the sudden and unexpected presence of disease falsified her carefully-made calculations, and cast an almost insurmountable obstacle in her path?
“She die! and through me? How did I know that he had the fever? Perhaps I have taken it myself–I feel ill.” She turned over on the bed, as if in pain, and then started to a sitting position, stung by a sudden thought. “Perhaps he might die! The fever spreads quickly, and if so, all this plotting will have been useless. It must be done at once. It will never do to break down now,” and taking the phial from her pocket, she held it up, to see how much it contained. It was three parts full. “Enough for both,” she said, between her set teeth. The action of holding up the bottle reminded her of the amorous Blunt, and she smiled. “A strange way to show affection for a man,” she said to herself, “and yet he doesn’t care, and I suppose I shouldn’t by this time. I’ll go through with it, and, if the worst comes to the worst, I can fall back on Maurice.” She loosened the cork of the phial, so that it would come out with as little noise as possible, and then placed it carefully in her bosom. “I will get a little sleep if I can,” she said. “They have got the note, and it shall be done to-night.”
Chapter VII.
Typhus Fever
The felon Rufus Dawes had stretched himself in his bunk and tried to sleep. But though he was tired and sore, and his head felt like lead, he could not but keep broad awake. The long pull through the pure air, if it had tired him, had revived him, and he felt stronger; but for all that, the fatal sickness that was on him maintained its hold; his pulse beat thickly, and his brain throbbed with unnatural heat. Lying in his narrow space–in the semi-darkness–he tossed his limbs about, and closed his eyes in vain–he could not sleep. His utmost efforts induced only an oppressive stagnation of thought, through which he heard the voices of his fellow-convicts; while before his eyes was still the burning Hydaspes–that vessel whose destruction had destroyed for ever all trace of the unhappy Richard Devine.
It was fortunate for his comfort, perhaps, that the man who had been chosen to accompany him was of a talkative turn, for the prisoners insisted upon hearing the story of the explosion a dozen times over, and Rufus Dawes himself had been roused to give the name of the vessel with his own lips. Had it not been for the hideous respect in which he was held, it is possible that he might have been compelled to give his version also, and to join in the animated discussion which took place upon the possibility of the saving of the fugitive crew. As it was, however, he was left in peace, and lay unnoticed, trying to sleep.
The detachment of fifty being on deck–airing–the prison was not quite so hot as at night, and many of the convicts made up for their lack of rest by snatching a dog-sleep in the bared bunks. The four volunteer oarsmen were allowed to “take it out.”
As yet there had been no alarm of fever. The three seizures had excited some comment, however, and had it not been for the counter-excitement of the burning ship, it is possible that Pine’s precaution would have been thrown away. The “Old Hands”–who had been through the Passage before–suspected, but said nothing, save among themselves. It was likely that the weak and sickly would go first, and that there would be more room for those remaining. The Old Hands were satisfied.
Three of these Old Hands were conversing together just behind the partition of Dawes’s bunk. As we have said, the berths were five feet square, and each contained six men. No. 10, the berth occupied by Dawes, was situated on the corner made by the joining of the starboard and centre lines, and behind it was a slight recess, in which the scuttle was fixed. His “mates” were at present but three in number, for John Rex and the cockney tailor had been removed to the hospital. The three that remained were now in deep conversation in the shelter of the recess. Of these, the giant–who had the previous night asserted his authority in the prison–seemed to be the chief. His name was Gabbett. He was a returned convict, now on his way to undergo a second sentence for burglary. The other two were a man named Sanders, known as the “Moocher”, and Jemmy Vetch, the Crow. They were talking in whispers, but Rufus Dawes, lying with his head close to the partition, was enabled to catch much of what they said.
At first the conversation turned on the catastrophe of the burning ship and the likelihood of saving the crew. From this it grew to anecdote of wreck and adventure, and at last Gabbett said something which made the listener start from his indifferent efforts to slumber, into sudden broad wakefulness.
It was the mention of his own name, coupled with that of the woman he had met on the quarter-deck, that roused him.
“I saw her speaking to Dawes yesterday,” said the giant, with an oath. “We don’t want no more than we’ve got. I ain’t goin’ to risk my neck for Rex’s woman’s fancies, and so I’ll tell her.”
“It was something about the kid,” says the Crow, in his elegant slang. “I don’t believe she ever saw him before. Besides, she’s nuts on Jack, and ain’t likely to pick up with another man.”
“If I thort she was agoin’ to throw us over, I’d cut her throat as soon as look at her!” snorts Gabbett savagely.
“Jack ud have a word in that,” snuffles the Moocher; “and he’s a curious cove to quarrel with.”
“Well, stow yer gaff,” grumbled Mr. Gabbett, “and let’s have no more chaff. If we’re for bizness, let’s come to bizness.”
“What are we to do now?” asked the Moocher. “Jack’s on the sick list, and the gal won’t stir a’thout him.”
“Ay,” returned Gabbett, “that’s it.”
“My dear friends,” said the Crow, “my keyind and keristian friends, it is to be regretted that when natur’ gave you such tremendously thick skulls, she didn’t put something inside of ’em. I say that now’s the time. Jack’s in the ‘orspital; what of that? That don’t make it no better for him, does it? Not a bit of it; and if he drops his knife and fork, why then, it’s my opinion that the gal won’t stir a peg. It’s on his account, not ours, that she’s been manoovering, ain’t it?”