CHAPTER EIGHT.

"WILL MORNING NEVER COME?"

For the full s.p.a.ce of an hour there was utter silence in the boat, where the lieutenant and his stricken crew lay as in a stupor. The black clouds had rolled away, and the calm sea was bathed in silvery light.

The air was warm, but, by comparison with the scorching day, the temperature was delicious.

Tom Fillot had folded up the flag and laid it back in the locker, after which he had seated himself to wait for orders. At last, after quite an effort, Mark roused himself from his musings, and turned to his companion in distress.

"Tom," he said, "what ought I to do?"

"Nothing, sir," said the man, promptly. "There ain't nothing you can.

Someone else must do whatever is to be done for us. We've got to wait."

"But could we row back to the port?"

"Without biscuit or water, sir, and with that sun sure to come up to-morrow ready to 'most scorch out our brains. What do you think?"

"I think it's impossible, Tom."

"Don't say think, sir. It's what you say without the think, and so I tell you. Impossible, and I don't say that because I ain't willing to work. I'll take an oar, and row till I drop if you like, but what good will one man do, or one man and a young gentleman? You needn't say you think it's impossible, sir, for you know it is, and that all we can do is to sit and wait. To-morrow morning, I'll rig up the flag over an oar, so as to keep the sun off Mr Russell, sir."

"If the ship hasn't come and picked us up, Tom."

The sailor was silent.

"Don't say you think she will not," cried the lad.

"Very well, sir, but I'll say this she can't sir, till there's some wind, and that's why it is. The captain has either took the schooner or give it up; and then, as he was coming back to pick us up, he's been and got becalmed. When the crew has whistled enough and the wind come, he'll make all sail, but whether he'll find any of us left to pick up is more'n I can say."

The man ceased speaking, and resting his chin upon his hands, sat watching the glittering water stretching right away beneath the moon, a scene of beauty so grand that for the moment it thrilled Mark, but only for that moment; the next he was in utter despair, famished, his mouth dry, and above all, suffering from a terrible feeling of horror which made him shrink within himself, as he knew that he was face to face with a fearful lingering death.

"Beg pardon, sir," said Tom Fillot, suddenly, their companionship in misfortune having in no wise interfered with the sailor's respect for his superior, "like to try a bit o' 'bacco, sir?"

Mark shook his head.

"O' course not. You ain't used to it and don't want it. Try and go to sleep, sir. I'll keep the watch."

"Sleep?" cried Mark, bitterly; "what for? to wake up and find it morning with the sun up, ready to scorch us to death?"

"That's looking at the very worst side of things, sir," replied the sailor, cheerfully. "There's always a best side as well as a worst, and we're as likely to see one side as the other."

"Don't, don't keep on talking," cried Mark, pa.s.sionately.

"All right, sir," said Tom Fillot. "I'll be as dumb as a ship's lead."

"I mean--I didn't mean to speak roughly to you, Tom Fillot," cried Mark, eagerly. "I didn't want to wound you, but I know you were saying all that to try and cheer me."

"Well, sir, to be downright honest, p'raps it was."

"Then don't please. I'm sick and faint, and ready to die."

"Nay, not you, sir. Too much pluck in you."

"Pluck!" cried Mark, bitterly. "I'm in despair."

"Nay, not you, sir. You're in command here, and as an officer you've got to let yourself drift off nowhere, and think about taking care of us. That's your duty, sir, and you know it. What's to become o' us if you cut yourself adrift? That won't do at all. There, sir, let's wait for day. We may have quite a breeze come with the sun, and soon after catch sight of the _Naughtyla.s.s_ bowling down to us. For, trust me, they'll see us fast enough. Young Mr Bob Howlett'll be up at the masthead spying out with his gla.s.s, see if he ain't. Better have a sleep, sir."

"No, man, no; I'm too ill and miserable to sleep."

"Then if you won't mind, sir, and'll give me leave, I will have a snooze. For I can't do you no good, and it will rest me, so as I shall be able to do something in the morning."

"Sleep if you can," said Mark, bitterly.

"Nay, sir, I can't sleep if you take it and speak like that. Dessay I shall be just as well awake."

"No, no, lie down and rest a bit," cried Mark.

"Mean it, sir?"

"Mean it, man? yes."

"Then thank ye, sir; and if you want me, just give the word, and I'll tumble up at once."

To the lad's wonder, Tom Fillot lay down in the bottom of the boat, and five minutes after he was breathing deeply and as regularly as if nothing whatever were wrong.

How that night pa.s.sed Mark Vandean could hardly tell. He crept from place to place in the boat to see how the men were, and then crept back to his old seat close by Mr Russell. Then, with the boat gently rising and falling, he waited for the day, thinking of home, of the possibilities of escape, and above all, of the terrible hunger and fearful thirst which dried him up.

"Will morning never come?" he cried, bitterly, and then prayed that it might not, as he recalled the sufferings of the past day; and now he was content to sit, thankful that the day did not break, for there was rest and less pain in the moonlight.

It was like the delirium of a fever, in which one moment it was all calm, soft light in darkness, the next the sun had rolled above the horizon, and the boy strained his eyes in all directions for the coming ship, but looked in vain. Sea--smooth, slowly-heaving sea--everywhere, all ruddy gold and amber now, and heat once more burning into his brain, till a strange sense of weariness came over him, a feeling as of the beginning of sleep.

He fought against this time after time, and strove to keep to his duty, but it was all-powerful, and at last, feeling that he was sinking into delirium or a deadly sleep, he stretched out his hand to awaken Tom Fillot, but paused so as to give one despairing glance round.

The next instant he had glided down into the bottom of the boat, insensible to everything save his fevered dream, which was of green fields, sparkling waters, and home.

For the cutter was alone on the sun-bright water; and as a great bird slowly floated over them, it looked down with cruel gaze, as if waiting and watching and wondering which would be the first of the insensible men on board to sink into a deeper sleep--one from which there would be no return.

That was just as Mark was dreaming the brightest of his old Devon home, and the sun was turning the sea into paler gold, and then into silvery dazzling white.

CHAPTER NINE.

BOB HOWLETT AS NURSE.

"Oh, Mr Whitney, sir, don't say he's dead."