The Hot Swamp. Robert Michael Ballantyne

fathoms. Arkal was, however, not unprepared for it, and quickly gave orders to stand by to let go the anchors. At that moment the voice of little Maikar was heard shouting, in stentorian tones, “Land ahead!”

      The captain replied with a sharp “let go!” and four anchors were promptly dropped from the stern. At the same moment he placed the helm fair amidships, and made it fast with rudder-bands. As the stern of the Penelope was formed like the bow, a sharp cut-water was by this means instantly presented to the sea, thus avoiding the necessity and danger incurred by modern ships, in similar circumstances, of anchoring by the head and swinging round.

      The hungry waves hissed tumultuously on, but were cleft and passed under the ship disappointed, for there was still enough of water beneath to permit of her tossing to and fro and rising to them like a duck, as she strained and tugged at the anchors.

      Just as these operations had been performed, the mists of darkness seemed to lift a little and revealed a wild rocky line of coast, against which the waves were breaking madly.

      “Now all hope is over; pray to your gods, men,” said the mate, whose courage was not quite equal to his position.

      “There are no gods!” growled the captain bitterly, for he saw that he was now a ruined man, even though he should escape with life.

      “There is one God,” said Bladud quietly, “and He does all things well.”

      As he spoke, the captain, whose eyes had not ceased to look searchingly along the coast, observed something like a bay a short way to the left of the place where they lay.

      “It looks like a sandy bay,” he said.

      “It is a sandy bay,” exclaimed the anxious mate; “let us up anchors and run into it.”

      “Have an easy mind and keep your advice till asked for,” returned the captain with a look of scorn. “If we are destined to escape, we shall escape without making haste. If we are doomed to die, nothing can save us, and it is more manly to die in a leisurely way than in a hurry. When we can see clearly we shall know better how to act.”

      Although this manner of submitting to the inevitable did not quite suit the mate, he felt constrained to repress his impatience, while the coolness of the captain had a quieting effect on some of the men who were inclined to give way to panic. The sight of Bladud—as he sat there leaning on the hilt of his sword with an expression of what appeared to be serene contentment—had also a quieting effect on the men.

      When the increasing light showed that the sandy bay was a spot that might possibly be reached in safety, orders were given to cut the cables, loose the rudder-bands and hoist the sail. For a few minutes the vessel ran swiftly towards the bay, but before reaching the shore she struck with violence. The fore part of the Penelope stuck fast immovably, and then, at last, the ravenous waves attained their longed-for meal. They burst over the stern, swept the decks, tore up the fastenings, revelled among the tackling and began tumultuously to break up the ship.

      “Launch the skiff,” shouted the captain, hastening to lend a hand in the operation.

      The men were not slow to obey, and when it touched the water they swarmed into it, so that, being overloaded, it upset and left its occupants struggling in the water. A number of the men who could swim, immediately jumped overboard and tried to right the skiff, but they failed, and, in the effort to do so, broke the rope that held it. Some clung to it. Others turned and swam for the shore.

      A good many of the men, however, still remained in the wreck, which was fast breaking up. To these the captain turned.

      “Now, men,” he said, “those of you who can swim would do well to take to the water at once, for it is clear that we shall not have a plank left to stand on soon. Come, mate, show them an example.”

      The man, though not very courageous, as his pale face betrayed, happened to be a good swimmer, and at once leaped into the sea. He was followed by all who could swim. Those who could not, were encouraged to make the attempt with planks and oars to aid them. As for Bladud, he busied himself like the captain in giving heart to the non-swimmers and showing them how best to use their floats.

      The last of the men to leave was little Maikar.

      He stood at the bow with his arms crossed on his chest and a look of melancholy interest on his countenance.

      “What! not gone yet?” exclaimed the captain, turning to him.

      “I cannot swim,” said the man.

      “But neither can these,” returned the captain, pointing to the men who had left last.

      “My father used to say,” rejoined Maikar, as if murmuring to himself, “that I was born to be drowned, and I’m inclined to think he was right.”

      “Surely you are not afraid,” said Arkal.

      “Afraid!” exclaimed Maikar, with a sarcastic laugh. “No, captain, but I’m sorry to part with you, because you’ve been a good captain to me.”

      “An’ I bear no ill-will to you, Bladud, though you did squeeze most of the life out of me once. Farewell, both.”

      As he spoke the little man seized an oar, leaped overboard, and, after some trouble in steadying himself and pointing the oar in the right direction, struck out for the shore.

      It was a long way off, and often, while this scene was being enacted, was heard the bubbling cry of men whose powers were failing them. Some were carried by currents against a point to the westward and, apparently, dashed against the rocks. Others sank before half the distance had been traversed.

      Bladud and the captain looked at each other when Maikar had left them.

      “Can you swim?” asked the captain. “Like a duck,” returned the prince, “and I can help you if required.”

      “I swim like a fish,” returned the captain, “but it is hard to part from my Penelope! She has never failed me till now, and as this venture contains all my goods, I am a ruined man.”

      “But your life still remains,” said the prince. “Be of good cheer, captain. A stout man can make his fortune more than once. Come, let us go.”

      A loud cry from Maikar at that moment hastened their deliberations.

      “Are you going to cumber yourself with your weapons?” asked Arkal, as they were about to spring from the side, observing that his friend took up his sword and shield.

      “Ay—that am I. It is not a small matter that will part my good sword and me.”

      Both men sprang overboard at the same moment, and made for the spot where little Maikar was still giving vent to bubbling yells and struggling with his oar.

      Bladud was soon alongside of him, and, seizing his hair, raised him out of the water.

      “Got the cramp,” he shouted.

      “Keep still, then, and do what I tell ye,” said the prince, in a tone of stern command.

      He caught the poor man under the armpits with both hands, turned on his back and drew him on to his chest. Swimming thus on his back, with Captain Arkal leading so as to keep them in the right direction, the three were ultimately cast, in a rather exhausted condition, on the shore of the little bay.

      Chapter Five

      After the Wreck

      It was on the southern shore of what is now known as France that our hero and his comrades in misfortune were cast.

      At the time we write of, we need hardly say, the land was nameless. Even her old Roman name of Gaul had not yet been given to her, for Rome itself had not been founded. The fair land was a vast wilderness, known only—and but slightly—to the adventurous mariners of the east, who, with the spirit of Columbus, had pushed their discoveries and trade far beyond the Pillars of Hercules.

      Of course the land was a vast solitude, inhabited, sparsely, by a few of those wandering tribes which had been driven westward—by conquest or by that desire for adventure which has characterised the human race, we suppose, ever