R. M. Ballantyne - 3 books to know Robinsonade

“Ha!” he exclaimed on awaking suddenly, after a slumber of an hour; “I’m the better of that nap, Ralph. I feel twice the man I was;” and he attempted to rise, but sank back again immediately with a deep groan.

“Nay, Bill, you must not move, but lie still while I look at your wound. I’ll make a comfortable bed for you here on deck, and get you some breakfast. After that you shall tell me how you got it. Cheer up, Bill!” I added, seeing that he turned his head away; “you’ll be all right in a little, and I’ll be a capital nurse to you, though I’m no doctor.”

I then left him, and lighted a fire in the caboose. While it was kindling, I went to the steward’s pantry and procured the materials for a good breakfast, with which, in little more than half-an-hour, I returned to my companion. He seemed much better, and smiled kindly on me as I set before him a cup of coffee and a tray with several eggs and some bread on it.

“Now, then, Bill,” said I cheerfully, sitting down beside him on the deck, “let’s fall to. I’m very hungry myself, I can tell you. But — I forgot — your wound,” I added, rising; “let me look at it.”

I found that the wound was caused by a pistol-shot in the chest. It did not bleed much, and as it was on the right side, I was in hopes that it might not be very serious. But Bill shook his head. “However,” said he, “sit down, Ralph, and I’ll tell you all about it.

“You see, after we left the boat an’ began to push through the bushes, we went straight for the line of my musket, as I had expected. But by some unlucky chance it didn’t explode, for I saw the line torn away by the men’s legs, and heard the click o’ the lock; so I fancy the priming had got damp and didn’t catch. I was in a great quandary now what to do, for I couldn’t concoct in my mind, in the hurry, any good reason for firin’ off my piece. But they say necessity’s the mother of invention; so just as I was giving it up and clinchin’ my teeth to bide the worst o’t and take what should come, a sudden thought came into my head. I stepped out before the rest, seemin’ to be awful anxious to be at the savages, tripped my foot on a fallen tree, plunged head foremost into a bush, an’ ov coorse my carbine exploded! Then came such a screechin’ from the camp as I never heard in all my life. I rose at once, and was rushin’ on with the rest when the captain called a halt.

“‘You did that a purpose, you villain!’ he said with a tremendous oath, and drawin’ a pistol from his belt, let fly right into my breast. I fell at once, and remembered no more till I was startled and brought round by the most awful yell I ever heard in my life — except, maybe, the shrieks o’ them poor critters that were crushed to death under yon big canoe. Jumpin’ up, I looked round, and through the trees saw a fire gleamin’ not far off; the light of which showed me the captain and men tied hand and foot, each to a post, and the savages dancin’ round them like demons. I had scarce looked for a second when I saw one o’ them go up to the captain flourishing a knife, and before I could wink he plunged it into his breast, while another yell, like the one that roused me, rang upon my ear. I didn’t wait for more, but bounding up, went crashing through the bushes into the woods. The black fellows caught sight of me, however, but not in time to prevent me jumpin’ into the boat, as you know.”

Bill seemed to be much exhausted after this recital, and shuddered frequently during the narrative; so I refrained from continuing the subject at that time, and endeavoured to draw his mind to other things.

“But now, Bill,” said I, “it behoves us to think about the future, and what course of action we shall pursue. Here we are, on the wide Pacific, in a well-appointed schooner, which is our own — at least, no one has a better claim to it than we have — and the world lies before us. Moreover, here comes a breeze, so we must make up our minds which way to steer.”

“Ralph, boy,” said my companion, “it matters not to me which way we go. I fear that my time is short now. Go where you will; I’m content.”

“Well, then, Bill, I think we had better steer to the Coral Island and see what has become of my dear old comrades, Jack and Peterkin. I believe the island has no name, but the captain once pointed it out to me on the chart, and I marked it afterwards; so, as we know pretty well our position just now, I think I can steer to it. Then, as to working the vessel, it is true I cannot hoist the sails single-handed, but luckily we have enough of sail set already; and if it should come on to blow a squall, I could at least drop the peaks of the main and fore sails, and clew them up partially without help, and throw her head close into the wind, so as to keep her all shaking till the violence of the squall is past. And if we have continued light breezes, I’ll rig up a complication of blocks and fix them to the topsail halyards, so that I shall be able to hoist the sails without help. ’Tis true I’ll require half-a-day to hoist them, but we don’t need to mind that. Then I’ll make a sort of erection on deck to screen you from the sun, Bill; and if you can only manage to sit beside the tiller and steer for two hours every day, so as to let me get a nap, I’ll engage to let you off duty all the rest of the twenty-four hours. And if you don’t feel able for steering, I’ll lash the helm and heave-to while I get you your breakfasts and dinners; and so we’ll manage famously, and soon reach the Coral Island.”

Bill smiled faintly as I ran on in this strain.

“And what will you do,” said he, “if it comes on to blow a storm?”

This question silenced me, while I considered what I should do in such a case. At length I laid my hand on his arm and said, “Bill, when a man has done all that he can do, he ought to leave the rest to God.”

“Oh Ralph,” said my companion in a faint voice, looking anxiously into my face, “I wish that I had the feelin’s about God that you seem to have, at this hour. I’m dyin’, Ralph; yet I, who have braved death a hundred times, am afraid to die. I’m afraid to enter the next world. Something within tells me there will be a reckoning when I go there. But it’s all over with me, Ralph. I feel that there’s no chance o’ my bein’ saved.”

“Don’t say that, Bill,” said I in deep compassion; “don’t say that. I’m quite sure there’s hope even for you, but I can’t remember the words of the Bible that make me think so. Is there not a Bible on board, Bill?”

“No; the last that was in the ship belonged to a poor boy that was taken aboard against his will. He died, poor lad — I think through ill-treatment and fear. After he was gone, the captain found his Bible and flung it overboard.”

I now reflected, with great sadness and self-reproach, on the way in which I had neglected my Bible, and it flashed across me that I was actually, in the sight of God, a greater sinner than this blood-stained pirate; for, thought I, he tells me that he never read the Bible and was never brought up to care for it, whereas I was carefully taught to read it by my own mother, and had read it daily as long as I possessed one, yet to so little purpose that I could not now call to mind a single text that would meet this poor man’s case and afford him the consolation he so much required. I was much distressed, and taxed my memory for a long time. At last a text did flash into my mind, and I wondered much that I had not thought of it before.

“Bill,” said I in a low voice, “‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.’”

“Ay, Ralph, I’ve heard the missionaries say that before now; but what good can it do me? It’s not for me, that; it’s not for the likes o’ me.”