The Gold Brick. Ann S. Stephens
CHAPTER IX.
CHAINED IN THE HOLD.
Chained in the hold, drifting away—it was only after dark that Paul could visit his friend without fear of detection. On the third night, they were together in the hold. Thrasher himself had been down just before, and finding Jube without irons, had riveted them on his limbs with his own hands, so the poor fellow was bowed down with the weight of his chains, and could not even hold the child to his bosom when he came to share his solitude.
It was very dark, and Paul was compelled to feel his way through the freight heaped up on each side the place where Jube was confined.
"Jube, Jube! do you hear?" he called out, in a frightened voice.
Jube lay still, for he was afraid of frightening the boy by the clank of his chains, but he called out softly, "Yes, little master, here I am, just here, don't hurt yourself against the boxes."
"Can't you come and help me, Jube; it's dark as midnight."
"Well, little master, it ain't just convenient this minute; but if you'll listen while I talk, and come by the sound, it'll bring you right straight to Jube."
"Yes—yes, I hear; keep speaking, Jube, but not too loud. What a noise the water makes to-night, and the ship pitches so I can hardly stand. Oh, here you are, dear Jube; just hold out your hands, to steady me. What's that?"
"Only the handcuffs; but don't you mind, they don't amount to much after all—screwed a little tight—but not unpleasant, if it wasn't for that."
"Chained you—chained you!" said the boy, in a voice of such keen anguish that Jube forced a little, hoarse laugh, in order to convince him that being chained hand and foot, in the black hold of a vessel, was rather a refreshing amusement than otherwise. "Why, it ain't nothing, little master, just see here!"
He tried to lift his hands, but the iron galled his wrists, and forced a groan from his brave heart.
"Oh, Jube, Jube, they will murder you!"
"Not they—why it's nothing."
"Let me help you hold the irons up, they drag on your poor hands—there, does that make them lighter?"
"A good deal, little master; every thing is light when you come to see Jube."
The gentle boy had knelt down in the darkness, and was striving to hold up the chains that dragged in rusty links from the poor fellow's hands.
"Are you hungry, Jube?"
"No, not at all, little master; had a splendid dinner just now."
The poor fellow had just eaten half a cake of hard sea bread soaked in water.
"Because I've saved my dinner," said the child, "and we'll eat it together."
"Oh, little master, there never was but one angel like you that ever I saw."
"Mamma!" said Paul, softly, "you mean her, I know."
"Yes; who else?"
"I shall never be beautiful and kind like her, Jube—never! but, when she finds us, you will tell her how I have tried to be good and patient, Jube?"
"Yes, little master."
"How mournfully you say that. Are you crying, Jube?"
"Crying? no, no; don't you hear how I laugh?"
"That's worse yet; the chains are breaking your heart, Jube."
"No, I like 'em; they're a sort of company."
"Company!"
"Yes; when I'm all alone in the daytime, you know, I can jingle tunes with 'em."
"It's awful music, Jube; my heart trembles when I hear it. Besides, I cannot get close to you, the iron keeps me off."
"Just creep up to this side, little master, and lean against my shoulder; the feel of you gives me heart."
Paul crept close to his friend, and passed one arm over his chest as his cheek rested on the shoulder turned lovingly for its reception.
"How the water beats and roars," said Paul, clinging close to his friend; "it sounds like that night."
"Yes, I've been listening to it all day; sometimes it seems close, too, as if it would leap in and tear me to pieces; but that is when you are not here."
"How it moans, Jube!"
"Don't tremble, little master, it's only the water, and that isn't cruel like men."
"Hallo, here, havn't you a voice, cuffy? Here's some prog, and I've brought something to rig up a light that you can see to eat by."
It was Rice, with a tin basin in his hand half full of lard, in which a twist of cotton lay coiled like a serpent.
"There, just wait till I set this down shipshape, and you shall see what I've got; some boiled beef and lashings of grog; havn't wet my whistle to-day. Hallo, cuffy, what's this—a cargo of iron on board!—who did that ere?"
"He did it," said Jube, while Paul lifted his head; with hope in his eyes.
"He did it, did he!" Here the sailor emitted half a dozen heavy oaths, in broad English, which neither the boy nor Jube understood. "Just give us hold here; if I don't smash every link on 'em afore ten minutes is over, call me a land lubber that's afraid of his mammy. Hold out them hands, blackball. By jingo! can't do it without a hammer. Yes, this'll do; smash, here it goes! You like that music, my little commodore, does ye? Now out with yer feet, blackball, and when the captain comes, tell him I did it."
Jube, who had been painfully cramped for hours, stood up and stretched himself, as the irons fell with a clank to his feet.
"It seems kind o' refreshing, I reckon," said Rice, bringing one keg forward, on which he placed his light, and another which was to serve as a table. "Where's that jackknife, whipper-snapper? Out with it, and cut up the grub. Set to, cuffy. Glory! how the ship rolls and pitches! We'll have work afore morning. The fellow will crowd all sail; he'll fetch the brig into the middle of next week at this rate. Never mind; set to, all hands, we may as well go to Davy Jones' locker with a full cargo on the stomach as with empty lockers."
Jube was nearly famished, notwithstanding his boasted dinner, and he accepted this hearty invitation with zest. Paul tasted a few mouthfuls of the food, but with strange hesitation, as if he were putting some restraint on his appetite. His own little store of provisions remained untasted, and he made no effort to bring it forth.
"Why don't you stow away?" asked Rice, cutting a lump of beef in two and splicing it, as he observed, to a piece of bread. "What are you afeared of?"
"I—I'd like to save a little, if you please," said Paul, timidly.
"Save a little! why, what's the use? There's plenty on board; I can get a double allowance any time."
"You can, and will you?" cried the boy, eagerly.
"Why, yes, but what for?"
"We may want it, who knows? The captain may forbid you to come here, and then Jube would starve."
"Well, that's sensible. It ain't likely to happen, but then there's no harm in a full locker. I'll bring down a bag of bread this minute if he's in the cabin—then there's plenty of oranges in the cargo; if you come to hunger, cuffy, you can stave in a box, and hide the boards. Now fall to, youngster. There's no fear of a famine."
The boy was very hungry, but it made him faint, rather than eager. Something seemed to excite him; perhaps it was the gathering storm, through which the brig labored heavily. Perhaps he had some vague, childish hope, scarcely understood by himself; certainly his eyes had never shone so brightly