Blown to Bits: The Lonely Man of Rakata, the Malay Archipelago by R. M. Ballantyne (red novels TXT) 📖

the negro. They gained the broken ledge together, and then found that the space between the point which they had reached and the spot on which the hermit stood was a smooth face of perpendicular rock—an absolutely impassable gulf!

Van der Kemp was standing with his back flat against the precipice and his feet resting on a little piece of projecting rock not more than three inches wide. This was all that lay between him and the hideous depth below, for Nigel found on carefully drawing nearer that the avalanche had been more extensive than was apparent from below, and that the ledge beyond the hermit had been also carried away—thus cutting off his retreat as well as his advance.

“I can make no effort to help myself,” said Van der Kemp in a low but calm voice, when our hero’s foot rested on the last projecting point that he could gain, and found that with the utmost reach of his arm he could not get within six inches of his friend’s outstretched hand. Besides, Nigel himself stood on so narrow a ledge, and against so steep a cliff, that he could not have acted with his wonted power even if the hand could have been grasped. Moses stood immediately behind Nigel, where the ledge was broader and where a shallow recess in the rock enabled him to stand with comparative ease. The poor fellow seemed to realise the situation more fully than his companion, for despair was written on every feature of his expressive face.

“What is to be done?” said Nigel, looking back.

“De boat-rope,” suggested the negro.

“Useless,” said Van der Kemp, in a voice as calm and steady as if he were in perfect safety, though the unusual pallor of his grave countenance showed that he was fully alive to the terrible situation. “I am resting on little more than my heels, and the strain is almost too much for me even now. I could not hold on till you went to the boat and returned. No, it seems to be God’s will—and,” added he humbly, “His will be done.”

“O God, send us help!” cried Nigel in an agony of feeling that he could not master.

“If I had better foothold I might spring towards you and catch hold of you,” said the hermit, “but I cannot spring off my heels. Besides, I doubt if you could bear my weight.”

“Try, try!” cried Nigel, eagerly extending his hand. “Don’t fear for my strength—I’ve got plenty of it, thank God! and see, I have my right arm wedged into a crevice so firmly that nothing could haul it out.”

But Van der Kemp shook his head. “I cannot even make the attempt,” he said. “The slightest move would plunge me down. Dear boy! I know that you and your father and Moses will care for my Winnie, and—”

“Massa!” gasped Moses, who while the hermit was speaking had been working his body with mysterious and violent energy; “massa! couldn’t you fall dis way, an’ Nadgel could kitch your hand, an’ I’s got my leg shoved into a hole as nuffin’ ’ll haul it out ob. Dere’s a holler place here. If Nadgel swings you into dat, an’ I only once grab you by de hair—you’re safe!”

“It might be done—tried at least,” said the hermit, looking anxiously at his young friend.

“Try it!” cried Nigel, “I won’t fail you.”

It is not possible for any except those who have gone through a somewhat similar ordeal to understand fully the test of cool courage which Van der Kemp had to undergo on that occasion.

Shutting his eyes for a moment in silent prayer, he deliberately worked with his shoulders upon the cliff against which he leaned until he felt himself to be on the point of falling towards his friend, and the two outstretched hands almost touched.

“Now, are you ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” replied Nigel, while Moses wound both his powerful arms round his comrade’s waist and held on.

Another moment and the hands clasped, Nigel uttered an irrepressible shout as the hermit swung off, and, coming round with great violence to the spot where the negro had fixed himself, just succeeded in catching the edge of the cliff with his free hand.

“Let go, Nigel,” he shouted;—“safe!”

The poor youth was only too glad to obey, for the tremendous pull had wrenched his arm out of the crevice in which he had fixed it, and for a moment he swayed helplessly over the awful abyss.

“Don’t let me go, Moses!” he yelled, as he made a frantic but futile effort to regain his hold,—for he felt that the negro had loosened one of his arms though the other was still round him like a hoop of iron.

“No fear, Nadgel,” said Moses, “I’s got you tight—only don’ wriggle. Now, massa, up you come.”

Moses had grasped his master’s hair with a grip that well-nigh scalped him, and he held on until the hermit had got a secure hold of the ledge with both hands. Then he let the hair go, for he knew that to an athlete like his master the raising himself by his arms on to the ledge would be the work of a few seconds. Van der Kemp was thus able to assist in rescuing Nigel from his position of danger.

But the expressions of heartfelt thankfulness for this deliverance which naturally broke from them were abruptly checked when it was found that Moses could by no means extract his leg out of the hole into which he had thrust it, and that he was suffering great pain.

After some time, and a good deal of violent wrenching, during which our sable hero mingled a few groans in strange fashion with his congratulations, he was got free, and then it was found that the strain had been too much for even his powerful bones and sinews, for the leg was broken.

“My poor fellow!” murmured Van der Kemp, as he went down on his knees to examine the limb.

“Don’ care a buttin for dat, massa. You’re safe, an’ Nadgel’s safe—an’ it only cost a broken leg! Pooh! das nuffin’!” said Moses, unable to repress a few tears in the excess of his joy and pain!

With considerable difficulty they carried the poor negro down to the boat, where they found Winnie, as might be supposed, in a half-fainting condition from the strain of prolonged anxiety and terror to which she had been subjected; but the necessity of attending to the case of the injured Moses was an antidote which speedily restored her.

Do you think, good reader, that Nigel and Winnie had much difficulty in coming to an understanding after that, or that the hermit was disposed to throw any obstacles in the way of true love? If you do, let us assure you that you are mistaken. Surely this is information enough for any intelligent reader.

Still, it may be interesting to add, difficulties did not all at once disappear. The perplexities that had already assailed Nigel more than once assailed him again—perplexities about a negro man-servant, and a household monkey, and a hermit father-in-law, and a small income—to say nothing of a disconsolate mother-poetess in England and a father roving on the high seas! How to overcome these difficulties gave him much thought and trouble; but they were overcome at last. That which seemed impossible to man proved to be child’s-play in the hands of woman. Winnie solved the difficulty by suggesting that they should all return to the Cocos-Keeling Islands and dwell together there for evermore!

Let us drop in on them, good reader, at a later period, have a look at them, and bid them all good-bye.

On a green knoll by the margin of the lagoon stands a beautiful cottage with a garden around it, and a pleasure-boat resting on the white coral sand in front. From the windows of that cottage there is a most magnificent view of the lagoon with its numerous islets and its picturesque palm-trees. Within that cottage dwell Nigel and Winnie, and a brown-eyed, brown-haired, fair-skinned baby girl who is “the most extraordinary angel that ever was born.” It has a nurse of its own, but is chiefly waited on and attended to by an antique poetess, who dwells in another cottage, a stone’s-cast off, on the same green knoll. There she inspires an ancient mariner with poetical sentiments—not your up-in-the-clouds, reef-point-pattering nonsense, observe but the real genuine article, superior to “that other fellow’s,” you know—when not actively engaged with the baby.

The first cottage is named Rakata, in honour of our hermit, who is one of its inhabitants. The second is named Krakatoa by its eccentric owner, Captain Roy.

It must not be imagined, however, that our friends have settled down there to spend their lives in idleness. By no means. This probably would not be permitted by the “King of the Cocos Islands” even if they wished to do so. But they do not wish that. There is no such condition as idleness in the lives of good men and women.

Nigel has taken to general superintendence of the flourishing community in the midst of which he has cast his lot. He may be almost regarded as the prime minister of the islands, in addition to which he has started an extensive boat-building business and a considerable trade in cocoa-nuts, etcetera, with the numerous islands of the Java Sea; also a saw-mill, and a forge, and a Sunday-school—in which last the pretty, humble-minded Winnie lends most efficient aid. Indeed it is said that she is the chief manager as well as the life and soul of that business, though Nigel gets all the credit.

Captain Roy sometimes sails his son’s vessels, and sometimes looks after the secular education of the Sunday-school children—the said education being conducted on the principle of unlimited story-telling with illimitable play of fancy. But his occupations are irregular—undertaken by fits and starts, and never to be counted on. His evenings he usually devotes to poetry and pipes—for the captain is obstinate, and sticks—like most of us—to his failings as well as his fancies.

There is a certain eccentric individual with an enthusiastic temperament and blue binoculars who pays frequent and prolonged visits to the Keeling Islands. It need scarcely be said that his name is Verkimier. There is no accounting for the tastes of human beings. Notwithstanding all his escapes and experiences, that indomitable man of science still ranges, like a mad philosopher, far and wide over the archipelago in pursuit of “bootterflies ant ozer specimens of zee insect vorld.” It is observed, however, even by the most obtuse among his friends, that whereas in former times the professor’s flights were centrifugal they have now become centripetal—the Keeling Islands being the great centre towards which he flies. Verkimier is, and probably will always be, a subject of wonder and of profound speculation to the youthful inhabitants of the islands. They don’t understand him and he does not understand them. If they were insects he would take deep and intelligent interest in them. As they are merely human beings, he regards them with that peculiar kind of interest with which men regard the unknown and unknowable. He is by no means indifferent to them. He is too kindly for that. He studies them deeply, though hopelessly, and when he enters the Sunday-school with his binoculars—which he often does, to listen—a degree of awe settles down on the little ones which it is impossible to evoke by the most solemn appeals to their spiritual natures.

Nigel and Winnie have a gardener, and that gardener is black—as black as the Ace of Spades or the King of Ashantee. He dwells in a corner of the Rakata Cottage, but is addicted to spending much of his spare time in the Krakatoa one. He is as strong and powerful as ever, but limps slightly on his right leg—his “game” leg, as he styles it. He is, of course, an immense favourite with the young people—not less than with the old. He has been known to say,