Mr. Hagget at first had found himself a lonely man on the convict ship. His position was anomalous. He was neither a minister nor a prison officer. Had he been the former, the ship's officers and the military officers would have taken him into their mess; had he been the latter, the convict officials would have been his companions. But he was only a hired drudge, a non-professional. He was called simply "the Scripture-reader."
So he was thrown for companionship on the two other lonely passengers, Ben Lodge and Ngarra-jil, who were glad of his company, and entirely ignorant of his position.
Mr. Haggett's nature was by no means a bad one; indeed, in other circumstances it would have been an admirable one. He was simply one of those persons who make up the million, who are common vessels to hold that which is put into them. He was a queer mixture of zeal and conceit. His mind had two keys, as a sparrow has only two notes, and these were earnestness and vanity.
Had he been trained as a mechanic, he would have patiently mastered his trade, never improving on what he bad been taught; and he would have been vain of his skill, and faithful to it.
To give such a man a field of metaphysical labour, to put into his callow bands the absolute spiritual control of hundreds of lives in need of wise spiritual guidance, was an experiment far more injurious to poor Haggett than to the convicts. It is so always. A priest's vestments are too great for small natures, which they injure, if they do not destroy.
He became puffed up with an absurd wind of conceit, that almost amounted to real character; while the convicts, heedless before, only confirmed their opinion that Christianity was a wordy and stiff profession rather than a true saving principle.
When Mr. Wyville humiliated Haggett in Millbank, the blow appeared terrible; but in truth it only struck Haggett where he was puffed. As a man might cut a balloon with a sharp sword, Mr. Wyville's interference and authority had gashed the swelling vanity of the Scripture-reader.
From that day, though he afterwards set out to do Sir Joshua Hobb's dirty work, Mr. Haggett had changed—he was gradually returning to his real nature, which was, as it ought to be, humble.
"This is a good man," something within him kept saying of Mr. Wyville; "why are you his enemy?" And the answer came, and repeated itself: "Because you are Sir Joshua Hobb's tool."
These thoughts floated through Haggett's mind on his first visit to Australia; and that they had an effect on his conduct was certain. Vague hints and doubts and clews, which Sir Joshua would have been eager to seize, Haggett indeed had found, but had kept to himself.
Since the Houguemont sailed he had been especially disturbed in mind. When the incident of the fire came, and he spoke his mind to Mr. Wyville in the hurried words, "Forgive me!" it was not a sudden thought. But it was overwhelming. As a dam may tremble for years, especially in time of storm, and go down at last with a rush, so the last barrier of Haggett's vanity broke that day, and left the reservoir of his conceit dry and unsightly to himself.
A man suffers deeply who has to turn an inward eye on such a scene. But an honest man, helped by humility, will do it, and survive; and at bottom Haggett was honest and humble.
He did not appear on deck for days after the fire; and when he did come out, he spent his time in strange fashion. He would hang around the passage to Sister Cecilia's quarters for hours; and when the little nun was on her way to the female convicts, the ungainly Scripture-reader would start from some unexpected angle, and watch for an opportunity to offer some service.
This continued for weeks, until at last Sister Cecilia noticed the attention. She quietly bowed her head one day in thanks for some slight favour; and for the rest of the day Mr. Haggett's face was lined with good humour and gratification. .
When the ship was becalmed in the tropics, the suffering of the imprisoned wretches in the steaming and crowded hold was piteous to see. They were so packed that free movement was impossible. The best thing to do was to sit each on his or her berth, and suffer in patience.
The air was stifling and oppressive. There was no draught through the barred hatches. The deck above them was blazing hot. The pitch dropped from the seams, and burned their flesh as it fell.
There was only one word spoken or thought-one yearning idea present in every mind-water, cool water to slake the parching thirst.
Two pints of water a day were served out to each convict—a quart of half-putrid and blood-warm liquid. It was a woeful sight to see the thirsty souls devour this allowance as soon as their hot hands seized the vessel.
Day in and day out, the terrible calm held the ship, and the consuming heat sapped the lives of the pent-up convicts. They suffered in strange patience. The hold was silent all day. They made no complaints. When the officers passed among them, and spoke to them, they smiled and sat still on their berths.
Only once, there was a sound of discontent; when the order was given that the daily allowance of water be reduced to one pint.
Among the officers of the ship, there was silence also. They knew they were in a latitude where calms lasted for long periods. They flushed the decks with water constantly, to try and keep them cool, for the sake of the prisoners below.
"We shall need fresh water in a week," said Captain Draper to Mr. Wyville one day; "the tanks are low already, and evaporation rapidly increases."
Mr. Wyville did not answer, except with an inclination of the head. Words were useless.
"Where is the nearest land?" he asked Sheridan that afternoon, as they paced the poop.
"The island of Principe is about 200 miles to the south," said Sheridan. "There is good water there."
The thought in Mr. Wyville's mind never came to words. As Sheridan spoke, he stopped suddenly, looking away to the north, and pointing his hand with an eager face. A dark line, very faint, was moving on the face of the glassy ocean.
"Thank heaven!" he said, " yonder comes the breeze."
In half an hour it fanned their faces, but so gently that still the sails hung useless, and the pennant only stirred an inch from the mast. But it was a breath—it was a drink. When the night fell, the breeze strengthened, and the ship moved.
There was no sleep on board that night. The hearts of all were filled with deep relief and gratitude. The breeze held for four days, growing steadier as they sailed. On the evening of the fourth day, a man aloft cried out, "Land ho!"
They had sighted Principe. From deck, the land was not seen for an hour later; and the Houguemont stood off and on till morning, when boats would be sent ashore for water.
At the first flush of dawn the ship was steered towards the island. A fog lay close to the water, and the eager eyes of the voyagers only saw a line of wooded mountain, the base and summit of which were rolled in mist.
The Houguemont sailed into the fog-bank; and before those on board had time to realize the change, her foresails caught the sunshine, and she swung to within a land-locked harbour as beautiful as a dream of Paradise.
The water broke against the wooded shores all round the lovely haven. The hills were covered with trees to the top, and the cocoa palms crowded their lower slopes to the very shore. At the end of the harbour stood the little town of St. Antonio.
The Houguemont came to anchor, and boats were sent shore to fill the water-casks. The Swift, clear streams were seen running into the beautiful basin of the port.
While this work was going on, a sail-boat put off from the town, and held towards the vessel. There were three men in it, and as they came within hail of ship, keeping to leeward, they ran up a yellow flag.
"My God!" said Sheridan, who had been watching the boat; "they have the fever!"
"Get out as fast as you can," cried a man in the boat. "And be sure you allow no one from shore near the ship. We have the plague in St. Antonio."
Without another Word, the boat's course was changed, and she returned to the town. The crew of the Houguemont needed no incentive to work. By ten o'clock that night the casks were filled and the ship was under sail.
"A fortunate escape!" said the medical officer to Sheridan, who did not answer, but looked at the pennant. The wind had changed, and was blowing directly from St. Antonio.
Next morning, the beautiful island was out of sight. The convicts got plenty of water that day, and their hearts were glad. Towards evening, one of the warders went to the doctor's room, and said there was a prisoner very ill, who complained of nausea and pains in the head and shoulders. The doctor's face grew pale at the word; but he turned away from the warder.
"Take that man on deck at once," he said, quietly, "and place him in the punishment division forward."
The warder went to carry out the order. The doctor hurriedly consulted a book, then left his room and walked forward.
The sick prisoner was there before him. The doctor examined him, quietly ordered his treatment, and retired. He joined Mr. Wyville on the poop.
"We have the fever on board," he said in a low voice. "A man has been attacked by the worst symptoms."
An hour later two more convicts complained of sickness.
They were taken from the hold and placed in the cell forward.
Next day it was known throughout the ship that the fever which the sailors and convicts called "the black vomit," was on board; and before nightfall thirty prisoners were seized.
The sick were taken away from the hold at first; but this separation had soon to be abandoned. There was no room for them apart. The hospital was full. Those who took the fever had to he side by side with their terror-stricken fellows.
Like an angel of comfort, Sister Cecilia tended on the sufferers. Following her steps, and quietly obeying her word, went Mr. Haggett. In the female compartment, where twelve prisoners lay with the fever, Alice Walmsley moved ceaselessly in the work of mercy.
On the third day, the chief officer of the ship said to Mr. Wyville—
"Captain Draper has the fever."
The doctor, shortly after, came from the captain's room, and reported that Draper had, indeed, been seized, but with symptoms of less virulence than the others.
"Who will attend on Captain Draper?" asked the doctor. "He will be unconscious in another hour, and will need care."
"I will attend him," said Mr. Wyville, after a pause; "write your directions, doctor, and I will stay beside him to-night."