CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.
TAPPING THE BUTT.
I had stretched myself lengthwise in my cell, and was lying upon myright side, with my head resting upon my arm. While thus placed, I feltsomething pressing against my thigh, as though there was a protuberanceon the plank, or some piece of hard material under me. It began to giveme pain, and I reached down my hand to remove it, at the same timeraising my body so that I might get at it. I was a little surprised onnot finding anything, but the next moment I perceived that the hardsubstance that annoyed me was not upon the planks, but inside the pocketof my trousers!
What had I got there? I remembered nothing, and might have supposed itwas some fragments of biscuit; but these I had deposited in the pocketsof my jacket, and they could not have got down to my trousers. I feltthe article from the outside. It was something very hard, and of alongish shape; but I could not think what, for as yet I could remembernothing that I had carried, with the exception of the biscuits andcheese.
I had to raise myself up in order to insert my hand into the pocket, andnot until I had done so was I made acquainted with the nature of itscontents. The hard oblong thing that had thus attracted my attentionwas the knife given me by the sailor, Waters; and which, having thrustmechanically into my pocket at the moment of receiving it, I had quiteforgotten.
The discovery caused me no particular emotion at the moment. Simply athought of the kindness of the sailor as contrasted with the brutalityof the mate--just the same thought that passed through my mind at thetime the gift was presented. With this reflection I drew forth theknife, and flinging it down beside me, so that it might be out of theway, I lay down on my side as before.
But I had scarcely stretched myself, when an idea crossed my mind, thatprompted me to start up again, as suddenly as if I had lain down uponred-hot iron. Unlike the latter, however, it was not a feeling of painthat caused this quick movement, but one of pleasure--of joyful hope.It had just occurred to me that with the knife I might make a hole inthe side of the cask, and thus reach the water!
So practicable did the design appear, that I had not a doubt of beingable to accomplish it; and the certainty I now felt of getting at theprecious contents of the cask, produced a complete revulsion in myfeelings--another sudden transition from despair to hope. I gropedeagerly about, and soon recovered the knife. I had scarce looked at it,on receiving it from the hands of the friendly sailor. Now I examinedit carefully--by the touch, of course--I felt it all over; and as wellas I was able by such a test, calculated its strength and fitness forthe work I had designed for it.
It was what is termed a "jack-knife," with a buckhorn handle, and butone blade--a sort in common use among sailors, who usually carry them ona string passed around the neck, and to which the knife is attached by ahole drilled in the haft. The blade was a square one, drawn to anangular point, and shaped somewhat like the blade of a razor. Like thelatter, too, the back was thick and strong, as I could tell by the"feel." I was gratified at perceiving this, for I knew that it wouldrequire a strong blade to hew a hole through the tough staves of oak.
The instrument I held in my hands was the very thing for the purpose,almost as good as a chisel. Haft and blade were nearly of equal length,and when opened out, they measured about ten inches together.
I have been thus particular in describing this knife; and from me itmerits all that has been said, and far more, in praise of its goodqualities; since, but for it, I should not now be alive to give anaccount of its wonderful performances.
Well, having opened the knife, and drawn my fingers along the blade, andfelt it over and over again, in order to get acquainted with its formand fitness; and then, having examined the back-spring, and tried itsstrength by various openings and shuttings: having done all this, I wentto work upon the hard oak.
You will wonder that I wanted to take all these precautions. You willfancy that, tortured as I was by thirst, I would scarce have had so muchpatience, but would have set about making the hole at once, in order thesooner to get relief by a draught of the water. Certainly my patiencewas greatly tempted; but I never was what is called a rash boy, and inthat dark hour I felt more than ever in my life the necessity ofprudence and caution. I knew that death--a horrid death from thirst--awaited me, if I did not succeed in getting at the contents of the cask;and should any accident happen to the knife, should the blade break, oreven the point be snapped off, this death would surely be my fate. Nowonder, then, I took the precaution to examine well my weapon andascertain its strength. I might have acted with more recklessness had Ireflected more. Even had I been certain of procuring the water, whatthen? It could only save me from dying of thirst. But hunger? How wasthat to be relieved? Water was drink, but not food. Where was I tofind food?
Strange to say, I did not think of food at that moment. I was not yethungry, and the agony of thirst had hitherto been my only apprehension,precluding all thoughts of the kindred appetite. The prospect of thenearer danger--that of perishing from the want of water--had hindered mymind from dwelling on that which was more remote; and, strange to say, Ihad as yet scarce given a thought to what shortly after became myexclusive apprehension--the danger of dying by hunger.
It is certain, therefore, that had I reflected on this, I should haveproceeded with less prudence. Fortunately, I did not reflect; but setabout the accomplishment of my purpose with due method and caution.
I selected a spot in the side of the cask, where one of the stavesappeared to be a little chafed and damaged. I chose it better thanhalf-way from the top. The cask might be only half full, though thatwas not likely. If so, it would be necessary for me to make my tapbelow the surface of the water, otherwise I should have to make it overagain. A hole would have been of no use to me, unless it entered belowthe water-line.
Having chosen the spot, I at once set to work, and in a short while hadthe gratification to find that I was rapidly hollowing out a space inthe thick stave. The knife behaved admirably, and hard as was the oak,it had to yield to the harder steel of that beautiful blade. Bit bybit, and chip by chip, the wood was detached before its keen point; andas each fresh fibre was loosened, I seized it with my fingers and pulledit off, to make way for the blade.
For more than an hour I kept on, of course working in darkness. I hadby this time grown so familiar with darkness, that I he longerexperienced the feeling of helplessness one always has when suddenlyplunged into it. My sense of touch seemed to have become keener andmore delicate, as is well-known to be the case with those who are blind.I felt no difficulty on the score of light; and as it would haveavailed but little for the work in which I was engaged, I never eventhought of its absence.
I did not progress as fast as a carpenter would have done with hismortising chisel, or a cooper with his breast-bit or auger; but I hadthe gratification of knowing that I was progressing. Though slowly, Iperceived that the hollow was getting deeper and deeper; the stave couldnot be more than an inch in thickness: surely I should soon be throughit?
I could have done the business in less time, had I been more reckless ofconsequences; but I feared to strain too heavily upon the blade, and,remembering the old adage, "The more haste the less speed," I handledthe precious tool with care.
It was more than an hour before I approached the inner surface of theplank. I knew that I was nearly through it from the depth to which Ihad cut.
My hand now trembled as I worked. My heart beat loudly against my ribs.It was a moment of vivid emotion. A fearful thought was in my mind--adread doubt was troubling me--a doubt that it was _water_! This doubthad occurred to me at an earlier period, but at no time did I feel it sointensely as at that moment, just upon the eve of its solution.
Oh, heaven! should it not be water after all--should the contents of thecask prove to be rum or brandy, or even wine! I knew that none of thesewould avail to quench my burning thirst. For the moment they might, butonly for the moment; it would return fiercer and more craving than ever.Oh!
if it should be one, or any of them, then indeed was I lost--thenindeed might I yield up my last hope, and die as men have often died,under the madness of intoxication!
I was close to the inner surface of the stave; moisture was alreadyoozing through the wood, where it had been penetrated by the point ofthe blade. I hesitated to make the last cut; I dreaded the result.
I hesitated but a short while. The torture of my thirst impelled me on;and plunging the blade deeply, I felt the last fibres yielding to itspoint. Almost at the same instant a cold spray rushed out, sprinklingmy hand upon the haft, and rushing far up my sleeve.
After giving the blade a twist, I drew it out, and then a jet shotforth, as if forced from a syringe. In another instant my lips coveredthe vent, and I drank delicious draughts--not of spirits, not of wine--but of water, cold and sweet as though it issued from a rock oflimestone!