The Fortunes of Hector O'Halloran, and His Man, Mark Antony O'TooleMaxwell, W. H. (William Hamilton)
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The Fortunes of Hector O'Halloran, and His Man, Mark Antony O'Toole
Maxwell, W. H. (William Hamilton)
Ireland -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
I paused, took breath, and looked around. The ship lay in shade, looming
immensely; all else sea--sea--sea! I searched my pockets, and found two
biscuits; but I was without water! Under a tropic sun, a thousand miles
from land--no water! The very thought was enough to madden one; but,
presently, other feelings banished that horrible conviction.
[Illustration: 0274]
My eyes were turned towards the slaver. Before this, I knew that the
infernal deed must have been consummated, and that, to protract the
lives of some dozen guilty wretches, two hundred innocent victims had
been immolated! A feeble gleam twinkled from the vessel; it faded into
darkness; and a dull mass, shapeless and colourless, showed me the spot,
where, upon the waveless ocean the felon-ship lay sleeping.
I looked again. Suddenly, a blaze, as if some inflammable matter had
been ignited, burst from the slaver and dispelled the darkness. The
outline of the vessel became distinct; the flame waxed stronger still;
every rope and sail was visible; and I could perceive figures on the
deck, rush to and fro, as if in wild disorder. The glare grew redder
yet--the ship was in a blaze from stem to stern--and in their nefarious
attempt to suffocate their victims, the villains fired the vessel!
I turned the boat’s head towards the burning ship; and after rowing a
short distance back, rested on my oars. I knew that if I attempted to
near the vessel, the skiff would be overcrowded, and all must perish.
Shrieks, wild and maddening, like those of despairing men, were
heard--every inch of canvas which had hung dangling from the yards, was
wrapped in fire, and the loftiest spars were burning! It was a grand,
but terrible spectacle; and I strained my eyes to gaze upon it until the
red glare pained them. At once, a column of brilliant light mounted to
the skies, followed by a heavy, dull, concussion, which came trembling
over the water, and rocked my little skiff. A cloud of smoke succeeded.
Suddenly the light vanished; darkness returned denser than before--night
and stillness resumed their silent reign. The magazine had exploded--and
the slaver was now buried in the depths of ocean!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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