"How do you mean?" I asked.
"How'll we get that anchor up?" grumbled he. "If we start the engines
and try to crawl up by the capstan, we couldn't pull her out of the
mud. If we put on a donkey engine we'd snatch the bow out of here
before we could lift the hook. And until we do, how are we going to
move her? There's the channel, but it's as far as ever. We can't sweep
her off, of course, and we can't pole her off."
"Well, Peterson," said I, "let us, by all means, hope for the worst."
I smiled, seeing that he now was possessed of his normal gloom.
"Well," said he, "we went on at full tide, and hard aground at that.
This wind is blowing all the water out of Côte Blanche. Of course, if
the wind should turn and drive in again, we might move her, if we
caught her at high tide once more. Until that happens, I guess we're
anchored here for sure."
"The glass is rising now, Peterson," said I, pleasantly.
"Oh, yes, it may rise a little," said he, "and of course the storm's
gone by for the time. But I don't think there's going to be any good
change of weather that'll hold, very soon. But now, Williams and I'll
go below and see if we can start a pump. I expect she's sprung a
leak, all right."
Shaking his head in much apprehension, the old man made his way with
Williams, first into the engine-room. For my own part, I turned toward
my cabin door. All at once as I did so it seemed to me I heard a
sound. It came again, a sort of a meek diffident sound, expectant
rather than complaining. And then I heard an unmistakable scraping at
the door. Hastening, I flung it open. I was greeted with a great whine
of joy and trust, a shaggy form leaped upon me, thrust its cold nose
into my face, gave me much greetings of whines, and at length of a
loud howl of joy.
"Partial!" I cried, and caught him by the paws as he put them on my
shoulders and rubbed his muzzle along my cheek, whimpering; "Partial!
Oh, my dear chap, I say now, I'm glad to see you!"
As a matter of fact, I had forgotten Partial these three days, other
things being on my mind. Once more our amateurishness in shipwreck had
nearly cost us a life. Partial, no doubt, had meekly waited at his
usual place until ordered to come out with the rest. We had closed the
doors and port-holes when we left the Belle Helène, and thus he had
been locked in.
I sat down on one of the bench lockers with Partial's head in my
hand, and almost my eyes became moist. "Partial," said I, "let me
confess the truth to you. The woman had maddened me. I forgot you--I
did, and will own it now. It was a grave fault, my friend. I do not
ask you to forgive me, and all I can do is to promise you such amend
as lies in my power. From now on, I promise you, you shall go with me
to all the ends of the earth. My people shall be your people, till
death do us part. Do you hear me, Partial?"