He had brought nuts for the boys as well as the correct time for Wendy.
“Peter, you just spoil them, you know,” Wendy simpered.
“Ah, old lady,” said Peter, hanging up his gun.
“It was me told him mothers are called old lady,” Michael whispered to Curly.
“I complain of Michael,” said Curly instantly.
The first twin came to Peter. “Father, we want to dance.”
“Dance away, my little man,” said Peter, who was in high good humour.
“But we want you to dance.”
Peter was really the best dancer among them, but he pretended to be scandalised.
“Me!My old bones would rattle!”
“And mummy too.”
“What,” cried Wendy, “the mother of such an armful, dance!”
“But on a Saturday night,” Slightly insinuated.
It was not really Saturday night, at least it may have been,for they had long lost count of the days;but always if they wanted to do anything special they said this was Saturday night, and then they did it.
“Of course it is Saturday night, Peter,” Wendy said, relenting.
“People of our figure, Wendy!”
“But it is only among our own progeny.”
“True, true.”
So they were told they could dance, but they must put on their nighties first.
“Ah, old lady,” Peter said aside to Wendy,warming himself by the fire and looking down at her as she sat turning a heel,“there is nothing more pleasant of an evening for you and me when the day’s toil is over than to rest by the fire with the little ones near by. ”
“It is sweet, Peter, isn’t it?” Wendy said, frightfully gratified. “Peter, I think Curly has your nose.”
“Michael takes after you.”
She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Dear Peter,” she said, “with such a large family, of course, I have now passed my best,but you don’t want to change me, do you?”
“No, Wendy.”
Certainly he did not want a change, but he looked at her uncomfortably, blinking, you know,like one not sure whether he was awake or asleep.
“Peter, what is it?”
“I was just thinking,” he said, a little scared. “It is only make-believe, isn’t it, that I am their father?”
“Oh yes,” Wendy said primly.
“You see,” he continued apologetically, “it would make me seem so old to be their real father.”
“But they are ours, Peter, yours and mine.”
“But not really, Wendy?” he asked anxiously.
“Not if you don’t wish it,” she replied; and she distinctly heard his sigh of relief. “Peter,” she asked, trying to speak firmly, “what are your exact feelings to me?”
“Those of a devoted son, Wendy.”
“I thought so,” she said, and went and sat by herself at the extreme end of the room.
“You are so queer,” he said, frankly puzzled, “and Tiger Lily is just the same.There is something she wants to be to me, but she says it is not my mother.”
“No, indeed, it is not,” Wendy replied with frightful emphasis.Now we know why she was prejudiced against the redskins.
“Then what is it?”
“It isn’t for a lady to tell.”
“Oh, very well,” Peter said, a little nettled. “Perhaps Tinker Bell will tell me.”
“Oh yes, Tinker Bell will tell you,” Wendy retorted scornfully. “She is an abandoned little creature.”
Here Tink, who was in her bedroom, eavesdropping, squeaked out something impudent.
“She says she glories in being abandoned,” Peter interpreted.
He had a sudden idea. “Perhaps Tink wants to be my mother?”
“You silly ass!” cried Tinker Bell in a passion.
She had said it so often that Wendy needed no translation.
“I almost agree with her,” Wendy snapped. Fancy Wendy snapping!But she had been much tried, and she little knew what was to happen before the night was out.If she had known she would not have snapped.
None of them knew. Perhaps it was best not to know. Their ignorance gave them one more glad hour;and as it was to be their last hour on the island,let us rejoice that there were sixty glad minutes in it. They sang and danced in their night-gowns.Such a deliciously creepy song it was, in which they pretended to be frightened at their own shadows,little witting that so soon shadows would close in upon them,from whom they would shrink in real fear. So uproariously gay was the dance,and how they buffeted each other on the bed and out of it!It was a pillow fight rather than a dance, and when it was finished,the pillows insisted on one bout more, like partners who know that they may never meet again.The stories they told, before it was time for Wendy’s good-night story!Even Slightly tried to tell a story that night,but the beginning was so fearfully dull that it appalled not only the others but himself, and he said gloomily:
“Yes, it is a dull beginning. I say, let us pretend that it is the end.”
And then at last they all got into bed for Wendy’s story, the story they loved best,the story Peter hated. Usually when she began to tell this story he left the room or put his hands over his ears;and possibly if he had done either of those things this time they might all still be on the island.But to-night he remained on his stool; and we shall see what happened.
Chapter XI. WENDY’S STORY
“Listen, then,” said Wendy, settling down to her story,with Michael at her feet and seven boys in the bed. “There was once a gentleman—”
“I had rather he had been a lady,” Curly said.
“I wish he had been a white rat,” said Nibs.
“Quiet,” their mother admonished them. “There was a lady also, and—”
“Oh, mummy,” cried the first twin, “you mean that there is a lady also, don’t you?She is not dead, is she?”
“Oh, no.”
“I am awfully glad she isn’t dead,” said Tootles. “Are you glad, John?”
“Of course I am.”
“Are you glad, Nibs?”
“Rather.”
“Are you glad, Twins?”
“We are glad.”
“Oh dear,” sighed Wendy.
“Little less noise there,” Peter called out, determined that she should have fair play,however beastly a story it might be in his opinion.
“The gentleman’s name,” Wendy continued, “was Mr. Darling, and her name was Mrs. Darling.”
“I knew them,” John said, to annoy the others.
“I think I knew them,” said Michael rather doubtfully.
“They were married, you know,” explained Wendy, “and what do you think they had?”
“White rats,” cried Nibs, inspired.
“No.”
“It’s awfully puzzling,” said Tootles, who knew the story by heart.
“Quiet, Tootles. They had three descendants.”
“What is descendants?”
“Well, you are one, Twin.”
“Did you hear that, John?I am a descendant.”
“Descendants are only children,” said John.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” sighed Wendy. “Now these three children had a faithful nurse called Nana;but Mr. Darling was angry with her and chained her up in the yard, and so all the children flew away.”
“It’s an awfully good story,” said Nibs.
“They flew away,” Wendy continued, “to the Neverland, where the lost children are.”
“I just thought they did,” Curly broke in excitedly. “I don’t know how it is, but I just thought they did!”
“O Wendy,” cried Tootles, “was one of the lost children called Tootles?”
“Yes, he was.”
“I am in a story. Hurrah, I am in a story, Nibs.”
“Hush. Now I want you to consider the feelings of the unhappy parents with all their children flown away. ”
“Oo!” they all moaned, though they were not really considering the feelings of the unhappy parents one jot.
“Think of the empty beds!”
“Oo!”
“It’s awfully sad,” the first twin said cheerfully.
“I don’t see how it can have a happy ending,” said the second twin. “Do you, Nibs?”
“I’m frightfully anxious.”
“If you knew how great is a mother’s love,” Wendy told them triumphantly, “you would have no fear.” She had now come to the part that Peter hated.
“I do like a mother’s love,” said Tootles, hitting Nibs with a pillow. “Do you like a mother’s love, Nibs?”
“I do just,” said Nibs, hitting back.
“You see,” Wendy said complacently, “our heroine knew that the mother would always leave the window open for her children to fly back by;so they stayed away for years and had a lovely time.”
“Did they ever go back?”
“Let us now,” said Wendy, bracing herself up for her finest effort, “take a peep into the future;” and they all gave themselves the twist that makes peeps into the future easier.“Years have rolled by, and who is this elegant lady of uncertain age alighting at London Station?”
“O Wendy, who is she?” cried Nibs, every bit as excited as if he didn’t know.
“Can it be—yes—no—it is—the fair Wendy!”
“Oh!”
“And who are the two noble portly figures accompanying her, now grown to man’s estate?Can they be John and Michael?They are!”
“Oh!”
“‘See, dear brothers,’ says Wendy pointing upwards, ‘there is the window still standing open. Ah,now we are rewarded for our sublime faith in a mother’s love.’ So up they flew to their mummy and daddy, and pen cannot describe the happy scene, over which we draw a veil.”
That was the story, and they were as pleased with it as the fair narrator herself.Everything just as it should be, you see. Off we skip like the most heartless things in the world,which is what children are, but so attractive; and we have an entirely selfish time,and then when we have need of special attention we nobly return for it,confident that we shall be rewarded instead of smacked.
So great indeed was their faith in a mother’s love that they felt they could afford to be callous for a bit longer.
But there was one there who knew better, and when Wendy finished he uttered a hollow groan.
“What is it, Peter?” she cried, running to him, thinking he was ill. She felt him solicitously,lower down than his chest. “Where is it, Peter?”
“It isn’t that kind of pain,” Peter replied darkly.
“Then what kind is it?”
“Wendy, you are wrong about mothers.”
They all gathered round him in affright, so alarming was his agitation;and with a fine candour he told them what he had hitherto concealed.
“Long ago,” he said, “I thought like you that my mother would always keep the window open for me,so I stayed away for moons and moons and moons, and then flew back; but the window was barred,for mother had forgotten all about me, and there was another little boy sleeping in my bed.”
I am not sure that this was true, but Peter thought it was true; and it scared them.
“Are you sure mothers are like that?”
“Yes.”
So this was the truth about mothers. The toads!
Still it is best to be careful; and no one knows so quickly as a child when he should give in.“Wendy, let us go home,” cried John and Michael together.
“Yes,” she said, clutching them.
“Not to-night?” asked the lost boys bewildered. They knew in what they called their hearts that one can get on quite well without a mother,and that it is only the mothers who think you can’t.
“At once,” Wendy replied resolutely, for the horrible thought had come to her:“Perhaps mother is in half mourning by this time.”
This dread made her forgetful of what must be Peter’s feelings, and she said to him rather sharply,“Peter, will you make the necessary arrangements?”
“If you wish it,” he replied, as coolly as if she had asked him to pass the nuts.
Not so much as a sorry-to-lose-you between them!If she did not mind the parting, he was going to show her, was Peter, that neither did he.
But of course he cared very much; and he was so full of wrath against grown-ups, who, as usual,were spoiling everything, that as soon as he got inside his tree he breathed intentionally quick short breaths at the rate of about five to a second.He did this because there is a saying in the Neverland that, every time you breathe,a grown-up dies; and Peter was killing them off vindictively as fast as possible.
Then having given the necessary instructions to the redskins he returned to the home,where an unworthy scene had been enacted in his absence.Panic-stricken at the thought of losing Wendy the lost boys had advanced upon her threateningly.
“It will be worse than before she came,” they cried.
“We shan’t let her go.”
“Let’s keep her prisoner.”
“Ay, chain her up.”
In her extremity an instinct told her to which of them to turn.
“Tootles,” she cried, “I appeal to you.”
Was it not strange?She appealed to Tootles, quite the silliest one.
Grandly, however, did Tootles respond. For that one moment he dropped his silliness and spoke with dignity.
“I am just Tootles,” he said, “and nobody minds me.But the first who does not behave to Wendy like an English gentleman I will blood him severely.”
He drew back his hanger; and for that instant his sun was at noon. The others held back uneasily.Then Peter returned, and they saw at once that they would get no support from him.He would keep no girl in the Neverland against her will.
“Wendy,” he said, striding up and down, “I have asked the redskins to guide you through the wood, as flying tires you so.”
“Thank you, Peter.”
“Then,” he continued, in the short sharp voice of one accustomed to be obeyed,“Tinker Bell will take you across the sea. Wake her, Nibs.”
Nibs had to knock twice before he got an answer,though Tink had really been sitting up in bed listening for some time.
“Who are you?How dare you?Go away,” she cried.
“You are to get up, Tink,” Nibs called, “and take Wendy on a journey.”
Of course Tink had been delighted to hear that Wendy was going;but she was jolly well determined not to be her courier,and she said so in still more offensive language. Then she pretended to be asleep again.
“She says she won’t!” Nibs exclaimed, aghast at such insubordination,whereupon Peter went sternly toward the young lady’s chamber.
“Tink,” he rapped out, “if you don’t get up and dress at once I will open the curtains,and then we shall all see you in your _negligée_.”
This made her leap to the floor. “Who said I wasn’t getting up?” she cried.
In the meantime the boys were gazing very forlornly at Wendy,now equipped with John and Michael for the journey. By this time they were dejected,not merely because they were about to lose her,but also because they felt that she was going off to something nice to which they had not been invited. Novelty was beckoning to them as usual.
Crediting them with a nobler feeling Wendy melted.
“Dear ones,” she said, “if you will all come with me I feel almost sure I can get my father and mother to adopt you. ”
The invitation was meant specially for Peter,but each of the boys was thinking exclusively of himself, and at once they jumped with joy.
“But won’t they think us rather a handful?” Nibs asked in the middle of his jump.
“Oh no,” said Wendy, rapidly thinking it out,“it will only mean having a few beds in the drawing-room;they can be hidden behind the screens on first Thursdays.”
“Peter, can we go?” they all cried imploringly. They took it for granted that if they went he would go also,but really they scarcely cared. Thus children are ever ready, when novelty knocks, to desert their dearest ones.
“All right,” Peter replied with a bitter smile, and immediately they rushed to get their things.
“And now, Peter,” Wendy said, thinking she had put everything right,“I am going to give you your medicine before you go.” She loved to give them medicine,and undoubtedly gave them too much. Of course it was only water, but it was out of a bottle,and she always shook the bottle and counted the drops, which gave it a certain medicinal quality.On this occasion, however, she did not give Peter his draught, for just as she had prepared it,she saw a look on his face that made her heart sink.
“Get your things, Peter,” she cried, shaking.
“No,” he answered, pretending indifference, “I am not going with you, Wendy.”
“Yes, Peter.”
“No.”
To show that her departure would leave him unmoved, he skipped up and down the room,playing gaily on his heartless pipes. She had to run about after him, though it was rather undignified.
“To find your mother,” she coaxed.
Now, if Peter had ever quite had a mother, he no longer missed her.He could do very well without one. He had thought them out, and remembered only their bad points.
“No, no,” he told Wendy decisively; “perhaps she would say I was old,and I just want always to be a little boy and to have fun.”
“But, Peter—”
“No.”
And so the others had to be told.
“Peter isn’t coming.”
Peter not coming!They gazed blankly at him, their sticks over their backs, and on each stick a bundle.Their first thought was that if Peter was not going he had probably changed his mind about letting them go.
But he was far too proud for that. “If you find your mothers,” he said darkly, “I hope you will like them.”
The awful cynicism of this made an uncomfortable impression,and most of them began to look rather doubtful. After all, their faces said, were they not noodles to want to go?
“Now then,” cried Peter, “no fuss, no blubbering; good-bye, Wendy;” and he held out his hand cheerily, quite as if they must really go now, for he had something important to do.
She had to take his hand, and there was no indication that he would prefer a thimble.
“You will remember about changing your flannels, Peter?” she said, lingering over him. She was always so particular about their flannels.
“Yes.”
“And you will take your medicine?”
“Yes.”
That seemed to be everything, and an awkward pause followed. Peter, however,was not the kind that breaks down before other people. “Are you ready, Tinker Bell?” he called out.
“Ay, ay.”
“Then lead the way.”
Tink darted up the nearest tree; but no one followed her,for it was at this moment that the pirates made their dreadful attack upon the redskins. Above,where all had been so still, the air was rent with shrieks and the clash of steel. Below,there was dead silence. Mouths opened and remained open. Wendy fell on her knees,but her arms were extended toward Peter. All arms were extended to him,as if suddenly blown in his direction; they were beseeching him mutely not to desert them.As for Peter, he seized his sword, the same he thought he had slain Barbecue with, and the lust of battle was in his eye.
Chapter XII. THE CHILDREN ARE CARRIED OFF
The pirate attack had been a complete surprise:a sure proof that the unscrupulous Hook had conducted it improperly,for to surprise redskins fairly is beyond the wit of the white man.
By all the unwritten laws of savage warfare it is always the redskin who attacks,and with the wiliness of his race he does it just before the dawn,at which time he knows the courage of the whites to be at its lowest ebb.The white men have in the meantime made a rude stockade on the summit of yonder undulating ground,at the foot of which a stream runs, for it is destruction to be too far from water.There they await the onslaught, the inexperienced ones clutching their revolvers and treading on twigs,but the old hands sleeping tranquilly until just before the dawn.Through the long black night the savage scouts wriggle, snake-like,among the grass without stirring a blade. The brushwood closes behind them,as silently as sand into which a mole has dived. Not a sound is to be heard,save when they give vent to a wonderful imitation of the lonely call of the coyote.The cry is answered by other braves; and some of them do it even better than the coyotes,who are not very good at it. So the chill hours wear on,and the long suspense is horribly trying to the paleface who has to live through it for the first time;but to the trained hand those ghastly calls and still ghastlier silences are but an intimation of how the night is marching.
That this was the usual procedure was so well known to Hook that in disregarding it he cannot be excused on the plea of ignorance.
The Piccaninnies, on their part, trusted implicitly to his honour,and their whole action of the night stands out in marked contrast to his.They left nothing undone that was consistent with the reputation of their tribe.With that alertness of the senses which is at once the marvel and despair of civilised peoples,they knew that the pirates were on the island from the moment one of them trod on a dry stick;and in an incredibly short space of time the coyote cries began.Every foot of ground between the spot where Hook had landed his forces and the home under the trees was stealthily examined by braves wearing their mocassins with the heels in front. They found only one hillock with a stream at its base, so that Hook had no choice; here he must establish himself and wait for just before the dawn. Everything being thus mapped out with almost diabolical cunning, the main body of the redskins folded their blankets around them, and in the phlegmatic manner that is to them, the pearl of manhood squatted above the children’s home, awaiting the cold moment when they should deal pale death.
Here dreaming, though wide-awake, of the exquisite tortures to which they were to put him at break of day,those confiding savages were found by the treacherous Hook.From the accounts afterwards supplied by such of the scouts as escaped the carnage,he does not seem even to have paused at the rising ground,though it is certain that in that grey light he must have seen it:no thought of waiting to be attacked appears from first to last to have visited his subtle mind;he would not even hold off till the night was nearly spent;on he pounded with no policy but to fall to. What could the bewildered scouts do,masters as they were of every war-like artifice save this one, but trot helplessly after him,exposing themselves fatally to view, while they gave pathetic utterance to the coyote cry.
Around the brave Tiger Lily were a dozen of her stoutest warriors,and they suddenly saw the perfidious pirates bearing down upon them.Fell from their eyes then the film through which they had looked at victory.No more would they torture at the stake. For them the happy hunting-grounds was now. They knew it;but as their father’s sons they acquitted themselves.Even then they had time to gather in a phalanx that would have been hard to break had they risen quickly,but this they were forbidden to do by the traditions of their race.It is written that the noble savage must never express surprise in the presence of the white.Thus terrible as the sudden appearance of the pirates must have been to them,they remained stationary for a moment, not a muscle moving; as if the foe had come by invitation.Then, indeed, the tradition gallantly upheld, they seized their weapons,and the air was torn with the war-cry; but it was now too late.
It is no part of ours to describe what was a massacre rather than a fight.Thus perished many of the flower of the Piccaninny tribe. Not all unavenged did they die,for with Lean Wolf fell Alf Mason, to disturb the Spanish Main no more,and among others who bit the dust were Geo. Scourie, Chas. Turley, and the Alsatian Foggerty.Turley fell to the tomahawk of the terrible Panther,who ultimately cut a way through the pirates with Tiger Lily and a small remnant of the tribe.
To what extent Hook is to blame for his tactics on this occasion is for the historian to decide.Had he waited on the rising ground till the proper hour he and his men would probably have been butchered;and in judging him it is only fair to take this into account.What he should perhaps have done was to acquaint his opponents that he proposed to follow a new method.On the other hand, this, as destroying the element of surprise,would have made his strategy of no avail, so that the whole question is beset with difficulties.One cannot at least withhold a reluctant admiration for the wit that had conceived so bold a scheme,and the fell genius with which it was carried out.
What were his own feelings about himself at that triumphant moment?Fain would his dogs have known, as breathing heavily and wiping their cutlasses,they gathered at a discreet distance from his hook,and squinted through their ferret eyes at this extraordinary man.Elation must have been in his heart, but his face did not reflect it:ever a dark and solitary enigma, he stood aloof from his followers in spirit as in substance.
The night’s work was not yet over, for it was not the redskins he had come out to destroy;they were but the bees to be smoked, so that he should get at the honey. It was Pan he wanted,Pan and Wendy and their band, but chiefly Pan.
Peter was such a small boy that one tends to wonder at the man’s hatred of him.True he had flung Hook’s arm to the crocodile,but even this and the increased insecurity of life to which it led,owing to the crocodile’s pertinacity, hardly account for a vindictiveness so relentless and malignant.The truth is that there was a something about Peter which goaded the pirate captain to frenzy.It was not his courage, it was not his engaging appearance, it was not—.There is no beating about the bush, for we know quite well what it was, and have got to tell. It was Peter’s cockiness.
This had got on Hook’s nerves; it made his iron claw twitch,and at night it disturbed him like an insect. While Peter lived,the tortured man felt that he was a lion in a cage into which a sparrow had come.
The question now was how to get down the trees, or how to get his dogs down?He ran his greedy eyes over them, searching for the thinnest ones. They wriggled uncomfortably,for they knew he would not scruple to ram them down with poles.
In the meantime, what of the boys?We have seen them at the first clang of the weapons, turned as it were into stone figures,open-mouthed, all appealing with outstretched arms to Peter;and we return to them as their mouths close, and their arms fall to their sides.The pandemonium above has ceased almost as suddenly as it arose, passed like a fierce gust of wind;but they know that in the passing it has determined their fate.
Which side had won?
The pirates, listening avidly at the mouths of the trees, heard the question put by every boy,and alas, they also heard Peter’s answer.
“If the redskins have won,” he said, “they will beat the tom-tom; it is always their sign of victory.”
Now Smee had found the tom-tom, and was at that moment sitting on it.“You will never hear the tom-tom again,” he muttered, but inaudibly of course,for strict silence had been enjoined. To his amazement Hook signed him to beat the tom-tom,and slowly there came to Smee an understanding of the dreadful wickedness of the order. Never,probably, had this simple man admired Hook so much.
Twice Smee beat upon the instrument, and then stopped to listen gleefully.
“The tom-tom,” the miscreants heard Peter cry; “an Indian victory!”
The doomed children answered with a cheer that was music to the black hearts above,and almost immediately they repeated their good-byes to Peter. This puzzled the pirates,but all their other feelings were swallowed by a base delight that the enemy were about to come up the trees.They smirked at each other and rubbed their hands. Rapidly and silently Hook gave his orders:one man to each tree, and the others to arrange themselves in a line two yards apart.
Chapter XIII. DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES?
The more quickly this horror is disposed of the better. The first to emerge from his tree was Curly.He rose out of it into the arms of Cecco, who flung him to Smee, who flung him to Starkey,who flung him to Bill Jukes, who flung him to Noodler,and so he was tossed from one to another till he fell at the feet of the black pirate.All the boys were plucked from their trees in this ruthless manner;and several of them were in the air at a time, like bales of goods flung from hand to hand.
A different treatment was accorded to Wendy, who came last.With ironical politeness Hook raised his hat to her, and, offering her his arm,escorted her to the spot where the others were being gagged. He did it with such an air,he was so frightfully _distingué_, that she was too fascinated to cry out. She was only a little girl.
Perhaps it is tell-tale to divulge that for a moment Hook entranced her,and we tell on her only because her slip led to strange results.Had she haughtily unhanded him (and we should have loved to write it of her),she would have been hurled through the air like the others,and then Hook would probably not have been present at the tying of the children;and had he not been at the tying he would not have discovered Slightly’s secret,and without the secret he could not presently have made his foul attempt on Peter’s life.
They were tied to prevent their flying away, doubled up with their knees close to their ears;and for the trussing of them the black pirate had cut a rope into nine equal pieces.All went well until Slightly’s turn came,when he was found to be like those irritating parcels that use up all the string in going round and leave no tags with which to tie a knot.The pirates kicked him in their rage, just as you kick the parcel (though in fairness you should kick the string);and strange to say it was Hook who told them to belay their violence.His lip was curled with malicious triumph.While his dogs were merely sweating because every time they tried to pack the unhappy lad tight in one part he bulged out in another,Hook’s master mind had gone far beneath Slightly’s surface, probing not for effects but for causes;and his exultation showed that he had found them. Slightly, white to the gills,knew that Hook had surprised his secret, which was this,that no boy so blown out could use a tree wherein an average man need stick. Poor Slightly,most wretched of all the children now, for he was in a panic about Peter,bitterly regretted what he had done. Madly addicted to the drinking of water when he was hot,he had swelled in consequence to his present girth,and instead of reducing himself to fit his tree he had, unknown to the others, whittled his tree to make it fit him.
Sufficient of this Hook guessed to persuade him that Peter at last lay at his mercy,but no word of the dark design that now formed in the subterranean caverns of his mind crossed his lips;he merely signed that the captives were to be conveyed to the ship, and that he would be alone.