Chapter Five.
Adrift on the Wide Ocean.
For some time after the disappearance of the ship, the men in the boats continued to gaze, in a species of unbelief, at the place where she had gone down. They evidently felt it difficult to realise the truth of what they had seen. The suddenness of the change and the extreme danger of their position might have shaken the stoutest hearts, for the sea still ran high and none of the boats were fitted to live in rough weather. They were, as far as could be judged, many hundreds of miles from land, and, to add to the horror of their circumstances, night was coming on.
“My lads,” said Captain Dall, sitting down in the stern of his boat, and grasping the tiller, “it has pleased the Almighty to sink our ship and to spare our lives. Let us be thankful that we didn’t go to the bottom along with her. To the best of my knowledge we’re a long way from land, and all of us will have to take in a reef in our appetites for some time to come. I have taken care to have a good supply of salt junk, biscuit, water, and lime-juice put aboard, so that if the weather don’t turn out uncommon bad, we may manage, with God’s blessing, to make the land. In circumstances of this kind, men’s endurance is sometimes tried pretty sharply, and men in distress are occasionally driven to forgetting their duty to their comrades. I tell you beforehand, lads, that I will do all that in me lies to steer you to the nearest port, and to make your lot as comfortable as may be in an open boat; but if any of you should take a fancy to having his own way, I’ve brought with me a little leaden pill-box (here the captain drew aside the breast of his coat and exposed the handle of a revolver) which will tend to keep up discipline and prevent discord. Now, lads, ship your oars and hoist the foresail close-reefed, and look alive, for it seems to me that we’ll have a squally night.”
The effect of this speech was very striking. There is nothing that men dislike so much, in critical circumstances, where action is necessary, as uncertainty or want of decision on the part of their leader. The loss of their ship, and their forlorn, almost desperate condition, had sunk their spirits so much that an air of apathetic recklessness had, for a few minutes, crossed the countenances of some of the boldest among the sailors; but while the captain was speaking this expression passed away, and when he had finished they all gave one hearty cheer, and obeyed his orders with alacrity.
In a few minutes the sails, closely reefed, were hoisted, and the long-boat rushed swiftly over the waves. At first the four boats kept company—the other three having also made sail—but as darkness set in they lost sight of each other. The first mate had charge of the jolly-boat, and the second mate and carpenter had the two others. In the captain’s boat were Will Osten, Larry O’Hale, Goff, Muggins, and several of the best seamen.
Soon after the sails were set, a heavy sea broke inboard and nearly filled the boat.
“Bail her out, lads,” shouted the captain.
There was no occasion for the order, the men knew their danger well enough, and every one seized anything that came to hand and began to bail for life. There was only one bucket on board, and this was appropriated by the cook, who, being one of the strongest men in the boat, thought himself entitled to the post of honour, and, truly, the way in which Larry handled that bucket and showered the water over the side justified his opinion of himself.
“We must rig up something to prevent that happening again,” said Captain Dall; “set to work, Goff, and cut a slice out of the tarpaulin, and nail it over the bows.”
This was done without delay, and in less than an hour a sort of half-deck was made, which turned off the spray and rendered the task of bailing much lighter—a matter of considerable importance, for, in such a sea, there was no possibility of an open boat remaining afloat without constant bailing.
At first the men talked a good deal in comparatively cheerful tones while they worked, and the irrepressible Larry O’Hale even ventured to cut one or two jokes; but when night began to cover the deep with thick darkness, one after another dropped out of the conversation, and at last all were perfectly silent, except when it became necessary to give an order or answer a question, and nothing was heard save the whistling of the wind and the gurgling of the waves as they rushed past, their white crests curling over the edge of the boat as if greedy to swallow her, and gleaming like lambent fire all around.
“This is a terrible situation,” said Will Osten, in a low tone, with an involuntary shudder. “Do you think there is much chance of our surviving, captain?”
“That’s not an easy question to answer, doctor,” replied Captain Dall, in a tone so hearty that our hero was much cheered by it. “You see, there is much in our favour as well as much against us. In the first place, this is the Pacific, and according to its name we have a right to expect more fine weather than bad, especially at this time of the year. Then we have the trade winds to help us, and our boat is a good one, with at least two weeks’ provisions aboard. But then, on the other hand, we’re a terrible long way off land, and we must count upon a gale now and then, which an open boat, however good, is not calc’lated to weather easily. See that now,” added the captain, looking back over the stern, where, from out of the darkness, Osten could just see a huge wave, like a black mountain with a snowy top, rolling towards them. “If we were only a little more down in the stern, that fellow would drop on board of us and send us to the bottom in half a minute.”
Will felt that, although the captain’s tones were reassuring, his words were startling. He was ill at ease, and clutched the seat when the billow rolled under them, raising the stern of the boat so high that it seemed as if about to be thrown completely over, but the wave passed on, and they fell back into the trough of the sea.
“Musha! but that was a wathery mountain no less,” exclaimed Larry.
“You’ve heard of Captain Bligh, Larry, I suppose?” said the captain, in a loud voice, with the intention of letting the men hear his remarks.
“May be I have,” replied Larry with caution, “but if so I misremimber.”
“He was the captain of the Bounty, whose crew mutinied and turned him adrift in an open boat in the middle of the Pacific. What I was goin’ to tell ye was, that his circumstances were a trifle worse than ours, for he was full four thousand miles from the nearest land, and with short allowance of provisions on board.”
“An’ did he make out the voyage, sur?” asked Larry.
“He did, and did it nobly too, in the face of great trouble and danger, but it’s too long a yarn to spin just now; some day when the weather’s fine I’ll spin it to ’ee. He weathered some heavy gales, too, and what one man has done another man may do; so we’ve no reason to get down-hearted, for we’re nearer land than he was, and better off in every way. I wish I could say as much for the other boats.”
The captain’s voice dropped a little in spite of himself as he concluded, for, despite the strength and buoyancy of his spirit, he could not help feeling deep anxiety as to the fate of his companions in misfortune.
Thus, talking at intervals in hopeful tones, and relapsing into long periods of silence, they spent that stormy night without refreshment and without rest. The minutes seemed to float on leaden wings, and the weary watchers experienced in its highest degree that dreary feeling—so common in the sick room—that “morning would never come.”
But morning came at length—a faint glimmer on the eastern horizon. It was hailed by Larry with a deep sigh, and the earnest exclamation—
“Ah, then, there’s the blessed sun at last, good luck to it!”
Gradually the glimmer increased into grey dawn, then a warm tint brightened up the sky, and golden clouds appeared. At last the glorious sun arose in all its splendour, sending rays of warmth to the exhausted frames of the seamen and hope to their hearts. They much needed both, for want of sleep, anxiety, and cold, had already stamped a haggard look of suffering on their faces. As the morning advanced, however, this passed away, and by degrees they began to cheer up and bestir themselves,—spreading out their clothes to dry, and scanning the horizon at intervals in search of the other boats.
About eight o’clock, as nearly as he could guess, the captain said—
“Now, lads, let’s have breakfast; get out the bread-can. Come, Larry, look alive! You’ve no cooking to do this morning, but I doubt not that your teeth are as sharp and your twist as strong as ever.”
“Stronger than iver, sur, av ye plaze.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, for you’ll have to go on short allowance, I fear.”
“Ochone!” groaned the cook.
“Never mind, Larry,” said Will Osten, assisting to spread the sea-biscuit and salt junk on one of the thwarts; “there’s a good time coming.”
“Sure, so’s Christmas, doctor, but it’s a long way off,” said Larry.
“Fetch me the scales; now then, doctor, hold ’em,” said the captain, carefully weighing out a portion of biscuit and meat which he handed to one of the men. This process was continued until all had been supplied, after which a small quantity of water and lime-juice was also measured out to each.
The breakfast was meagre, but it was much needed, and as the sea had gone down during the night and the morning was beautiful, it was eaten not only in comfort, but with some degree of cheerfulness. While they were thus engaged, Goff looked up and exclaimed suddenly, “Hallo! look here, boys!”
Every one started up and gazed in the direction indicated, where they saw something black floating on the water. The captain, who had taken the precaution before leaving the ship to sling his telescope over his shoulder, applied it to his eye, and in a few seconds exclaimed, “It’s the jolly-boat capsized! Out with the oars, boys—be smart! There’s some of ’em clinging to the keel.”
It need scarcely be said that the men seized the oars and plied them with all their might. Under the influence of these and the sail together they soon drew near, and then it was distinctly seen that three men were clinging to the boat—it followed, of course, that all the rest must have been drowned. Silently and swiftly they pulled alongside, and in a few minutes had rescued Mr Cupples and the steward and one of the sailors, all of whom were so much exhausted that they could not speak for some time after being taken on board. When they could tell what had happened, their tale was brief and sad. They had kept in sight of the long-boat while light enabled them to do so. After that they had run before the gale, until a heavy sea capsized them, from which time they could remember nothing, except that they had managed to get on the bottom of the upturned boat, to which they had clung for many hours in a state of partial insensibility.