Chapter Fifty Nine.An awful alternative it was, and for a long while the ill-starred victims seemed to linger in their choice. Hard choice between two horrid forms of death! Little did it matter which, and the knowledge of this rendered them indifferent whether to spring forth or stand still. Death was before them as well as behind—turn which way they might, death stared them in the face—soon and certain—and on every side they saw its threatening arm—before, behind, above, and around them. The utter hopelessness of escape had numbed their energies—they were paralysed by despair.But even in the hour of the most hopeless despair there arrives a crisis when men will still struggle for life—it is the last struggle—the final conflict as it were, with death itself. No one yields up life without this effort, though it be ever so idle. The drowning man does not voluntarily permit himself to sink below the surface. He still strives to keep afloat, though he may not have the slightest hope of being rescued. The effort is partly involuntary—it is the body that still continues to battle for life, after the mind has resigned all hope—the last stand that existence makes against annihilation. It may be a purely mechanical effort—perhaps it is so—but who ever saw a strong man compelled to part suddenly with life, that did not make such a struggle? Even the condemned criminal upon the gallows continues to strive till the breath has parted from his body. Something like this last despairing effort aroused the energies of that hesitating crowd that clustered upon the burning barque. The crisis at length came.The flames were fast rushing forward, and spreading over all the deck. Their red jets, spurting out beyond the selvage of smoke, began to touch the bodies of their victims, and pain them with the fierce sting of fire. It produced no augmentation in their cries of agony. These had long since reached the climax, and the voices of those who uttered them had been already raised to their highest pitch. But the close proximity of the flames, and the absolute certainty of being now destroyed by them, caused a general movement throughout the living mass; and, as if actuated by an universal impulse, or guided by one common instinct, all were seen making a sudden descent upon the water.Those who had been hitherto standing along the side were not the first to leap. It was they who were farther back, and of course nearer to the flames, who first took to the water; and these, rushing over the bulwarks—and even stepping upon the shoulders of those who were clustered there—without further hesitation flung themselves headlong into the sea. But the impulse seemed to communicate itself to the others, and almost instantaneously—as if some one had proclaimed a way to safety and was leading them on to it—the whole crowd followed the foremost and went plunging into the water. In a few seconds not an individual could be seen—of all that dark swarm that had so lately crowded the fore-part of the vessel, not one was now visible on board. Simultaneously had they deserted the burning wreck!A wild scene was now presented in the water. The whole surface was thick with human forms, plunging and struggling together. Some were evidently unable to swim, and, with their bodies half erect, were tossing their arms about in vain efforts to keep above the surface. Here and there several clung together, until two or three—or in some instances larger groups—dragged one another below, and sank to the bottom together. Strong swimmers were observed separating from the rest, and forging out into the open water. Of these the heads only could be seen, and rapidly closing upon them the dark vertical fin that told the presence of the pursuing shark.Then could be heard the wild, despairing cry—then could be seen the quick rush of the monster upon his prey—the water lashed by his tail—the foam thrown up, already tinged with the blood of the victim—and, after that, the surface returning to its level—the eddies and red frothing bubbles alone marking for a few moments the scene of each tragical crisis.Oh! it was an awful spectacle to look upon—this wholesale ravening of sharks—and even those who were upon the raft, with all their inhumanity and heartless cruelty of disposition could not behold it without emotion.It was scarce an emotion of pity, however. Perhaps of all, Brace and I were the only ones who felt pity. Some were indifferent, but the majority of them—although a little awed by the tragical scene—were actually glad at beholding it! It may be wrong of me to say they were glad—what I mean is, that they felt a secret satisfaction at what was going on—springing not from pure wanton cruelty of heart, but rather from an instinct of self-preservation. Hitherto, these men had been in great dread of the blacks overtaking the raft—they were not yet free from the fear—and, of course, with this in their minds, they regarded with satisfaction the wholesale ravage that the sharks were committing. By this their own danger was every moment diminished—hence it is that they were gratified at the hideous spectacle.But numerous as were the sharks, there were not enough of them to make total destruction of that vast crowd of human beings. After the first general attack the ravenous brutes appeared to become scarcer and scarcer, until but one here and one there, could be seen rushing upon their prey. The greater number, having already secured a victim, were satisfied and perhaps had gone down to their haunts in the darker deep—while hundreds of human heads were still observable above the surface of the water.The flames, still flaring brilliantly, illumined the sea as if the day was shining upon it; and it could be observed that the faces of the survivors were all turned in the direction of the raft, towards which they were swimming with all their strength.Once more the sailors became inspired with apprehension—once more they dreaded that their last hour was come, and that they themselves might soon be struggling among the sharks.
An awful alternative it was, and for a long while the ill-starred victims seemed to linger in their choice. Hard choice between two horrid forms of death! Little did it matter which, and the knowledge of this rendered them indifferent whether to spring forth or stand still. Death was before them as well as behind—turn which way they might, death stared them in the face—soon and certain—and on every side they saw its threatening arm—before, behind, above, and around them. The utter hopelessness of escape had numbed their energies—they were paralysed by despair.
But even in the hour of the most hopeless despair there arrives a crisis when men will still struggle for life—it is the last struggle—the final conflict as it were, with death itself. No one yields up life without this effort, though it be ever so idle. The drowning man does not voluntarily permit himself to sink below the surface. He still strives to keep afloat, though he may not have the slightest hope of being rescued. The effort is partly involuntary—it is the body that still continues to battle for life, after the mind has resigned all hope—the last stand that existence makes against annihilation. It may be a purely mechanical effort—perhaps it is so—but who ever saw a strong man compelled to part suddenly with life, that did not make such a struggle? Even the condemned criminal upon the gallows continues to strive till the breath has parted from his body. Something like this last despairing effort aroused the energies of that hesitating crowd that clustered upon the burning barque. The crisis at length came.
The flames were fast rushing forward, and spreading over all the deck. Their red jets, spurting out beyond the selvage of smoke, began to touch the bodies of their victims, and pain them with the fierce sting of fire. It produced no augmentation in their cries of agony. These had long since reached the climax, and the voices of those who uttered them had been already raised to their highest pitch. But the close proximity of the flames, and the absolute certainty of being now destroyed by them, caused a general movement throughout the living mass; and, as if actuated by an universal impulse, or guided by one common instinct, all were seen making a sudden descent upon the water.
Those who had been hitherto standing along the side were not the first to leap. It was they who were farther back, and of course nearer to the flames, who first took to the water; and these, rushing over the bulwarks—and even stepping upon the shoulders of those who were clustered there—without further hesitation flung themselves headlong into the sea. But the impulse seemed to communicate itself to the others, and almost instantaneously—as if some one had proclaimed a way to safety and was leading them on to it—the whole crowd followed the foremost and went plunging into the water. In a few seconds not an individual could be seen—of all that dark swarm that had so lately crowded the fore-part of the vessel, not one was now visible on board. Simultaneously had they deserted the burning wreck!
A wild scene was now presented in the water. The whole surface was thick with human forms, plunging and struggling together. Some were evidently unable to swim, and, with their bodies half erect, were tossing their arms about in vain efforts to keep above the surface. Here and there several clung together, until two or three—or in some instances larger groups—dragged one another below, and sank to the bottom together. Strong swimmers were observed separating from the rest, and forging out into the open water. Of these the heads only could be seen, and rapidly closing upon them the dark vertical fin that told the presence of the pursuing shark.
Then could be heard the wild, despairing cry—then could be seen the quick rush of the monster upon his prey—the water lashed by his tail—the foam thrown up, already tinged with the blood of the victim—and, after that, the surface returning to its level—the eddies and red frothing bubbles alone marking for a few moments the scene of each tragical crisis.
Oh! it was an awful spectacle to look upon—this wholesale ravening of sharks—and even those who were upon the raft, with all their inhumanity and heartless cruelty of disposition could not behold it without emotion.
It was scarce an emotion of pity, however. Perhaps of all, Brace and I were the only ones who felt pity. Some were indifferent, but the majority of them—although a little awed by the tragical scene—were actually glad at beholding it! It may be wrong of me to say they were glad—what I mean is, that they felt a secret satisfaction at what was going on—springing not from pure wanton cruelty of heart, but rather from an instinct of self-preservation. Hitherto, these men had been in great dread of the blacks overtaking the raft—they were not yet free from the fear—and, of course, with this in their minds, they regarded with satisfaction the wholesale ravage that the sharks were committing. By this their own danger was every moment diminished—hence it is that they were gratified at the hideous spectacle.
But numerous as were the sharks, there were not enough of them to make total destruction of that vast crowd of human beings. After the first general attack the ravenous brutes appeared to become scarcer and scarcer, until but one here and one there, could be seen rushing upon their prey. The greater number, having already secured a victim, were satisfied and perhaps had gone down to their haunts in the darker deep—while hundreds of human heads were still observable above the surface of the water.
The flames, still flaring brilliantly, illumined the sea as if the day was shining upon it; and it could be observed that the faces of the survivors were all turned in the direction of the raft, towards which they were swimming with all their strength.
Once more the sailors became inspired with apprehension—once more they dreaded that their last hour was come, and that they themselves might soon be struggling among the sharks.
Chapter Sixty.There was much shouting among the white men and many wild exclamations, but no time was lost in idle talk—for every one was doing his best to propel the raft. The shouts were only an accompaniment to their actions. Nearly every one wielded some implement, which had been grappled in the hurry of the moment. Some were provided with oars, others had only handspikes, and still others assisted in paddling with pieces of board that had been obtained from old coops, or the bulwarks broken by the falling mast. Those who could find nothing better stretched themselves along the edge of the raft and beat the water with their hands, in order to aid in producing a forward motion.But the great masses of timber—not yet firmly lashed together—lay loose and loggish upon the water, and moved very slowly and irregularly under such ill-assorted propulsion: and, notwithstanding that the raft had obtained a hundred yards the start of the swimmers, its occupants began seriously to dread being overtaken.They had reason to fear it. There could be no doubt that the pursuers were gaining upon us, and this soon became evident to all upon the raft. Nay, more, they were gaining rapidly; and, at the rate at which they were swimming, five minutes could not pass before they would overtake us.Those upon the raft were now quite conscious that such would be the event. Paddle and beat the water as they might they could not propel the heavy timbers beyond a certain rate of speed—not so fast as a man could swim. Notwithstanding their exertions, and the advantage of their long start, they saw they were going to be overtaken.It could not be otherwise—there was nothing now to obstruct the pursuit—nothing to stay the pursuers. The sharks, having sated their appetites, had let most of the swimmers escape. Occasionally one was seen to go down with a shriek, but this was the exception—the rest swam freely on.What was their motive in following us? was it vengeance, or a despairing hope of being saved? Perhaps both,—but no matter which, there were enough of them to overpower the white men by sheer strength; and, once they succeeded in reaching us, it was not likely they would fail to avenge themselves for the wrongs that had been put upon them.Should they succeed in overtaking the raft they would easily climb upon it; a few might be kept back, but it would be impossible for thirty men to repulse hundreds; and the crowd would soon crawl over the edge, and, with their additional weight, sink the frail structure to the bottom of the sea.Should they succeed in reaching the raft—there was no need of any supposition—they would be certain to overtake it—even at that moment there were some of them scarce ten yards off, and coming nearer at every fresh stroke of their arms. These, however, were the strongest swimmers, who were far ahead of the rest. The main body were still twenty yards further off; but it was plain that the slowest of them swam faster than the raft was moving.Most of the sailors began to give way to despair. The wicked deeds of an ill-spent life were rising before them. To all appearance their last hour had come.And mine, too—at least, so believed I at that moment.It was hard to die thus—by such horrid means, and in such company. Sound in health, the love of life was strong within me; and under this impulse I almost repented what I had done. It was I who had brought about this last terrible contingency, and my own life was now to be the forfeit. Yes; I had acted imprudently, rashly, and I will not deny that at that moment I came near repenting of what I had done.It was not a time for reflection. The crisis had arrived. We must all yield up life. The sea would soon receive us within its ample embrace. Masters and slaves, tyrants and their victims, must all perish together!Such were the thoughts that were rushing through my brain, as I saw the black swimmers approach. I no longer felt sympathy or pity for them. On the contrary, I viewed them as enemies—as dreaded monsters who were about to destroy and devour us—to engulph us all in one common destruction, and among the rest myself—their late benefactor. Really, at that moment, in the confusion of my thoughts, I was regarding these unfortunate creatures as though they were voluntary agents—as though they were actuated by gratuitous cruelty and revenge, and not victims of despair struggling for the preservation of their own lives.My senses had become confused; my reasoning faculties had forsaken me; and, in common with those around me, I regarded the pursuers as enemies!Under this impression—false though it may have been—I was the less disposed to sympathise with them, when I saw the first who came near the raft beaten back by the oars and handspikes of the sailors; for to this it had now come.It was a cruel scene that followed. I took no part in it. Though ever so desirous that my life should be saved, I could never have gone to such extremes to preserve it. I was but a looker-on.I saw the foremost swimmers struck upon the head, or pushed away by violent “jabbing” from the oars and handspikes. I saw some disappear below the surface, as if they had gone to the bottom under the blow, while others, not injured, swam off, and then circled round as if to get ahead of us.Though the fierce, angry shouts, and the still fiercer actions of the white men intimidated the foremost swimmers, these demonstrations did not drive them away. They only kept out of reach of the oars and handspikes, but still followed on. Indeed, they no longer followed; for the raft was no longer in motion; the rowers had enough to do without propelling it further, and it had now come to a stand still!
There was much shouting among the white men and many wild exclamations, but no time was lost in idle talk—for every one was doing his best to propel the raft. The shouts were only an accompaniment to their actions. Nearly every one wielded some implement, which had been grappled in the hurry of the moment. Some were provided with oars, others had only handspikes, and still others assisted in paddling with pieces of board that had been obtained from old coops, or the bulwarks broken by the falling mast. Those who could find nothing better stretched themselves along the edge of the raft and beat the water with their hands, in order to aid in producing a forward motion.
But the great masses of timber—not yet firmly lashed together—lay loose and loggish upon the water, and moved very slowly and irregularly under such ill-assorted propulsion: and, notwithstanding that the raft had obtained a hundred yards the start of the swimmers, its occupants began seriously to dread being overtaken.
They had reason to fear it. There could be no doubt that the pursuers were gaining upon us, and this soon became evident to all upon the raft. Nay, more, they were gaining rapidly; and, at the rate at which they were swimming, five minutes could not pass before they would overtake us.
Those upon the raft were now quite conscious that such would be the event. Paddle and beat the water as they might they could not propel the heavy timbers beyond a certain rate of speed—not so fast as a man could swim. Notwithstanding their exertions, and the advantage of their long start, they saw they were going to be overtaken.
It could not be otherwise—there was nothing now to obstruct the pursuit—nothing to stay the pursuers. The sharks, having sated their appetites, had let most of the swimmers escape. Occasionally one was seen to go down with a shriek, but this was the exception—the rest swam freely on.
What was their motive in following us? was it vengeance, or a despairing hope of being saved? Perhaps both,—but no matter which, there were enough of them to overpower the white men by sheer strength; and, once they succeeded in reaching us, it was not likely they would fail to avenge themselves for the wrongs that had been put upon them.
Should they succeed in overtaking the raft they would easily climb upon it; a few might be kept back, but it would be impossible for thirty men to repulse hundreds; and the crowd would soon crawl over the edge, and, with their additional weight, sink the frail structure to the bottom of the sea.
Should they succeed in reaching the raft—there was no need of any supposition—they would be certain to overtake it—even at that moment there were some of them scarce ten yards off, and coming nearer at every fresh stroke of their arms. These, however, were the strongest swimmers, who were far ahead of the rest. The main body were still twenty yards further off; but it was plain that the slowest of them swam faster than the raft was moving.
Most of the sailors began to give way to despair. The wicked deeds of an ill-spent life were rising before them. To all appearance their last hour had come.
And mine, too—at least, so believed I at that moment.
It was hard to die thus—by such horrid means, and in such company. Sound in health, the love of life was strong within me; and under this impulse I almost repented what I had done. It was I who had brought about this last terrible contingency, and my own life was now to be the forfeit. Yes; I had acted imprudently, rashly, and I will not deny that at that moment I came near repenting of what I had done.
It was not a time for reflection. The crisis had arrived. We must all yield up life. The sea would soon receive us within its ample embrace. Masters and slaves, tyrants and their victims, must all perish together!
Such were the thoughts that were rushing through my brain, as I saw the black swimmers approach. I no longer felt sympathy or pity for them. On the contrary, I viewed them as enemies—as dreaded monsters who were about to destroy and devour us—to engulph us all in one common destruction, and among the rest myself—their late benefactor. Really, at that moment, in the confusion of my thoughts, I was regarding these unfortunate creatures as though they were voluntary agents—as though they were actuated by gratuitous cruelty and revenge, and not victims of despair struggling for the preservation of their own lives.
My senses had become confused; my reasoning faculties had forsaken me; and, in common with those around me, I regarded the pursuers as enemies!
Under this impression—false though it may have been—I was the less disposed to sympathise with them, when I saw the first who came near the raft beaten back by the oars and handspikes of the sailors; for to this it had now come.
It was a cruel scene that followed. I took no part in it. Though ever so desirous that my life should be saved, I could never have gone to such extremes to preserve it. I was but a looker-on.
I saw the foremost swimmers struck upon the head, or pushed away by violent “jabbing” from the oars and handspikes. I saw some disappear below the surface, as if they had gone to the bottom under the blow, while others, not injured, swam off, and then circled round as if to get ahead of us.
Though the fierce, angry shouts, and the still fiercer actions of the white men intimidated the foremost swimmers, these demonstrations did not drive them away. They only kept out of reach of the oars and handspikes, but still followed on. Indeed, they no longer followed; for the raft was no longer in motion; the rowers had enough to do without propelling it further, and it had now come to a stand still!
Chapter Sixty One.It soon became evident that the foremost swimmers, who had been for the moment repulsed, had no intention of turning back. Why should they? Behind them they had left no hope—not a plank to cling to—only a ship on fire blazing upward to the skies and now almost hid under the flames. Even she, before they could reach her, would be burned down to the water’s edge. Why should they think of swimming back? No; the raft was the only thing upon the whole face of that wide sea upon which human foot might now find a resting-place. Though it would be but a straw among so many, at that straw had they determined to clutch, so long as life remained.They had no design of leaving us, but now swam round and round the floating spars, evidently waiting until their main body could come up, so that all might rush forward together and get possession of the raft.This was plainly their intention: and, knowing it, the white men were fast yielding to despair.Not all of them. There were some of those rough men who still preserved their presence of mind; and in that perilous hour, when all hope appeared to have vanished, these men suddenly hit upon a plan to save the raft, and the lives of those upon it, from the apparently inevitable fate that threatened them.I was, myself, in a state of half-stupor. I had watched the movements of the poor wretches in the water till my head grew giddy, and I scarce knew what was going on around me. My face was turned towards the blazing ship, and I had not for a long while looked elsewhere. I heard the sailors ejaculating loudly, and shouting words of encouragement; but I supposed they were encouraging each other to repel the attack of the swimmers, who were now on all sides of the raft, forming a sort of irregular ring around it, of several feet in depth. I was expecting that we would soon be sinking into the sea! I was stupefied, and I thought I was dreaming.All of a sudden I was aroused from my stupor by hearing a loud huzza. It came from the sailors behind me. I could not tell its meaning till I turned round, and then, to my surprise, I saw a piece of sail spread out transversely across the raft, and held by several men in a vertical position. There was one at each end and one in the middle, who, with their arms extended upward, held the sail as high as they could reach.For what purpose were they doing this? I needed not ask the question. I saw that there was wind blowing against the canvas. I felt the breeze upon my cheeks.I looked back to the water. I saw that the raft was moving rapidly through it. There was a rushing along the edge of the timbers—there was froth where the spars were cleaving the sea. I looked for the swimmers. I saw their round heads and grim faces, but no longer around the raft—they were already in its wake, every moment falling further away. Merciful heaven! at least from that terrible fate were we saved.I kept gazing behind. I still saw the dark heads above the water. I could no longer distinguish their faces. I thought they had turned them away. I thought they were swimming back toward the blazing barque.They may have turned back, but with what hope? They could have had none; though despair may have driven them in that direction as well as any other.It was a sad beacon to guide them; nor did it serve them long. They could not have got near it—not half-way—before that event, so dreaded by Brace and myself, came to pass. The crisis had at length arrived.Wherever the powder had been kept, it was long before the fire had reached it—far longer than we had expected; but the searching flames found it at last, and the concussion came.It was a terrific explosion, that resembled not the report of a cannon, but a hundred guns simultaneously fired. Bed masses were projected far up into the heavens, and still farther out to the sea, hurtling and hissing as they fell back into the water. A cloud of fiery sparks hung for some minutes over the spot; but these at length came quivering down, and, as soon as they reached the surface, were observed no more. These sparks were the last that was seen of thePandora.The crew at this moment were awed into silence. There was silence far over the sea; yet for nearly another hour that silence was at intervals broken by the death-shriek of some exhausted swimmer or some victim of the ravening shark.The breeze still continued to blow, the raft moved on, and long before morning thePandora’screw were carried far away from the scene of the terrible tragedy.
It soon became evident that the foremost swimmers, who had been for the moment repulsed, had no intention of turning back. Why should they? Behind them they had left no hope—not a plank to cling to—only a ship on fire blazing upward to the skies and now almost hid under the flames. Even she, before they could reach her, would be burned down to the water’s edge. Why should they think of swimming back? No; the raft was the only thing upon the whole face of that wide sea upon which human foot might now find a resting-place. Though it would be but a straw among so many, at that straw had they determined to clutch, so long as life remained.
They had no design of leaving us, but now swam round and round the floating spars, evidently waiting until their main body could come up, so that all might rush forward together and get possession of the raft.
This was plainly their intention: and, knowing it, the white men were fast yielding to despair.
Not all of them. There were some of those rough men who still preserved their presence of mind; and in that perilous hour, when all hope appeared to have vanished, these men suddenly hit upon a plan to save the raft, and the lives of those upon it, from the apparently inevitable fate that threatened them.
I was, myself, in a state of half-stupor. I had watched the movements of the poor wretches in the water till my head grew giddy, and I scarce knew what was going on around me. My face was turned towards the blazing ship, and I had not for a long while looked elsewhere. I heard the sailors ejaculating loudly, and shouting words of encouragement; but I supposed they were encouraging each other to repel the attack of the swimmers, who were now on all sides of the raft, forming a sort of irregular ring around it, of several feet in depth. I was expecting that we would soon be sinking into the sea! I was stupefied, and I thought I was dreaming.
All of a sudden I was aroused from my stupor by hearing a loud huzza. It came from the sailors behind me. I could not tell its meaning till I turned round, and then, to my surprise, I saw a piece of sail spread out transversely across the raft, and held by several men in a vertical position. There was one at each end and one in the middle, who, with their arms extended upward, held the sail as high as they could reach.
For what purpose were they doing this? I needed not ask the question. I saw that there was wind blowing against the canvas. I felt the breeze upon my cheeks.
I looked back to the water. I saw that the raft was moving rapidly through it. There was a rushing along the edge of the timbers—there was froth where the spars were cleaving the sea. I looked for the swimmers. I saw their round heads and grim faces, but no longer around the raft—they were already in its wake, every moment falling further away. Merciful heaven! at least from that terrible fate were we saved.
I kept gazing behind. I still saw the dark heads above the water. I could no longer distinguish their faces. I thought they had turned them away. I thought they were swimming back toward the blazing barque.
They may have turned back, but with what hope? They could have had none; though despair may have driven them in that direction as well as any other.
It was a sad beacon to guide them; nor did it serve them long. They could not have got near it—not half-way—before that event, so dreaded by Brace and myself, came to pass. The crisis had at length arrived.
Wherever the powder had been kept, it was long before the fire had reached it—far longer than we had expected; but the searching flames found it at last, and the concussion came.
It was a terrific explosion, that resembled not the report of a cannon, but a hundred guns simultaneously fired. Bed masses were projected far up into the heavens, and still farther out to the sea, hurtling and hissing as they fell back into the water. A cloud of fiery sparks hung for some minutes over the spot; but these at length came quivering down, and, as soon as they reached the surface, were observed no more. These sparks were the last that was seen of thePandora.
The crew at this moment were awed into silence. There was silence far over the sea; yet for nearly another hour that silence was at intervals broken by the death-shriek of some exhausted swimmer or some victim of the ravening shark.
The breeze still continued to blow, the raft moved on, and long before morning thePandora’screw were carried far away from the scene of the terrible tragedy.
Chapter Sixty Two.The breeze died away before the morning, and when day broke there was not a breath stirring. The calm had returned, and the raft lay upon the water as motionless as a log.The men no longer tried to propel it; it could have served no purpose to make way—since, go in what direction we might, there would be hundreds of miles of the ocean to be crossed, and to sail a raft over that long distance was not to be thought of.Had there been a stock of provisions and water, sufficient to have lasted for weeks, then such an idea would have been more feasible; but there was nothing of this, and the idea of sailing in search of land was not entertained for a moment. The only hope was that a sail might appear in sight, that some ship might be passing across the ocean, and come sufficiently near to see us and pick us up. One and all were agreed that this was our only chance of being saved.A cheerless chance it appeared when examined in all its bearings; so cheerless, indeed, that only the most sanguine of the party drew any hope from it. Notwithstanding the hundreds of thousands of ships that are constantly ploughing the mighty deep, and sailing from port to port, you will meet with but a very few of them on any long voyage you may make. You may go from England to the Cape of Good Hope, without seeing more than one or two sail during the whole passage! and yet that would be travelling upon one of the great highways of the ocean—in the track of all the ships sailing to the vast world of the East Indies, and also to those prosperous commercial colonies of Australia, whose mercantile marine almost rivals that of England herself. Again, you may cross the Atlantic upon another great water-way—that between Liverpool and New York—and yet between one port and the other, you may see less than half-a-dozen sail, and sometimes only two or three, during the whole of your voyage. Vast and wide are the highways of the great ocean.With a knowledge of these facts, but few of the men indulged in any very strong expectation of our coming in sight of a sail. We were in that very part of the Atlantic where the chances of such an encounter were few and far between. We were out of the line of navigation between any two great commercial countries; and although formerly Spanish vessels had travelled a good deal near the track we were in—in their intercourse with their South American colonies—this intercourse had been greatly diminished by revolution, and most of the traffic with these countries was now carried on in vessels belonging to the United States, and these were not likely to sail so far to the eastward as we were. Portuguese ships still traded to the Brazils in considerable numbers, and upon these we built most of our hopes—these and the chances that some ship engaged in the same traffic as thePandoramight be crossing westward with slaves, or returning for a fresh cargo. There was yet other vessels that occasionally navigated this part of the Atlantic—cruisers on their way from the African coast to the Brazils, or warships from Gibraltar, going round the Horn into the Pacific, or passing from the Cape of Good Hope to the West Indies.All these chances were eagerly brought forward by the men, and discussed with every circumstance of minuteness. Every point was produced that seemed to promise a hope of deliverance; for most, if not all, of these outlaws were seamen of experience, and well knew the ways of the ocean. Some held the opinion that our chances of being picked up were not so bad after all. There was a sail that could be rigged, by means of oars and handspikes, and spread out so as to be visible from afar. Some ship would be certain to come along and see us, and then all would be right again.So talked those of more sanguine temperament; but the wiser ones shook their heads and doubted. They reasoned in an opposite strain, and made use of arguments, the force of which could not be denied, and which produced great discouragement. There are some who seem always to prefer exhibiting the darker side of the picture—perhaps not from any pleasure that it gives them to do so, but, by accustoming themselves to the worst view of the case they may be the better able to endure it when it comes. Otherwise, in the event of success, that they may derive all the greater enjoyment from the reaction.These last alleged that the chances of meeting with any vessel in that solitary part of the ocean were slight, very slight indeed; that even if there were ships—hundreds of them—how could they approach the raft during a calm? Of course the ships would be becalmed as they themselves were, and would have to remain so as long as the calm continued. This would be likely to last for weeks, and how were they to exist for weeks? How long would their provisions keep them alive? Not weeks; a few days perhaps, not more?These remarks led to an immediate examination of the stock of provisions that had been brought away from the wreck; and every article on the raft was now turned up and scrutinised. Strange to say the only thing of which there was a tolerable supply was water. The large cask that had hitherto stood on deck—and which was still nearly half-full—was now upon the raft. It had been bunged up and rolled overboard, and then safely deposited among the spars, where it floated of itself. What water may have been carried away in the gig no one knew, but certain it was that the cask was still nearly half-full.This discovery produced a momentary cheerfulness—for, in such cases, water is usually the most important consideration, and ofttimes the very one that is neglected.But the joy was of short continuance; when every article upon the raft was overhauled, and every portion of it carefully searched, the only food that could be found was a small bag of biscuits—not enough to give two biscuits to each of us—not enough for a single meal!This astounded intelligence was received with cries of chagrin and looks of dismay. Some shouted in anger. One half recriminated the other. Some had been entrusted specially to provide the food. These alleged that a barrel of pork had been put upon the raft. Where was it? Certainly there was a barrel; but, on breaking it open, to the dismay of all, it proved to be a barrel of pitch!A scene now ensued that it would be impossible to describe. Oaths, exclamations, and angry words passed freely, and the men almost came to blows. The pitch was thrown into the sea, and those who had put it upon the raft were threatened with a similar fate. Their negligence would prove fatal to all. But for them there might still have been a chance; but now, what hope? With two biscuits apiece, how long could they exist? Not three days without suffering the extreme of hunger. Ere a week should pass, one and all must perish!The probability, nay, the positive certainty, of such a doom produced a scene of despondence—mingled with angry excitement on the part of those who called themselves “betrayed”—that it would be difficult to paint. Harsh revilings were freely used; and threats of throwing the delinquents into the sea continued to be uttered at intervals during the whole night.There was still another barrel upon the raft, that had been better left upon the burning wreck. But it was not likely that it should be forgotten. Its contents were of a nature too highly prized by the sailor who fears death by drowning, or any other sudden or violent means. It is supposed to make death easy, and, therefore, the despairing wretch clings to it as a friend. It is a sad resource, an awful termination to human existence; but often is it appealed to in the last moments of misery. I need not say that this barrel contained rum.Whether it was the same that had been lowered into the long-boat with such pernicious effect I cannot say. Perhaps it was. It may have floated and been picked up again; or it may have been still another one, for among the stores of the ill-fated barque there was a plentiful supply of this horrible liquor. It constituted the chief “tipple” of the dissipated crew—the main source of their indulgence and bestial enjoyment. A vile cheap stuff it was, freely served out to them, scarce kept under lock and key; and there was not an hour in which one or other of them might not have been seen refreshing himself at this odious fountain. If the barrel of pork had been forgotten and left behind, here was a substitute; and the sight of this reeking cask, strange to say, produced a cheering effect upon numbers of those savage men. Many were heard proclaiming, in a sort of jocular bravado, that if the rum wouldn’t keep them alive it would help them to die!
The breeze died away before the morning, and when day broke there was not a breath stirring. The calm had returned, and the raft lay upon the water as motionless as a log.
The men no longer tried to propel it; it could have served no purpose to make way—since, go in what direction we might, there would be hundreds of miles of the ocean to be crossed, and to sail a raft over that long distance was not to be thought of.
Had there been a stock of provisions and water, sufficient to have lasted for weeks, then such an idea would have been more feasible; but there was nothing of this, and the idea of sailing in search of land was not entertained for a moment. The only hope was that a sail might appear in sight, that some ship might be passing across the ocean, and come sufficiently near to see us and pick us up. One and all were agreed that this was our only chance of being saved.
A cheerless chance it appeared when examined in all its bearings; so cheerless, indeed, that only the most sanguine of the party drew any hope from it. Notwithstanding the hundreds of thousands of ships that are constantly ploughing the mighty deep, and sailing from port to port, you will meet with but a very few of them on any long voyage you may make. You may go from England to the Cape of Good Hope, without seeing more than one or two sail during the whole passage! and yet that would be travelling upon one of the great highways of the ocean—in the track of all the ships sailing to the vast world of the East Indies, and also to those prosperous commercial colonies of Australia, whose mercantile marine almost rivals that of England herself. Again, you may cross the Atlantic upon another great water-way—that between Liverpool and New York—and yet between one port and the other, you may see less than half-a-dozen sail, and sometimes only two or three, during the whole of your voyage. Vast and wide are the highways of the great ocean.
With a knowledge of these facts, but few of the men indulged in any very strong expectation of our coming in sight of a sail. We were in that very part of the Atlantic where the chances of such an encounter were few and far between. We were out of the line of navigation between any two great commercial countries; and although formerly Spanish vessels had travelled a good deal near the track we were in—in their intercourse with their South American colonies—this intercourse had been greatly diminished by revolution, and most of the traffic with these countries was now carried on in vessels belonging to the United States, and these were not likely to sail so far to the eastward as we were. Portuguese ships still traded to the Brazils in considerable numbers, and upon these we built most of our hopes—these and the chances that some ship engaged in the same traffic as thePandoramight be crossing westward with slaves, or returning for a fresh cargo. There was yet other vessels that occasionally navigated this part of the Atlantic—cruisers on their way from the African coast to the Brazils, or warships from Gibraltar, going round the Horn into the Pacific, or passing from the Cape of Good Hope to the West Indies.
All these chances were eagerly brought forward by the men, and discussed with every circumstance of minuteness. Every point was produced that seemed to promise a hope of deliverance; for most, if not all, of these outlaws were seamen of experience, and well knew the ways of the ocean. Some held the opinion that our chances of being picked up were not so bad after all. There was a sail that could be rigged, by means of oars and handspikes, and spread out so as to be visible from afar. Some ship would be certain to come along and see us, and then all would be right again.
So talked those of more sanguine temperament; but the wiser ones shook their heads and doubted. They reasoned in an opposite strain, and made use of arguments, the force of which could not be denied, and which produced great discouragement. There are some who seem always to prefer exhibiting the darker side of the picture—perhaps not from any pleasure that it gives them to do so, but, by accustoming themselves to the worst view of the case they may be the better able to endure it when it comes. Otherwise, in the event of success, that they may derive all the greater enjoyment from the reaction.
These last alleged that the chances of meeting with any vessel in that solitary part of the ocean were slight, very slight indeed; that even if there were ships—hundreds of them—how could they approach the raft during a calm? Of course the ships would be becalmed as they themselves were, and would have to remain so as long as the calm continued. This would be likely to last for weeks, and how were they to exist for weeks? How long would their provisions keep them alive? Not weeks; a few days perhaps, not more?
These remarks led to an immediate examination of the stock of provisions that had been brought away from the wreck; and every article on the raft was now turned up and scrutinised. Strange to say the only thing of which there was a tolerable supply was water. The large cask that had hitherto stood on deck—and which was still nearly half-full—was now upon the raft. It had been bunged up and rolled overboard, and then safely deposited among the spars, where it floated of itself. What water may have been carried away in the gig no one knew, but certain it was that the cask was still nearly half-full.
This discovery produced a momentary cheerfulness—for, in such cases, water is usually the most important consideration, and ofttimes the very one that is neglected.
But the joy was of short continuance; when every article upon the raft was overhauled, and every portion of it carefully searched, the only food that could be found was a small bag of biscuits—not enough to give two biscuits to each of us—not enough for a single meal!
This astounded intelligence was received with cries of chagrin and looks of dismay. Some shouted in anger. One half recriminated the other. Some had been entrusted specially to provide the food. These alleged that a barrel of pork had been put upon the raft. Where was it? Certainly there was a barrel; but, on breaking it open, to the dismay of all, it proved to be a barrel of pitch!
A scene now ensued that it would be impossible to describe. Oaths, exclamations, and angry words passed freely, and the men almost came to blows. The pitch was thrown into the sea, and those who had put it upon the raft were threatened with a similar fate. Their negligence would prove fatal to all. But for them there might still have been a chance; but now, what hope? With two biscuits apiece, how long could they exist? Not three days without suffering the extreme of hunger. Ere a week should pass, one and all must perish!
The probability, nay, the positive certainty, of such a doom produced a scene of despondence—mingled with angry excitement on the part of those who called themselves “betrayed”—that it would be difficult to paint. Harsh revilings were freely used; and threats of throwing the delinquents into the sea continued to be uttered at intervals during the whole night.
There was still another barrel upon the raft, that had been better left upon the burning wreck. But it was not likely that it should be forgotten. Its contents were of a nature too highly prized by the sailor who fears death by drowning, or any other sudden or violent means. It is supposed to make death easy, and, therefore, the despairing wretch clings to it as a friend. It is a sad resource, an awful termination to human existence; but often is it appealed to in the last moments of misery. I need not say that this barrel contained rum.
Whether it was the same that had been lowered into the long-boat with such pernicious effect I cannot say. Perhaps it was. It may have floated and been picked up again; or it may have been still another one, for among the stores of the ill-fated barque there was a plentiful supply of this horrible liquor. It constituted the chief “tipple” of the dissipated crew—the main source of their indulgence and bestial enjoyment. A vile cheap stuff it was, freely served out to them, scarce kept under lock and key; and there was not an hour in which one or other of them might not have been seen refreshing himself at this odious fountain. If the barrel of pork had been forgotten and left behind, here was a substitute; and the sight of this reeking cask, strange to say, produced a cheering effect upon numbers of those savage men. Many were heard proclaiming, in a sort of jocular bravado, that if the rum wouldn’t keep them alive it would help them to die!
Chapter Sixty Three.As soon as day dawned every eye was bent upon the horizon. Not a point of the whole circle that was not scanned with the minutest earnestness by one and all. Round and round they turned, sweeping the surface with anxious glances, and raising themselves as high as they could in order to command the most distant view.But all ended in disappointment. No sail was in sight; nothing that had life or motion; not even fish or fowl broke the monotony of that vast surface of sleeping water.There were no signs of the gig: she must have rowed off in some different direction; no signs either of the wreck, the breeze had carried us far from it; but even had we remained near, there might have been seen no traces of it. All had long since gone to the bottom of the sea.The sun rose higher and higher, and at noon stood right over our heads. We had no protection from his beams—they were almost hot enough to blister us.The calm continued—there was not enough motion in the air to have wafted a feather, and the raft lay as still as if it had been aground. It only moved, when those who were on it passed from place to place.There was not much changing about. There was no great room for it. There were in all thirty-four of us, and the bodies of the men—some sitting and others lying—covered nearly the whole space. There was no reason for moving about. Most were sullen and despondent, and kept the places, they had first taken, without the energy to stir out of them. Others were of lighter heart, or, under the influence of the rum which they drank freely, were more noisy. Now and then there was wrangling among them.The sea was frequently scanned, round and round, to the very borders of the sky.This duty was neither forgotten nor overlooked. There was always some one rising to his feet and gazing outward, but only to return to his former position, with that disheartening look that proclaimed how vain his reconnoissance had been. Indeed, silence itself was a sufficient reply. No one would have discovered a sail, without making instant announcement of it.At noon we were all suffering from thirst; they who had been regaling themselves with rum worse than any—for this is the sure result.Water was served out from the cask—in equal quantity to each. It was agreed that all should share alike, both of the water and the bread—and of the former it was resolved that each should receive a pint a day. In any other situation the allowance might have been sufficient, and existence might be supported upon it; but under that broiling sun, that seemed to dry up the very blood in our veins, our thirst became almost insupportable, and the pint of water could be gulped down without affording the slightest relief. I am certain that half a gallon would scarce have sufficed to quench my thirst. What rendered the pint of water still more insufficient was, that it was no longer cool water. The sun, basking down upon the cask that lay only half covered, had heated the staves—and, consequently, the water within—to such a degree, that the latter tasted as if half-way towards boiling. It may have checked the progress of thirst, but it did not alleviate the pain.The water might have been kept cooler, by throwing the idle sail over the cask; but even this trifling precaution was not adopted.The men were gradually giving away to despair—the torpor of despondency was fast laying hold upon them, and under this influence no one seemed to possess energy enough for any precaution—however easy it might have been.As to the serving out of the food, that occupied only one act. To be put upon daily allowance out of such a store was altogether out of the question. A simple partition was all that was required, and the bag of biscuit was emptied out and its contents equally divided around. There proved to be two biscuits apiece, with a small surplus, and for this last the crew held a “raffle”—each time a single biscuit forming the prize. For these prizes the men contended with as much eagerness, as if there had been large sums of money staked on the result; and, indeed, it would have been a large sum that would have purchased one of those precious morsels of bread.The “raffling,” combined with the “rum”—which was now also meted out—produced for some time a noisy excitement. But this was soon over; and the sullen silence of despondency again ruled.Some, already ravenous with hunger and reckless of consequences, ate their two biscuits at once—while others, endowed with greater prudence or stronger powers of endurance, only gnawed a small portion, and kept the rest towards a future and more pressing necessity.Thus passed the time till near sunset, with no event to cheer us—no new prospect to beget a hope.When near sunset, however, a grand excitement was produced, and all the sweet joys of hope were again felt.One of the men who had arisen to his feet, and was gazing over the sea, suddenly cried out:—“A sail—a sail!”It would be impossible to describe the wild joy that these words produced—men leaped to their feet, vociferating glad huzzas as they repeated the words “a sail, a sail.” Some pulled off their hats and waved them in the air—some leaped and danced about as though frantic, and even the most despairing behaved as if suddenly called to a new life.I have said it would be impossible to picture that scene; but still more impossible to describe the contrast which, but the moment after, might have been witnessed upon the raft, when it was ascertained that the cry was a false alarm. No sail was in sight—there had been none—nothing could be seen of ship or sail over the wide circle of the ocean—nothing moved upon the glass-like face of that vast mirror.A false alarm, entirely without foundation. Why the man had uttered it was soon explained. The wild expressions that were pouring from his lips, with the grotesque gestures he was making with his arms proved that he was mad!
As soon as day dawned every eye was bent upon the horizon. Not a point of the whole circle that was not scanned with the minutest earnestness by one and all. Round and round they turned, sweeping the surface with anxious glances, and raising themselves as high as they could in order to command the most distant view.
But all ended in disappointment. No sail was in sight; nothing that had life or motion; not even fish or fowl broke the monotony of that vast surface of sleeping water.
There were no signs of the gig: she must have rowed off in some different direction; no signs either of the wreck, the breeze had carried us far from it; but even had we remained near, there might have been seen no traces of it. All had long since gone to the bottom of the sea.
The sun rose higher and higher, and at noon stood right over our heads. We had no protection from his beams—they were almost hot enough to blister us.
The calm continued—there was not enough motion in the air to have wafted a feather, and the raft lay as still as if it had been aground. It only moved, when those who were on it passed from place to place.
There was not much changing about. There was no great room for it. There were in all thirty-four of us, and the bodies of the men—some sitting and others lying—covered nearly the whole space. There was no reason for moving about. Most were sullen and despondent, and kept the places, they had first taken, without the energy to stir out of them. Others were of lighter heart, or, under the influence of the rum which they drank freely, were more noisy. Now and then there was wrangling among them.
The sea was frequently scanned, round and round, to the very borders of the sky.
This duty was neither forgotten nor overlooked. There was always some one rising to his feet and gazing outward, but only to return to his former position, with that disheartening look that proclaimed how vain his reconnoissance had been. Indeed, silence itself was a sufficient reply. No one would have discovered a sail, without making instant announcement of it.
At noon we were all suffering from thirst; they who had been regaling themselves with rum worse than any—for this is the sure result.
Water was served out from the cask—in equal quantity to each. It was agreed that all should share alike, both of the water and the bread—and of the former it was resolved that each should receive a pint a day. In any other situation the allowance might have been sufficient, and existence might be supported upon it; but under that broiling sun, that seemed to dry up the very blood in our veins, our thirst became almost insupportable, and the pint of water could be gulped down without affording the slightest relief. I am certain that half a gallon would scarce have sufficed to quench my thirst. What rendered the pint of water still more insufficient was, that it was no longer cool water. The sun, basking down upon the cask that lay only half covered, had heated the staves—and, consequently, the water within—to such a degree, that the latter tasted as if half-way towards boiling. It may have checked the progress of thirst, but it did not alleviate the pain.
The water might have been kept cooler, by throwing the idle sail over the cask; but even this trifling precaution was not adopted.
The men were gradually giving away to despair—the torpor of despondency was fast laying hold upon them, and under this influence no one seemed to possess energy enough for any precaution—however easy it might have been.
As to the serving out of the food, that occupied only one act. To be put upon daily allowance out of such a store was altogether out of the question. A simple partition was all that was required, and the bag of biscuit was emptied out and its contents equally divided around. There proved to be two biscuits apiece, with a small surplus, and for this last the crew held a “raffle”—each time a single biscuit forming the prize. For these prizes the men contended with as much eagerness, as if there had been large sums of money staked on the result; and, indeed, it would have been a large sum that would have purchased one of those precious morsels of bread.
The “raffling,” combined with the “rum”—which was now also meted out—produced for some time a noisy excitement. But this was soon over; and the sullen silence of despondency again ruled.
Some, already ravenous with hunger and reckless of consequences, ate their two biscuits at once—while others, endowed with greater prudence or stronger powers of endurance, only gnawed a small portion, and kept the rest towards a future and more pressing necessity.
Thus passed the time till near sunset, with no event to cheer us—no new prospect to beget a hope.
When near sunset, however, a grand excitement was produced, and all the sweet joys of hope were again felt.
One of the men who had arisen to his feet, and was gazing over the sea, suddenly cried out:—
“A sail—a sail!”
It would be impossible to describe the wild joy that these words produced—men leaped to their feet, vociferating glad huzzas as they repeated the words “a sail, a sail.” Some pulled off their hats and waved them in the air—some leaped and danced about as though frantic, and even the most despairing behaved as if suddenly called to a new life.
I have said it would be impossible to picture that scene; but still more impossible to describe the contrast which, but the moment after, might have been witnessed upon the raft, when it was ascertained that the cry was a false alarm. No sail was in sight—there had been none—nothing could be seen of ship or sail over the wide circle of the ocean—nothing moved upon the glass-like face of that vast mirror.
A false alarm, entirely without foundation. Why the man had uttered it was soon explained. The wild expressions that were pouring from his lips, with the grotesque gestures he was making with his arms proved that he was mad!
Chapter Sixty Four.Yes, the man was mad. The awful occurrences of the preceding night had deprived him of his reason, and he was now a raving maniac.Some cried out to throw him into the sea. No one opposed this counsel. It would have been carried into execution—for several were prepared to lay hold of him when the maniac, apparently well aware of their intention, scrambled back into his former position; and, cowering down, remained silent and scared-like. It was not probable he would harm any one—he was left alone.The excitement of this incident soon passed away, and the gloomy looks returned—if possible, gloomier than before, for it is ever so after hopes have been raised that terminate in disappointment.So passed the evening and a portion of the night.At the same hour as upon the preceding night—almost the same minute—the breeze again sprung up. It could be of little service—since there was no chance of our being carried by it to land—but it was cool and refreshing after the intense torrid heat we had been all day enduring.Some were for spreading the sail; others saw no use in it. “What good can it do?” inquired these. “It may carry us a score of miles hence, or perhaps twice that. What then? It won’t bring us in sight of land—nor a ship neither. We’re as likely to see one by lying still. What’s the use of moving about? If we haven’t the wherewith to eat and must make a die of it, we may as well die here as a score of knots farther to leeward. Set your sail if you will—we won’t either hinder or help.”Such language was used by the despairing part of the crew.There were those who thought that by sailing, we should be more likely to fall in with a vessel. They thought they could not be worse, and might drift to a better place, where ships were more frequent—though they acknowledged that there were equal chances of their going away out of the track.The truth is, that not one knew within hundreds of miles of where we were, and to sail in any course would have been mere guess-work.By men in misery, however, motion is always preferred to rest; and the knowledge that you are going, and going forward, produces a soothing influence on the spirits. It begets a hope that you will come in sight of something that may aid you; and these hopes, however ill-founded, enable you to pass the time more lightly. On the contrary, by remaining in one fixed place, for a like period of time, you fret and chafe much more under the uncertainty.With this feeling upon them, most of the men were in favour of bending the sail, and it was accordingly bent.The night before it had been held aloft by several of the men—as the only object then had been to get the raft beyond reach of the swimmers. When that end was accomplished, the sail had been allowed to drop, and the raft had drifted a good distance without it.To-night, however, a mast was raised—or rather, a pair of them—consisting of oars and handspikes spliced together—and between the two the canvas was extended, without yard, gaff, or boom. There was no design to manoeuvre the sail. It was just spread like a blanket, transversely to the raft, and left for the breeze to blow upon it as it listed. When this was done the raft was left to its own guidance, and, of course, drifted to leeward as fast as it could make way—apparently at the rate of three or four knots an hour.The men once more resumed their recumbent positions, and all remained silent. Some fell asleep, and snored as though they were happy! Others slept, but their dream-talking told of troubled visions—recalling, maybe, dark scenes of guilt. A few seemed to lie awake all the live-long night—at intervals tossing about, as though kept on the alert by thirst, hunger, or the apprehension of approaching death.Brace and I sat close together. We still occupied the slight raft he had made—as there was but little room upon the other—and this one, now forming part of the whole structure, was as good a position as we could have chosen—in fact the best, as the sequel proved.There was a sail upon it—the jib or flying jib, I know not which—and a piece of old tarpauling; and these, spread over the planks, kept them together, and gave us a softer bed to recline upon.We conversed together at times, though not often. Now and then the brave sailor had endeavoured to cheer me by holding out hopes—but so hopeless had our situation now become that he at length desisted. He felt that it would be only mockery to hold out the slightest prospect of our deliverance. He, too—the bravest of all that blind—was fast surrendering himself to despair.The breeze died away before daybreak, just as on the previous night—and another morning came, but showed no sail on all that boundless sea.Another hot sun rose and circled overhead through the same cloudless heaven, and set red and fiery as ever.There passed another night, and once more the wind carried us through the water; and then several other days and nights—I ceased to count them—came and went with almost the same monotonous routine, varied only by bickerings among the men—sometimes most fiendish quarrels, in which knives were drawn and used almost with fatal effect.Strange time for disagreement and deadly conflict!Even wild animals—the fiercest beasts of prey—when under the influence of a common danger will yield up the ferocity of their nature. Not so these wicked men—their vile passions in this dread hour seemed only to become stronger and more malignant!Their quarrels were about the merest trifles—the serving out of the water, the rum, the supposition of some one that he was not getting fair play in his allowance—but so frequent had they become, that they themselves grew to be a monotony. Every hour a fierce brawl disturbed the deep repose and otherwise breathless silence that characterised the intervals between.If these incidents had grown monotonous and no longer failed to interest me, there was one upon the eve of occurring that was well calculated to produce within me an interest of the most powerful kind—calculated to stir my soul to its very utmost emotion.I have said that this incident was on the eve of occurring—it was a hideous purpose already matured, though kept secret from my companion and myself. Neither Brace nor I had the slightest suspicion of it until the hour in which it was openly declared.
Yes, the man was mad. The awful occurrences of the preceding night had deprived him of his reason, and he was now a raving maniac.
Some cried out to throw him into the sea. No one opposed this counsel. It would have been carried into execution—for several were prepared to lay hold of him when the maniac, apparently well aware of their intention, scrambled back into his former position; and, cowering down, remained silent and scared-like. It was not probable he would harm any one—he was left alone.
The excitement of this incident soon passed away, and the gloomy looks returned—if possible, gloomier than before, for it is ever so after hopes have been raised that terminate in disappointment.
So passed the evening and a portion of the night.
At the same hour as upon the preceding night—almost the same minute—the breeze again sprung up. It could be of little service—since there was no chance of our being carried by it to land—but it was cool and refreshing after the intense torrid heat we had been all day enduring.
Some were for spreading the sail; others saw no use in it. “What good can it do?” inquired these. “It may carry us a score of miles hence, or perhaps twice that. What then? It won’t bring us in sight of land—nor a ship neither. We’re as likely to see one by lying still. What’s the use of moving about? If we haven’t the wherewith to eat and must make a die of it, we may as well die here as a score of knots farther to leeward. Set your sail if you will—we won’t either hinder or help.”
Such language was used by the despairing part of the crew.
There were those who thought that by sailing, we should be more likely to fall in with a vessel. They thought they could not be worse, and might drift to a better place, where ships were more frequent—though they acknowledged that there were equal chances of their going away out of the track.
The truth is, that not one knew within hundreds of miles of where we were, and to sail in any course would have been mere guess-work.
By men in misery, however, motion is always preferred to rest; and the knowledge that you are going, and going forward, produces a soothing influence on the spirits. It begets a hope that you will come in sight of something that may aid you; and these hopes, however ill-founded, enable you to pass the time more lightly. On the contrary, by remaining in one fixed place, for a like period of time, you fret and chafe much more under the uncertainty.
With this feeling upon them, most of the men were in favour of bending the sail, and it was accordingly bent.
The night before it had been held aloft by several of the men—as the only object then had been to get the raft beyond reach of the swimmers. When that end was accomplished, the sail had been allowed to drop, and the raft had drifted a good distance without it.
To-night, however, a mast was raised—or rather, a pair of them—consisting of oars and handspikes spliced together—and between the two the canvas was extended, without yard, gaff, or boom. There was no design to manoeuvre the sail. It was just spread like a blanket, transversely to the raft, and left for the breeze to blow upon it as it listed. When this was done the raft was left to its own guidance, and, of course, drifted to leeward as fast as it could make way—apparently at the rate of three or four knots an hour.
The men once more resumed their recumbent positions, and all remained silent. Some fell asleep, and snored as though they were happy! Others slept, but their dream-talking told of troubled visions—recalling, maybe, dark scenes of guilt. A few seemed to lie awake all the live-long night—at intervals tossing about, as though kept on the alert by thirst, hunger, or the apprehension of approaching death.
Brace and I sat close together. We still occupied the slight raft he had made—as there was but little room upon the other—and this one, now forming part of the whole structure, was as good a position as we could have chosen—in fact the best, as the sequel proved.
There was a sail upon it—the jib or flying jib, I know not which—and a piece of old tarpauling; and these, spread over the planks, kept them together, and gave us a softer bed to recline upon.
We conversed together at times, though not often. Now and then the brave sailor had endeavoured to cheer me by holding out hopes—but so hopeless had our situation now become that he at length desisted. He felt that it would be only mockery to hold out the slightest prospect of our deliverance. He, too—the bravest of all that blind—was fast surrendering himself to despair.
The breeze died away before daybreak, just as on the previous night—and another morning came, but showed no sail on all that boundless sea.
Another hot sun rose and circled overhead through the same cloudless heaven, and set red and fiery as ever.
There passed another night, and once more the wind carried us through the water; and then several other days and nights—I ceased to count them—came and went with almost the same monotonous routine, varied only by bickerings among the men—sometimes most fiendish quarrels, in which knives were drawn and used almost with fatal effect.
Strange time for disagreement and deadly conflict!
Even wild animals—the fiercest beasts of prey—when under the influence of a common danger will yield up the ferocity of their nature. Not so these wicked men—their vile passions in this dread hour seemed only to become stronger and more malignant!
Their quarrels were about the merest trifles—the serving out of the water, the rum, the supposition of some one that he was not getting fair play in his allowance—but so frequent had they become, that they themselves grew to be a monotony. Every hour a fierce brawl disturbed the deep repose and otherwise breathless silence that characterised the intervals between.
If these incidents had grown monotonous and no longer failed to interest me, there was one upon the eve of occurring that was well calculated to produce within me an interest of the most powerful kind—calculated to stir my soul to its very utmost emotion.
I have said that this incident was on the eve of occurring—it was a hideous purpose already matured, though kept secret from my companion and myself. Neither Brace nor I had the slightest suspicion of it until the hour in which it was openly declared.
Chapter Sixty Five.It was probably on the sixth day after parting from the wreck—though I am not certain about the day—that the horrid design reached its development. It had been hatching for a while before, and upon that day came to a crisis.It was now several days since food had been tasted by any one—the two biscuits each had been long since eaten—most of them at the moment of being given out. Of course every one upon the raft was suffering the pangs of hunger, and had been enduring them until the appetite had reached the extremity of painfulness.Some looked emaciated, with eyes deeply sunken, and cheeks bony and hollow. Others, strange to say, had a fat, bloated appearance; but this must have arisen from swelling, or some unnatural cause—it could not be that famine had given them flesh. All—one and all—had that peculiar expression about the eyes, and around the mouth, that may be noticed in the visage of a hungry dog, or still more perceptibly in a half-starved wolf.About this period there seemed to be some secret intelligence among them—not all of them—but among those who acted as leaders—for even in their reduced condition, there were those of stronger body and more energetic spirit, who maintained a sort of leadership over the rest. What this intelligence was I could not tell, nor indeed, should I have taken notice of the indications of its existence, had it not been for what occurred afterwards. I observed them now and then whispering to one another; as they did so casting side-glances towards Brace and myself. At other times I caught now one, and now another, gazing upon me, and with a wild wolfish look, that rendered me, though I could not tell why, singularly uneasy. I noticed that they appeared as if they did not like to be detected while thus looking at me; and ever as I returned their glances they suddenly lowered their eyes or averted their faces. They then appeared as men who have been detected in some mean or guilty action.As it appeared to me that they looked in a similar manner at my companion, and at one another as well, I fancied that the strange expression that had struck me must be one characteristic of extreme hunger, and I thought no more about it.On the following day, however, I observed that the whispering among them increased; and was accompanied with a greater variety of gesticulation and excitement.Brace also noticed it, and guessed better than I what all this freemasonry meant—at least he was nearer the truth, for he was still ignorant of the full purpose of those ruffian conspirators.He whispered to me what he supposed they were after—with the design of breaking the terrible truth to me as gently as possible. But I had now better than half divined it, and his communication did not startle me.“Some one got to die, lad. I s’pose they’re talkin’ o’ castin’ lots who it’ll be—well, we must take our chance along with the rest.”Just as Brace had finished his speech one of the men rose up upon the raft; and, calling the attention of the others, begged to make a proposal to them.The speech by which he introduced his proposal was brief, indeed, and to the point. In fact, he came to the proposition almost at once, which was simply—that one of the party must die to save the rest—that they had still water—but no food; and all must perish unless they could eat—that they could not eat unless—But I cannot repeat the dread arguments which he made use of, brief though they were—for his speech was short, and, having delivered it, he sat down again.There was a short pause, and then another rose and addressed the crowd. This man coincided in the views of him who had spoken, and added to the proposal a suggestion for carrying it out—that was, that the one who was to die should be chosen by lot. This, of course, both Brace and myself expected. It was not likely that any one was going to volunteer.What was my terror, and the anger and alarm of my companion, when one of the strongest and most brutal of the whole crew—the ruffian Le Gros—rose up, and in a loud and serious tone, not only objected to drawing lots, but proposed me for the victim!Brace sprang instantly to his feet, and uttered a cry of indignation. It was expected that this cry would have been echoed by the others; and with almost any other band of men upon the face of the earth or the face of the ocean, such would have been the reception of the foul proposal.But both my companion and I soon perceived, with dismay, that there came no such echo from that ruffian crew. On the contrary, several backed the proposal itself, and in such majority—I might almost say unanimity, that it was plain that most of the men who spoke had already predetermined the case. It was evident, from their prompt acquiescence, that they had been prepared for it; and this accounted for that mysterious whispering that had been carried on during the preceding day. Some few, evidently, had not been in the secret; but these were weak individuals, whose opposition would not have been regarded, and who, indeed, appeared ready enough to chime in with the majority.The French bully went on to justify his proposition by argument. We were not all equal, he said—there were able seamen—and common sailors—and I was but a boy. Why should I have a chance like the rest? It was preposterous.Brace opposed his arguments—appealed to the crew—to their sense of justice and fair play—let lots be cast, said he, and let him take his chance with the rest—that was the only fair and honest mode—the only way worthy of men.Bah! these were not men. One and all were but too glad to grasp at any means that would deliver them from the perilous raffle. The sophistic arguments of Le Gros satisfied them. The infamous motion prevailed. It was decreed that I should die!
It was probably on the sixth day after parting from the wreck—though I am not certain about the day—that the horrid design reached its development. It had been hatching for a while before, and upon that day came to a crisis.
It was now several days since food had been tasted by any one—the two biscuits each had been long since eaten—most of them at the moment of being given out. Of course every one upon the raft was suffering the pangs of hunger, and had been enduring them until the appetite had reached the extremity of painfulness.
Some looked emaciated, with eyes deeply sunken, and cheeks bony and hollow. Others, strange to say, had a fat, bloated appearance; but this must have arisen from swelling, or some unnatural cause—it could not be that famine had given them flesh. All—one and all—had that peculiar expression about the eyes, and around the mouth, that may be noticed in the visage of a hungry dog, or still more perceptibly in a half-starved wolf.
About this period there seemed to be some secret intelligence among them—not all of them—but among those who acted as leaders—for even in their reduced condition, there were those of stronger body and more energetic spirit, who maintained a sort of leadership over the rest. What this intelligence was I could not tell, nor indeed, should I have taken notice of the indications of its existence, had it not been for what occurred afterwards. I observed them now and then whispering to one another; as they did so casting side-glances towards Brace and myself. At other times I caught now one, and now another, gazing upon me, and with a wild wolfish look, that rendered me, though I could not tell why, singularly uneasy. I noticed that they appeared as if they did not like to be detected while thus looking at me; and ever as I returned their glances they suddenly lowered their eyes or averted their faces. They then appeared as men who have been detected in some mean or guilty action.
As it appeared to me that they looked in a similar manner at my companion, and at one another as well, I fancied that the strange expression that had struck me must be one characteristic of extreme hunger, and I thought no more about it.
On the following day, however, I observed that the whispering among them increased; and was accompanied with a greater variety of gesticulation and excitement.
Brace also noticed it, and guessed better than I what all this freemasonry meant—at least he was nearer the truth, for he was still ignorant of the full purpose of those ruffian conspirators.
He whispered to me what he supposed they were after—with the design of breaking the terrible truth to me as gently as possible. But I had now better than half divined it, and his communication did not startle me.
“Some one got to die, lad. I s’pose they’re talkin’ o’ castin’ lots who it’ll be—well, we must take our chance along with the rest.”
Just as Brace had finished his speech one of the men rose up upon the raft; and, calling the attention of the others, begged to make a proposal to them.
The speech by which he introduced his proposal was brief, indeed, and to the point. In fact, he came to the proposition almost at once, which was simply—that one of the party must die to save the rest—that they had still water—but no food; and all must perish unless they could eat—that they could not eat unless—
But I cannot repeat the dread arguments which he made use of, brief though they were—for his speech was short, and, having delivered it, he sat down again.
There was a short pause, and then another rose and addressed the crowd. This man coincided in the views of him who had spoken, and added to the proposal a suggestion for carrying it out—that was, that the one who was to die should be chosen by lot. This, of course, both Brace and myself expected. It was not likely that any one was going to volunteer.
What was my terror, and the anger and alarm of my companion, when one of the strongest and most brutal of the whole crew—the ruffian Le Gros—rose up, and in a loud and serious tone, not only objected to drawing lots, but proposed me for the victim!
Brace sprang instantly to his feet, and uttered a cry of indignation. It was expected that this cry would have been echoed by the others; and with almost any other band of men upon the face of the earth or the face of the ocean, such would have been the reception of the foul proposal.
But both my companion and I soon perceived, with dismay, that there came no such echo from that ruffian crew. On the contrary, several backed the proposal itself, and in such majority—I might almost say unanimity, that it was plain that most of the men who spoke had already predetermined the case. It was evident, from their prompt acquiescence, that they had been prepared for it; and this accounted for that mysterious whispering that had been carried on during the preceding day. Some few, evidently, had not been in the secret; but these were weak individuals, whose opposition would not have been regarded, and who, indeed, appeared ready enough to chime in with the majority.
The French bully went on to justify his proposition by argument. We were not all equal, he said—there were able seamen—and common sailors—and I was but a boy. Why should I have a chance like the rest? It was preposterous.
Brace opposed his arguments—appealed to the crew—to their sense of justice and fair play—let lots be cast, said he, and let him take his chance with the rest—that was the only fair and honest mode—the only way worthy of men.
Bah! these were not men. One and all were but too glad to grasp at any means that would deliver them from the perilous raffle. The sophistic arguments of Le Gros satisfied them. The infamous motion prevailed. It was decreed that I should die!
Chapter Sixty Six.Yes—it was decreed that I should die.The time and the mode alone remained to be determined; but these points were soon settled. For the former it was to be then—instantly—and as to the mode, I was to be bled to death!These resolves were made with a despatch that allowed no time for reflection—scarcely time for speech or protestation. The ferocious wolves were eager for their prey.It was their determination to act promptly to the time; for, without further hesitation, half-a-dozen of the most forward in the business advanced towards me—evidently with the intent to put their design into execution!And, beyond a doubt, they would have done it—had I been alone and unprotected—beyond a doubt they would have killed and eaten me! But I was not alone—I was not without a protector. As the fierce cannibals advanced, Brace sprang between them and me, and drawing his clasp-knife, threatened to cut down the first who should lay a finger upon me.“Off!” cried he, “off, you cowardly swabs! Lay your hand upon the lad, and I’ll make mince-meat o’ ye. He may be the first to be eaten, but he arn’t the first that’ll die for it—there’s more than one o’ ye’ll have to kick the bucket afore he does. Blowed if thararn’t! So now ye cowardly hounds! come on if you dare.”The dastards, cowed by the intrepid bearing of Brace, halted in their advance and hung back—though no one of them ventured a reply. They seemed to have been taken by surprise; for although they knew that Brace opposed the design, they had no idea he would attempt to struggle against the whole crew. Surprise, therefore, held them back, mingled with some little fear—for the determined attitude which Brace had taken, and the shining blade of his knife, promised death to some of them; and, as each feared it might be himself, no one desired to be the foremost.I had thrown myself alongside my brave protector, resolving to do battle and die by his side—though not much could my puny arm have effected against the host of strong ferocious men who assailed us. Still it would be better to die thus, than to be butchered in cold blood; and under this belief I nerved myself for the encounter.At this crisis a change appeared to take place in the attitude of my companion: some new thought had struck him; and, waving his hand in a peculiar manner—which signified to our antagonists that he had some proposal to make—he succeeded in obtaining silence. He then addressed them as follows:—“Comrades! arn’t it too bad there should be quarrelling atween us at such a time as this, when we’re all in trouble alike?”Brace’s late tone of defiance had changed to one of half entreaty, and it was evident he was about to propose some compromise. Indeed, it would have been madness in him to have carried the conflict farther, as it could only have resulted in the death of us both.“Comrades!” he continued, “it’s a dreadful thing to die, but I know that some one must be made a sacrifice for the rest, and that are better than we should all go. Ye must know then when this thing happens it be the usual way to draw lots about it.”“We shan’t have it that way!” cried one, adding to his response the emphasis of an oath.“Well, then,” continued Brace, without losing his pacific demeanour, “since you’re agreed that it shan’t be that way, and that the boy must be the first, and since you’re all agreed to it, it’s no use o’ me standin’ in the way. I agree to it wi’ the rest.”I was startled at the words, and involuntarily turned my eyes upon the face of the speaker. Was he serious? was he really about to give me up? to surrender me into the hands of those ruthless men?He took no notice of me; and his unflinching attitude, and glance still bent in the same direction, told me that he had not yet done speaking.“But,” said he after pause, “with these conditions.”“What conditions?” asked several, interrupting him.“Why only this,” replied Brace, “that the boy be let live till the morning. I only ask for him till the sun rises; and then if there be no sail in sight, ye can do as ye please. It’s only fair the lad should have a chance for his life; and if you don’t agree to give him this chance,” continued the speaker, once more placing himself in a determined attitude, “if you don’t, then all I’ve got to say is, that I’ll fight for the lad as long as I can stand over him, and if he be first ate he won’t be first killed—that I can promise ye. Now?”Brace’s speech produced the desired effect. His auditory, though reluctantly, agreed to the proposal. Even those heartless fiends could not help acknowledging that it was no more than fair; but, perhaps, the determined and resolute bearing of my protector—as he stood, drawn up and ready, with that keen blade shining in his strong, firm grasp—had more influence upon their decision than any feeling of fair play.Whether or not, the reprieve was granted; and those who had been menacing my life drew back—though still muttering their discontent—and shrunk once more into their places.
Yes—it was decreed that I should die.
The time and the mode alone remained to be determined; but these points were soon settled. For the former it was to be then—instantly—and as to the mode, I was to be bled to death!
These resolves were made with a despatch that allowed no time for reflection—scarcely time for speech or protestation. The ferocious wolves were eager for their prey.
It was their determination to act promptly to the time; for, without further hesitation, half-a-dozen of the most forward in the business advanced towards me—evidently with the intent to put their design into execution!
And, beyond a doubt, they would have done it—had I been alone and unprotected—beyond a doubt they would have killed and eaten me! But I was not alone—I was not without a protector. As the fierce cannibals advanced, Brace sprang between them and me, and drawing his clasp-knife, threatened to cut down the first who should lay a finger upon me.
“Off!” cried he, “off, you cowardly swabs! Lay your hand upon the lad, and I’ll make mince-meat o’ ye. He may be the first to be eaten, but he arn’t the first that’ll die for it—there’s more than one o’ ye’ll have to kick the bucket afore he does. Blowed if thararn’t! So now ye cowardly hounds! come on if you dare.”
The dastards, cowed by the intrepid bearing of Brace, halted in their advance and hung back—though no one of them ventured a reply. They seemed to have been taken by surprise; for although they knew that Brace opposed the design, they had no idea he would attempt to struggle against the whole crew. Surprise, therefore, held them back, mingled with some little fear—for the determined attitude which Brace had taken, and the shining blade of his knife, promised death to some of them; and, as each feared it might be himself, no one desired to be the foremost.
I had thrown myself alongside my brave protector, resolving to do battle and die by his side—though not much could my puny arm have effected against the host of strong ferocious men who assailed us. Still it would be better to die thus, than to be butchered in cold blood; and under this belief I nerved myself for the encounter.
At this crisis a change appeared to take place in the attitude of my companion: some new thought had struck him; and, waving his hand in a peculiar manner—which signified to our antagonists that he had some proposal to make—he succeeded in obtaining silence. He then addressed them as follows:—“Comrades! arn’t it too bad there should be quarrelling atween us at such a time as this, when we’re all in trouble alike?”
Brace’s late tone of defiance had changed to one of half entreaty, and it was evident he was about to propose some compromise. Indeed, it would have been madness in him to have carried the conflict farther, as it could only have resulted in the death of us both.
“Comrades!” he continued, “it’s a dreadful thing to die, but I know that some one must be made a sacrifice for the rest, and that are better than we should all go. Ye must know then when this thing happens it be the usual way to draw lots about it.”
“We shan’t have it that way!” cried one, adding to his response the emphasis of an oath.
“Well, then,” continued Brace, without losing his pacific demeanour, “since you’re agreed that it shan’t be that way, and that the boy must be the first, and since you’re all agreed to it, it’s no use o’ me standin’ in the way. I agree to it wi’ the rest.”
I was startled at the words, and involuntarily turned my eyes upon the face of the speaker. Was he serious? was he really about to give me up? to surrender me into the hands of those ruthless men?
He took no notice of me; and his unflinching attitude, and glance still bent in the same direction, told me that he had not yet done speaking.
“But,” said he after pause, “with these conditions.”
“What conditions?” asked several, interrupting him.
“Why only this,” replied Brace, “that the boy be let live till the morning. I only ask for him till the sun rises; and then if there be no sail in sight, ye can do as ye please. It’s only fair the lad should have a chance for his life; and if you don’t agree to give him this chance,” continued the speaker, once more placing himself in a determined attitude, “if you don’t, then all I’ve got to say is, that I’ll fight for the lad as long as I can stand over him, and if he be first ate he won’t be first killed—that I can promise ye. Now?”
Brace’s speech produced the desired effect. His auditory, though reluctantly, agreed to the proposal. Even those heartless fiends could not help acknowledging that it was no more than fair; but, perhaps, the determined and resolute bearing of my protector—as he stood, drawn up and ready, with that keen blade shining in his strong, firm grasp—had more influence upon their decision than any feeling of fair play.
Whether or not, the reprieve was granted; and those who had been menacing my life drew back—though still muttering their discontent—and shrunk once more into their places.
Chapter Sixty Seven.I can ill describe the emotions that agitated my bosom. Though delivered from the terror of immediate death, there was nothing in the respite to give me any feeling of joy. It would be only a short procrastination of my doom, for certainly in the morning I must die. The slender chances of our seeing a sail were scarce worth contemplating; and I derived no consolation by dwelling upon such a contingency.My fate, therefore, I looked upon as sealed. My protector could not save me. He had done the utmost in his power, in procuring the reprieve that was to give me this slight chance for my life. If it failed, he would undoubtedly have to keep his word and surrender me up.I felt as the condemned criminal whose hour of execution has been fixed, and who knows it—with perhaps, only the difference that I could look forward to the event with a clear conscience. I felt not as a criminal, but a victim—a martyr among ruffians.Of course I thought not of sleep—all sleep was banished from my eyelids. With such a prospect before me how could I sleep? Sadly at that crisis did I think of home, of parents, and kindred. Bitterly did I repent that I ever ran away to sea!Alas! like many others who have acted disobediently and rashly—my experience had been too dearly purchased—my repentance came too late.To-morrow by sunrise must I die; and oh! such a dreadful doom! My fate would never be known; for, though I was made a sacrifice, it was not likely that my executioners would long survive me. The chances that any of them would ever reach land were slight indeed; and, even if they should, it was not likely they would ever divulge that secret. I should never more be heard of; neither friends or kindred would ever know my sad fate, and it would be better that they should not. Oh! it was a dreadful doom!Suffering under such reflections, I lay stretched along the plank; my protector was still by my side—so near that our shoulders touched, and our heads were close together—I could have heard anything he might have said, though uttered only in a whisper; but for a long time he did not address a word to me. He appeared to be busied with his own thoughts—as if buried in some deep cogitation—and did not desire to be spoken to. Noticing this, I too remained silent.The night came down and promised to be dark, most of the preceding nights had been very clear, as there had been moonlight and scarce a cloud in the sky for weeks before. On this day, however, and particularly towards the close of it, black clouds had shown themselves above the horizon, and although the sea was still under a calm, it appeared as if some change was at hand.After the sun had set, these clouds rose higher and higher—until a black pall of them covered the whole firmament, completely shrouding the moon, and, not only hiding her from our eyes, but hindering her beams from casting their light over the sea.The surface of the water, instead of glittering around us, as it had done upon preceding nights, was now of a grey, gloomy complexion—for it reflected the colour of the clouds that hung over it. Both wore fit emblems of my own sad spirit.Almost mechanically I remarked to my companion this change in the heavens, and spoke about the darkness of the night.“So much the better, lad,” was his laconic reply, and he again relapsed in silence, as if he did not desire to be led into conversation.I lay for awhile pondering upon his reply. How was it better?—what signified the darkness?—what advantage could be gained by that? A dark night could not bring ships upon the sea; nor could it save me from the doom that had been decreed. The sun would rise all the same; and at his rising I must die! The darkness could not avail me! What could he mean?I pondered a long while upon his answer, but could not make out its signification. Had he intended it as a phrase of encouragement—something to hold out a hope to me—something to cheer me? for indefinitely it had this effect—or was the answer given mechanically and without thought?The former I dared not hope. Since the moment in which my respite had been granted, he had not spoken nor offered a word of hope, for certain was I that he had none to offer. What then meant he by the words he had just uttered—“So much the better, lad?”I would at length have asked him; but, just as I had made up my mind to do so, I perceived that he was twisting himself about, and before I could speak to him, he had turned his head away—so that he could no longer have heard me in a whisper. Not desirous that others should overhear the question I was about to put to him, I remained silent and waited for a better opportunity.
I can ill describe the emotions that agitated my bosom. Though delivered from the terror of immediate death, there was nothing in the respite to give me any feeling of joy. It would be only a short procrastination of my doom, for certainly in the morning I must die. The slender chances of our seeing a sail were scarce worth contemplating; and I derived no consolation by dwelling upon such a contingency.
My fate, therefore, I looked upon as sealed. My protector could not save me. He had done the utmost in his power, in procuring the reprieve that was to give me this slight chance for my life. If it failed, he would undoubtedly have to keep his word and surrender me up.
I felt as the condemned criminal whose hour of execution has been fixed, and who knows it—with perhaps, only the difference that I could look forward to the event with a clear conscience. I felt not as a criminal, but a victim—a martyr among ruffians.
Of course I thought not of sleep—all sleep was banished from my eyelids. With such a prospect before me how could I sleep? Sadly at that crisis did I think of home, of parents, and kindred. Bitterly did I repent that I ever ran away to sea!
Alas! like many others who have acted disobediently and rashly—my experience had been too dearly purchased—my repentance came too late.
To-morrow by sunrise must I die; and oh! such a dreadful doom! My fate would never be known; for, though I was made a sacrifice, it was not likely that my executioners would long survive me. The chances that any of them would ever reach land were slight indeed; and, even if they should, it was not likely they would ever divulge that secret. I should never more be heard of; neither friends or kindred would ever know my sad fate, and it would be better that they should not. Oh! it was a dreadful doom!
Suffering under such reflections, I lay stretched along the plank; my protector was still by my side—so near that our shoulders touched, and our heads were close together—I could have heard anything he might have said, though uttered only in a whisper; but for a long time he did not address a word to me. He appeared to be busied with his own thoughts—as if buried in some deep cogitation—and did not desire to be spoken to. Noticing this, I too remained silent.
The night came down and promised to be dark, most of the preceding nights had been very clear, as there had been moonlight and scarce a cloud in the sky for weeks before. On this day, however, and particularly towards the close of it, black clouds had shown themselves above the horizon, and although the sea was still under a calm, it appeared as if some change was at hand.
After the sun had set, these clouds rose higher and higher—until a black pall of them covered the whole firmament, completely shrouding the moon, and, not only hiding her from our eyes, but hindering her beams from casting their light over the sea.
The surface of the water, instead of glittering around us, as it had done upon preceding nights, was now of a grey, gloomy complexion—for it reflected the colour of the clouds that hung over it. Both wore fit emblems of my own sad spirit.
Almost mechanically I remarked to my companion this change in the heavens, and spoke about the darkness of the night.
“So much the better, lad,” was his laconic reply, and he again relapsed in silence, as if he did not desire to be led into conversation.
I lay for awhile pondering upon his reply. How was it better?—what signified the darkness?—what advantage could be gained by that? A dark night could not bring ships upon the sea; nor could it save me from the doom that had been decreed. The sun would rise all the same; and at his rising I must die! The darkness could not avail me! What could he mean?
I pondered a long while upon his answer, but could not make out its signification. Had he intended it as a phrase of encouragement—something to hold out a hope to me—something to cheer me? for indefinitely it had this effect—or was the answer given mechanically and without thought?
The former I dared not hope. Since the moment in which my respite had been granted, he had not spoken nor offered a word of hope, for certain was I that he had none to offer. What then meant he by the words he had just uttered—“So much the better, lad?”
I would at length have asked him; but, just as I had made up my mind to do so, I perceived that he was twisting himself about, and before I could speak to him, he had turned his head away—so that he could no longer have heard me in a whisper. Not desirous that others should overhear the question I was about to put to him, I remained silent and waited for a better opportunity.