LAND AHOY!
It was Frank who had shouted “Land!” in tones of stentorian salutation.
Standing erect upon the poop, he had thought he could see vague outlines
of a coast through a rift in the fog. So he seized the halyards and
scrambled to the masthead where, sitting astride the yard, he kept his
eyes fixed steadily in the direction where he had seen it.
Close upon ten minutes passed before he caught another glimpse to the
northward. He slid to the foot of the mast.
“You saw the coast?” Fritz asked sharply.
“Yes, over there; under the rim of that thick cloud which hides the
horizon now.”
“Are you sure you were not mistaken, Mr. Frank?” John Block said.
“No, bos’un, no, I was not mistaken! The cloud has spread over the place
again now, but the land is behind it. I saw it; I swear I saw it!”
Jenny had just risen and grasped her husband’s arm.
“We must believe what Frank says,” she declared. “His sight is
wonderfully keen. He could not make a mistake.”
“I haven’t made a mistake,” Frank said. “You must all believe me, as
Jenny does. I saw a cliff distinctly. It was visible for nearly a minute
through a break in the clouds. I couldn’t tell whether it ran to the
east or the west; but, island or continent, the land is there!”
How could they be sceptical about what Frank declared so positively?
To what land the coast belonged they might learn when the boat had
reached it. Anyhow, her passengers, five men, namely Fritz and Frank and
James, Captain Gould and the boatswain John Block, and three women,
Jenny, Holly, and Susan, together with the child, would most certainly
disembark upon its coast, whatever it might be.
If it offered no resources, if it were uninhabitable, or if the presence
of natives made it dangerous, the boat would put to sea again, after
revictualing as well as possible.
Captain Gould was immediately informed and, in spite of his weakness and
pain, he insisted on being carried to the stern of the boat.
Fritz began to make some comments about the signalled land.
“What is of the most concern to us at the present moment, is its
distance from here. Given the height from which it was observed, and
also the foggy state of the atmosphere, the distance cannot be more than
twelve or fifteen miles.”
Captain Gould made a sign of assent, and the boatswain nodded.
“So with a good breeze blowing towards the northward,” Fritz went on,
“two hours should be enough to take us to it.”
“Unfortunately,” said Frank, “the breeze is very uncertain, and seems to
be inclined to go back. If it doesn’t drop altogether I am afraid it may
be against us.”
“What about the oars?” Fritz rejoined. “Can’t we take to the oars, my
brother and James, and I, while you take the tiller, bos’un? We could
row for several hours.”
“Take to the oars!” Gould commanded, in an almost inaudible voice.
It was a pity that the captain was not in a fit state to steer, for,
with four of them to row, the crew might have made a better job of it.
Besides, although Fritz and Frank and James were in the full vigour of
youth, and the boatswain was a sturdy fellow still, and all were
thoroughly hardened to physical exercise, yet they were terribly
weakened now by privation and fatigue. A week had passed since they had
been cast adrift from the _Flag_. They had economised their provisions,
yet only enough remained to last them for twenty-four hours. On three or
four occasions they had caught a few fish by trailing lines behind the
boat. A little stove, a little kettle, and a saucepan were all the
utensils they possessed, besides their pocket knives. And if this land
were no more than a rocky island, if the boat were obliged to resume her
painful course for more long days, looking for a continent or an island
where existence might be possible—what then?
But all felt hope reviving again. Instead of the boat that was
threatened by squalls and tossed about by the waves and half filled by
the sea, they would at least feel firm ground under their feet. They
would install themselves in some cave to shelter there from bad weather.
Perhaps they would find a fertile soil, with edible roots and fruits.
And there they would be able to await the passing of a ship, without
need to fear hunger or thirst. The ship would see their signals, would
come to the rescue of the castaways—all that and more they saw through
the mirage of hope!
Did the coast thus seen belong to some group of islands situated beyond
the Tropic of Capricorn? That was what the boatswain and Fritz discussed
in undertones. Jenny and Dolly had resumed their seats in the bottom of
the boat, and the little boy was sleeping in Mrs. Wolston’s arms.
Captain Gould, eaten up with fever, had been carried back under the
poop, and Jenny was soaking compresses in cold water to lay upon his
head.
Fritz propounded many theories, none of them very encouraging. He was
pretty sure that the _Flag_ had sailed a long way to the east during the
week after the mutiny. In that case the boat would have been cast adrift
in that part of the Indian Ocean where the charts show only a few
islands, Amsterdam and Saint Paul, or, farther south, the archipelago of
Kerguelen. Yet even in these islands, the former deserted, the latter
inhabited, life would be assured, salvation certain, and—who could
say?—some day or other they might be able to get home from there.
Besides, if since the 27th of September, the ship’s boat had been
carried northwards by the breeze from the south, it was just possible
that this land was part of the Australian continent. If they got to
Hobart Town, Melbourne, or Adelaide, they would be safe. But if the boat
landed in the south-west portion, in King George’s Bay or by Cape
Leeuwin, a country inhabited by hordes of savages, the position would be
more serious. Here at sea there was at least a chance of falling in with
a ship bound for Australia or some of the Pacific Islands.
“Anyhow, Jenny,” said Fritz to his wife, who had taken his place by her
side again, “we must be a long way—hundreds of miles—from New
Switzerland.”
“No doubt,” Jenny answered, “but it is something that land is there!
What your family did in your island, and what I did on the Burning Rock,
we can do again, can’t we? After being tried as we have been, we have a
right to have confidence in our own energy. Two of Jean Zermatt’s sons
can’t lose heart.”
“My dear wife,” Fritz replied, “if ever I were to falter I should only
have to listen to you! No; we will not fail, and we shall be splendidly
backed up. The boatswain is a man on whom to rely utterly. As for the
poor captain——”
“He will get over it, he will get well, Fritz, dear,” Jenny said
confidently. “The fever will drop. When we get him to land he will be
better attended to, and will pick up his strength, and we shall find our
leader in him once more.”
“Ah, Jenny, dear,” exclaimed Fritz, pressing her to his heart, “may God
grant that this land can offer us the resources that we need! I don’t
ask for as much as we found in New Switzerland; we cannot expect that.
The worst of all would be to encounter savages, against whom we have no
defence, and to be obliged to put to sea again without getting fresh
provisions. It would be better to land upon a desert shore even only an
island. There will be fish in its waters and shells on its beaches, and
perhaps flocks of birds, as we found when we got to the shore at Rock
Castle. We shall contrive to revictual, and after a week or two, when we
have had a rest and the captain has recovered his strength, we could set
out to discover a more hospitable coast. This boat is sound and we have
an excellent sailor to manage her. The rainy season is not nearly due
yet. We have lived through some storms already, and we should live
through more. Let this land, whatever it is, only give us some fresh
provisions, and then, with the help of God——”
“Fritz, dear,” Jenny answered, clasping her husband’s hands in her own,
“you must say all that to our companions. Let them hear you, and they
will not lose heart.”
“They never have, for a moment, dear wife,” said Fritz; “and if they
ever should falter, it is you, bravest and most capable of women, the
English girl of Burning Rock, who would give them hope once more!”
All thought as Fritz did of this brave Jenny. While they had been shut
up in their cabins it was from her that Dolly and Susan had been
encouraged to resist despair.
One advantage this land seemed to have. It was not like New Switzerland,
through whose waters merchant vessels never passed. On the contrary,
whether it were the southern coast of Australia or Tasmania, or even an
island in the archipelagoes of the Pacific, its position would be marked
in the naval charts.
But even if Captain Gould and his companions could entertain some hope
of being picked up there, they could not be otherwise than profoundly
distressed by the thought of the distance that separated them from New
Switzerland—hundreds of miles, no doubt, since the _Flag_ had sailed
steadily eastwards for a whole week.
It was now the 13th of October. Nearly a year had passed since the
_Unicorn_ had left the island, whither she was due to return about this
time. At Rock Castle, M. and Mme. Zermatt, Ernest and Jack, Mr. and Mrs.
Wolston and Hannah, were counting the days and hours.
In a few weeks more, after her stay at Cape Town, the _Unicorn_ would
appear in New Switzerland waters, and then the Zermatts and Wolstons
would learn that their missing dear ones had taken their passage in the
_Flag_, which had not been seen again. Could they doubt that she had
perished with all hands in one of the frequent storms that rage in the
Indian Ocean? Would there be room for hope that they would ever see her
passengers again?
All that was in the future, however; the immediate present held quite
enough formidable possibilities to engage their attention.
Ever since Frank had pointed out the land, the boatswain had been
steadily steering in a northerly direction, not an easy task without a
compass. The position indicated by Frank was only approximate, and
unfortunately the thick curtain veiled the horizon line, which, from
observers on the level of the sea, must still be ten or twelve miles
away.
The oars had been got out. Fritz and James were rowing with all the
strength they could exert. But in their state of exhaustion they could
not lift the heavily loaded boat, and it would take them the entire day
to cover the distance which lay between them and the shore.
God grant that the wind might not thwart all their efforts! On the whole
it would be better if the calm endured till evening. Should the breeze
blow from the north, the boat would be carried far back from these
waters.
By mid-day it was questionable whether more than a couple of miles had
been done since morning. The boatswain suspected that a current was
setting in the opposite direction.
About two o’clock in the afternoon John Block, who was standing up,
exclaimed:—
“A breeze is coming; I can feel it! The jib by itself will do more than
the oars.”
The boatswain was not mistaken. A few minutes later little flaws began
to paint green the surface of the water in the south-west, and a creamy
ripple spread right to the sides of the boat.
“That shows you are right, Block,” said Fritz. “But still, the breeze is
so faint that we must not stop rowing.”
“We won’t stop, Mr. Fritz,” the boatswain answered; “let us plug away
until the sail can carry us towards the coast.”
“Where is it?” asked Fritz, trying in vain to look through the curtain
of fog.
“Right in front of us, for sure!”
“Is it so certain, Block?” Frank put in.
“Where would you have it be, except behind that cursed fog up there in
the north?” the boatswain retorted.
“We would have it there all right,” James Wolston said. “But that is not
surety enough!”
And they could not possibly know, unless the wind should freshen.
This it made no haste to do, and it was after three when the flapping of
the half-clewed sail showed that it might now be of use.
The oars were taken in, and Fritz and Frank hoisted the foresail and
hauled it in hard, while the boatswain secured the sheet which was
thrashing the gunwale.
Was it nothing more than a capricious breeze, whose intermittent breath
would not be strong enough to disperse the fog?
For twenty minutes more doubt reigned. Then the swell took the boat
broadside on, and the boatswain had to bring her head round with one of
the sculls. The foresail and the jib bellied out, drawing the sheets
quite taut.
The direction they had to take was northward, until the wind should
clear the horizon.
They hoped that this might happen as soon as the breeze had got so far.
So all eyes were fixed in that direction. If the land showed only for
one moment, John Block would ask no more, but would steer for it.
But no rift appeared in the veil, although the wind seemed to acquire
force as the sun went down. The boat was moving fairly fast. Fritz and
the boatswain were beginning to wonder if they had passed the land.
Doubt crept into their hearts again. Had Frank been mistaken, after all?
Had he really caught sight of land to the northward?
He declared again most positively that he had.
“It was a high coast,” he declared again, “a cliff with an almost
horizontal crest, and it was impossible to mistake a cloud for it.”
“Yet, since we are bearing down upon it,” Fritz replied, “we ought to
have reached it by now. It could not have been more than twelve or
fifteen miles off then.”
“Are you sure, Block,” Frank went on, “that you have been steering the
boat on to it all the time, and that it was due north?”
“It is possible that we have got on a wrong tack,” the boatswain
acknowledged. “And so I think it would be better to wait until the
horizon clears, even if we have to stay where we are all night.”
That might be the best thing to do. But if the boat were close to the
shore it would not be wise to risk it among the reefs which probably
fringed it.
So all listened intently, trying to detect the least sound of surf.
Nothing was to be heard—none of the long and sullen rolling of the sea
when it breaks upon reefs of rocks, or bursts in foam upon the beach.
The utmost caution had to be exercised. About half-past five, the
boatswain ordered the foresail to be struck. The jib was left as it was,
to give steerage way.
It was the wisest thing to do, to reduce the speed of the boat until the
land was sighted.
At night, in the midst of such profound darkness, there was danger in
venturing near a coast—danger of counter-currents drifting on to it,
though there might be no wind. In similar conditions a ship would not
have delayed until the evening to put out again and seek the security of
the open sea. But a boat cannot do what a ship may. To tack up against
the southerly wind, which was freshening now, would have involved a risk
of getting too far away—not to mention the severe toil.
So the boat stayed where it was, with only the jib sail set, hardly
moving, her head pointed north.
But at last all uncertainty and all possibility of mistake was removed.
About six o’clock in the evening the sun showed itself for a moment
before disappearing below the waves.
On the 21st of September it set exactly in the west, and on the 13th of
October, twenty-three days after the equinox, it set a little above in
the southern hemisphere. Just at that moment the fog lifted, and Fritz
could see the sun drawing near to the horizon. Ten minutes later its
fiery disc was flush with the line of sky and sea.
“That is the north, over there!” said Fritz, pointing with his hand to a
point rather to the left of that on which the boat was headed.
Almost at once he was answered by a shout, a shout that all of them
uttered together.
“Land! Land!”
The mist had just dispersed, and the coast-line was revealed not more
than a mile away.
The boatswain steered straight for it. The foresail was set again and
swelled out in the dying breeze.
Half an hour later the boat had grounded on a sandy beach, and was made
fast behind a long point of rock, well sheltered from the surf.