THE TWELFTH DAY.
The sixth day dawned as the wind freshened and the waning moon went
down in clouds; it dawned upon an angry sea, a leaden sky, and with a
cold breeze that bore no ship--no hope of release towards us.
On, this day two more of our men, who had been lying in a torpid
state for three hours, died, and were cast overboard. We were
completely callous now. About eleven in the forenoon, Hans Peterkin,
who was steering, suddenly uttered a hoarse cry.
"See--see!" he exclaimed, pointing a-head, while glaring with haggard
eyes; "a sail--a sail! Thanks be to God," he added, pulling off his
fur cap, "we are saved!"
We that were rowing turned, and those who were dozing between the
thwarts sprang up; and there sure enough, hull down about eighteen
miles off, we saw a large ship under a cloud of dark canvas, which
had evidently been wet by rain overnight, running close-hauled upon
the starboard tack, and going with great speed through the water.
Oh the ecstasy of this sight!
We trimmed our little sail anew; we hoisted all our neck-ties at the
mast-head, as a signal; we pulled with the strength of
madmen--madmen, who were dying and despairing--towards her; but she
saw us not, (I dare not say that her crew _heeded_ not.) Though for a
time we seemed to gain upon her, the wind freshened so much that she
was soon out of sight; and once more, after all our prayers, our
longings, and our joy, we were left alone upon the sullen sea--alone
amid emotions too terrible to delineate, for hope and life went with
her!
Some of our strongest men wrung their hands and wept. Three days
after this, those who had restrained the maddening desire to drink of
the sea, now gave loose to their burning thirst, and heedless of the
appeals of Hartly and the warnings of Peterkin, plunged their wasted
hands in the brine, and drank it in great quantities.
The sequel soon followed--a delirium and insanity which rapidly
became infectious.
All were soon raving. Hartly talked of his dead wife--of their
little ones, and the green churchyard, where they lay under an old
yew-tree; then of his lost ship, and the ring of the Iceland witch.
Hans sang Orkney songs in a guttural dialect--half Scottish and half
Norse; and believed himself to be whaling in the Pentland Firth, and
Sound of Yell. Paul Reeves sat with a serious but fatuous aspect,
writing an imaginary log with his fingers on the boat-thwart; Cuffy
played scraps of negro-melodies on his violin; and believed himself
to be in his caboose, cooking a sumptuous dinner for those in the
cabin.
Some raved of rich repasts, and with idiot joy enumerated the viands
that smoked before them, or the cool draughts of spring water that
gurgled over mossy rocks and under broad green leaves in shady
woods--and of luscious fruit that grew in ripe clusters, but which
they strove to reach in vain, as, like the gushing spring, it always
eluded them. In pursuit of one of these illusions, poor Hans
Peterkin fell overboard, and, without an effort to save himself, sank
like a stone. Alas! the holy well of Kildingie and the blessed dulse
of Guiodin, availed him nothing now!
At last we ceased to row, for the strongest among us "caught crabs"
from time to time, and had the oars twitched out of their hands by
the sea, for we were helplessly and hopelessly worn out.
The haggard features of some became rigid; the black fur of fever
gathered upon their cracked lips; and their wild, sunken, and
blood-shot eyes assumed a snaky glare. Their wasted forms seemed to
dwindle before me; then they grew and dwindled again like a species
of phantasmagoria, as I sat bewildered and half torpid among them;
then a lurch of the boat would throw some of them off the thwarts
motionless and dead!
On the _Twelfth_ day after we had abandoned the _Leda_, there
remained in the boat only four alive, including Hartly, Reeves, a
seaman named Jones, and myself. All the rest had been thrown
overboard in succession as they died--even poor Cuffy Snowball,
clutching his violin to the last.
In their delirium some had been very violent--proposing to scuttle
the boat; others threw the oars overboard and unclasped their knives
to slay their messmates. One sprang into the sea, with a husky cry,
and ended his miseries at once.
Grim and fearful as they were, I thought the calm aspect of those who
died was to be envied. They seemed so free from every ill and storm
that might assail them, while those who yet lived and lingered were
the most helpless of human beings. I know not why or how it was that
so many strong and hardy men perished, while I survived.
Reeves, Hartly, and Jones the sailor, lay prostrate in the bottom of
the boat; and at times I knew not whether they were alive or dead,
save by an occasional spasm that twitched their features, or a
quivering in their limbs. After a time even these symptoms of
existence ceased.
I felt the slumber of long exhaustion stealing over me. Lest the
boat might capsize in a squall, I remember having just sense and
strength sufficient to enable me to let go the halyard, and lower the
sail, or rather, let it fall by its own weight, when I sank down in
the stern sheets, and must have lain there for hours.
A drizzling rain refreshed me, and when I awoke, the silver moon, was
shining on the sea.
Another night had descended upon us!
I baled out the boat with a hat, for the forms of my passive
companions were half-covered by water. As I did so, I thought Hartly
spoke--at least, that his white and bloodless lips moved; but this
might be fancy. My mind was a chaos of gloom, misery, and terrible
forebodings.
Anxious to learn whether life yet lingered in my friend, or whether I
was quite alone--the last man--with the dead upon that silent
midnight sea, I stooped close to Hartly; but at that moment the boat
gave a sudden lurch, which threw me violently among the three bodies.
In falling, my head struck against one of the thwarts, and happily I
became senseless.
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