The result of my calculation was of the most satisfactory nature.
Eighty gallons of water would give half a gallon each day for 160 days,
or a quart _per diem_ for 320 days--nearly a whole year! Surely I could
subsist on a quart a day?--surely the voyage could not last for so long
a period as 320 days? A ship might sail round the world in less time.
I remembered having been told so, and it was fortunate I remembered it,
for my mind was now at ease on the score of water. For all that, I
resolved not to drink more than a quart a day, and on this allowance I
made no doubt that the supply would be sufficient.
There was more danger of running short of food; but, upon the whole, I
now felt very little apprehension, as I had fully resolved to diet
myself on the most economic scale.
So far, then, as food and drink were concerned, I felt no further
uneasiness. It was well assured that I was not to die either of thirst
or starvation; and the very remarkable manner in which both food and
drink had been supplied--placed, as it were, before me--naturally led me
to the reflection that the hand of Providence had been extended to aid
me, and I was still further consoled with the hope that He who had thus
mercifully preserved me for the present, would not forsake me in the
future.
In this state of feeling I continued for several days, and although it
was an irksome life--every hour seeming of itself a day--still I was
able to endure it. Sometimes I endeavoured to kill time by counting not
only the hours, but even the minutes and seconds; and in this occupation
(for I could think of no other) I often passed several hours at a time.
My watch enabled me to amuse myself in this manner, and I found
companionship in its cheerful ticking. I fancied that it beat louder
than I had ever before heard it, and most likely this was so, the sound
being magnified by the wooden walls that surrounded my cell. I took
care never to let the watch go to the full length of its chain, lest it
might run down and derange my reckoning. Not that I cared to know the
hour. That was of no consequence. I did not even know whether it was
night or day by the watch, nor would it have mattered had I not known
the one from the other, as the brightest sun could not have lent a ray
of his light to cheer my dungeon. It chanced, however, that I _did_
know the night from the day. No doubt you will wonder how I came by
this knowledge--since I had kept no time for the first hundred hours
after getting aboard, and there was then, in the complete darkness that
surrounded me, no means of distinguishing the one from the other. I had
a means of telling, however, and it was this: During all my life I had
been trained to the habit of going to bed at a particular hour--ten
o'clock at night--and also of rising at six exactly. This was a rule in
my father's house, as well as that of my uncle--in the latter, indeed, I
was compelled to observe it with a stern exactitude. The consequence of
this habit was, that whenever the hour of ten drew nigh, I naturally
felt the inclination for sleep; and the habit had grown so fixed, that,
notwithstanding the change of circumstances, it still continued. This I
was not slow to observe. I felt the desire to sleep come upon me at
regular periods, and I concluded, therefore, that whenever I had this
feeling upon me it was about ten o'clock of the night. I had
discovered, too, by registering the time with my watch, that I usually
slept about eight hours, and then I felt no desire to remain asleep any
longer. When I awoke it would be six in the morning; and, in this
belief, I regulated my watch to that hour. So convinced was I of these
facts, that I felt confident I could have counted the days without the
watch; but fearing that some change might occur in my habitual hours of
rest, in consequence of the altered circumstances in which I was placed,
I resolved always to keep the time-piece going. Ever before lying down
to sleep, I took the precaution to wind it up to the full length of its
chain, and on awaking I repeated the operation, so that there might be
no danger of even a moment's stoppage.
Though satisfied that I could tell night from day, I have said that it
mattered little, or not at all. It was of importance, however, that I
should know when each twenty-four hours had ended, for it was only by
that means I could have any knowledge of the progress of the voyage. I
took especial care to count the hours; and whenever I perceived that the
hour-hand had completed two circuits around the dial, I cut a fresh
notch in a piece of stick, set aside for this especial purpose. I need
not say that my registry was kept with the greatest care. The only part
of it on which I could not depend was that referring to the first days
after my departure, when I had taken no notice whatever of the time that
had passed. By guess I had put down four notches against those days and
nights, and I afterwards found that my memorandum was correct.
Thus for several days--nearly a week--passed I the hours--the long
hours--long, and dark, and irksome: ever more or less miserable, at
times sadly dejected, but never positively despairing.
Strange to say, my greatest misery arose from the absence of light. I
had at first suffered from my cramped position, and also from lying upon
the hard oak timber; but I got used to these inconveniences. Besides,
for the hardness of my bed I soon discovered a remedy. I had observed
that the box which stood upon the other side of my biscuit-house
contained some sort of stuff that had the feel of woollen goods. On
further examination, it proved to be broadcloth, closely-packed in large
webs as it had come from the manufactory. This suggested an idea that
was likely to contribute to my comfort; and I set about putting it into
execution. After removing the biscuits out of my way, I enlarged the
hole (which I had already made in the side of the cloth-box) to such an
extent that I was able--not without much labour, however--to detach one
of the pieces, and draw it out; and then with less trouble I pulled
forth another and another, until I had as much as would serve my
purpose. I was two hours in completing this operation, but having got
possession of the cloth, and shaken it out of its hard foldings, I
procured both carpet and couch soft enough for a king to rest upon; and
perhaps as costly, too--for I could feel that I was handling an article
that was "superfine." I did not use more of it than was absolutely
required to cover the hard oaken planks. Its bulk would have
inconvenienced me had I taken much of it from the box; and before
spreading it out, I had to clear the way, by returning all the biscuits
to their old repository.
Having spread my costly couch, I lay down upon it, and felt a great deal
more comfortable than I had yet done.
But I still longed for light more than for anything else. It is
difficult to conceive the misery of existence under complete darkness;
and I could now well comprehend the reason why the "dungeon" has always
been regarded as the most awful punishment which a prisoner can be made
to endure. No wonder men's hair has turned grey, and their senses have
forsaken them, under such circumstances; for in truth darkness is as
hard to endure as if light were essential to our existence.
I thought that if I only had a light, I could have passed the time
without thinking it half so long. The darkness appeared to me to double
the duration of the hours, as though it was something physical and
substantial that clogged the wheels of my watch, and hindered the motion
of time itself. Amorphous darkness! I fancied it gave me pain--a pain
that light would at once have alleviated; and sometimes I felt as I had
once done before, when laid upon a sick couch counting over the long
drear hours of the night, and anxiously watching for the day. In this
way slowly, and far from pleasantly, did time pass on.