JANUARY 5th and 6th.--The whole scene made a deep impression on our
minds, and Owen’s speech coming as a sort of climax, brought before us
our misery with a force that was well-nigh overwhelming.
As soon as I recovered my composure, I did not forget to thank Andre
Letourneur for the act of intervention that had saved my life.
“Do you thank me for that; Mr. Kazallon?” he said; “it has only served
to prolong your misery.”
“Never mind, M. Letourneur,” said Miss Herbey; “you did your duty.”
Enfeebled and emaciated as the young girl is, her sense of duty never
deserts her, and although her torn and bedraggled garments float
dejectedly about her body, she never utters a word of complaint, and
never loses courage.
“Mr. Kazallon,” she said to me, “do you think we are fated to die of
hunger?”
“Yes; Miss Herbey, I do,” I replied in a hard, cold tone.
“How long do you suppose we have to live?” she asked again.
“I cannot say; perhaps we shall linger on longer than we imagine.”
“The strongest constitutions suffer the most, do they not?” she said.
“Yes; but they have one consolation; they die the soonest;” I replied
coldly.
Had every spark of humanity died out of my breast that I thus brought
the girl face to face with the terrible truth without a word of hope
or comfort? The eyes of Andre and his father, dilated with hunger, were
fixed upon me, and I saw reproach and astonishment written in their
faces.
Afterwards, when we were quite alone, Miss Herbey asked me if I would
grant her a favour.
“Certainly, Miss Herbey; anything you like to ask,” I replied; and this
time my manner was kinder and more genial.
“Mr. Kazallon,” she said, “I am weaker than you, and shall probably die
first. Promise me that, if I do, you will throw my body into the sea.”
“Oh, Miss Herbey,” I began, “it was very wrong of me to speak to you as
I did!”
“No, no,” she replied, half smiling; “you were quite right. But it is
a weakness of mine; I don’t mind what they do with me as long as I am
alive, but when I am dead--” she stopped and shuddered. “Oh, promise me
that you will throw me into, the sea!”
I gave her the melancholy promise, which she acknowledged by pressing my
hand feebly with her emaciated fingers.
Another night passed away. At times my sufferings were so intense that
cries of agony involuntarily escaped my lips; then I became calmer, and
sank into a kind of lethargy. When I awoke, I was surprised to find my
companions still alive.
The one of our party who seems to bear his privations the best is Hobart
the steward, a man with whom hitherto I have had very little to do. He
is small, with a fawning expression remarkable for its indecision, and
has a smile which is incessantly playing round his lips; he goes about
with his eyes half-closed, as though he wished to conceal his thoughts,
and there is something altogether false and hypocritical about his whole
demeanour. I cannot say that he bears his privations without a murmur,
for he sighs and moans incessantly; but, with it all, I cannot but
think that there is a want of genuineness in his manner, and that the
privation has not really told upon him as much as it has upon the rest
of us. I have my suspicions about the man, and intend to watch him
carefully. To-day, the 6th, M. Letourneur drew me aside to the stern of
the raft, saying that he had a secret to communicate, but that he wished
neither to be seen nor heard speaking to me. I withdrew with him to
the larboard corner of the raft; and, as it was growing dusk, nobody
observed what we were doing.
“Mr. Kazallon,” M. Letourneur began in a low voice, “Andre is dying of
hunger: he is growing weaker and weaker, and oh! I cannot, will not see
him die!”
He spoke passionately, almost fiercely, and I fully understood his
feelings. Taking his hand, I tried to reassure him.
“We will not despair yet,” I said, “perhaps some passing ship--”
“Ship!” he cried impatiently, “don’t try to console me with empty
commonplaces; you know as well as I do that there is no chance of
falling in with a passing ship.” Then, breaking off suddenly, he
asked,--“How long is it since my son and all of you have had anything to
eat?”
Astonished at his question, I replied that it was now four days since
the biscuit had failed.
“Four days,” he repeated; “well, then, it is eight since I have tasted
anything. I have been saving my share for my son.”
Tears rushed to my eyes; for a few moments I was unable to speak, and
could only once more grasp his hand in silence.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked at length.
“Hush! not so loud; some one will hear us,” he said, lowering his voice,
“I want you to offer it to Andre as though it came from yourself. He
would not accept it from me; he would think I had been depriving myself
for him. Let me implore you to do me this service and for your trouble,”
and here he gently stroked my hand, “for your trouble you shall have a
morsel for yourself.”
I trembled like a child as I listened to the poor father’s words, and
my heart was ready to burst when I felt a tiny piece of biscuit slipped
into my hand.
“Give it him,” M. Letourneur went on under his breath, “give it him; but
do not let any one see you; the monsters would murder you if they knew
it. This is only for to-day; I will give you some more to-morrow.”
The poor fellow did not trust me, and well he might not, for I had the
greatest difficulty to withstand the temptation to carry the biscuit to
my mouth, But I resisted the impulse, and those alone who have suffered
like me can know what the effort was.
Night came on with the rapidity peculiar to these low latitudes, and I
glided gently up to Andre and slipped the piece of biscuit into his hand
as “a present from myself.” The young man clutched at it eagerly.
“But my father?” he said inquiringly.
I assured him that his father and I had each had our share, and that he
must eat this now, and, perhaps, I should be able to bring him some more
another time. Andre asked no more questions, and eagerly devoured the
morsel of food.
So this evening at least, notwithstanding M. Letourneur’s offer, I have
tasted nothing.