FLAYPOLE BECOMES DELIRIOUS
JANUARY 24.--I have inquired more than once of Curtis if he has the
faintest idea to what quarter of the Atlantic we have drifted, and each
time he has been unable to give me a decided answer, though from his
general observation of the direction of the wind and currents he
imagines that we have been carried westward, that is to say, toward the
land.
To-day the breeze has dropped entirely, but the heavy swell is still
upon the sea, and is an unquestionable sign that a tempest has been
raging at no great distance. The raft labors hard against the waves,
and Curtis, Falsten, and the boatswain, employ the little energy that
remains to them in strengthening the joints. Why do they give
themselves such trouble? Why not let the few frail planks part asunder,
and allow the ocean to terminate our miserable existence? Certain it
seems that our sufferings must have reached their utmost limit, and
nothing could exceed the torture that we are enduring. The sky pours
down upon us a heat like that of molten lead, and the sweat that
saturates the tattered clothes that hang about our bodies goes far to
aggravate the agonies of our thirst. No words of mine can describe this
dire distress; these sufferings are beyond human estimate.
Even bathing, the only means of refreshment that we possessed, has now
become impossible, for ever since Jynxstrop's death the sharks have
hung about the raft in shoals.
To-day I tried to gain a few drops of fresh water by evaporation, but
even with the exercise of the greatest patience, it was with the utmost
difficulty that I obtained enough to moisten a little scrap of linen;
and the only kettle that we had was so old and battered, that it would
not bear the fire, so that I was obliged to give up the attempt in
despair.
Falsten is now almost exhausted, and if he survives us at all, it can
only be for a few days. Whenever I raised my head I always failed to
see him, but he was probably lying sheltered somewhere beneath the
sails. Curtis was the only man who remained on his feet, but with
indomitable pluck he continued to stand on the front of the raft,
waiting, watching, hoping. To look at him, with his unflagging energy,
almost tempted me to imagine that he did well to hope, but I dared not
entertain one sanguine thought, and there I lay, waiting, nay, longing
for death.
How many hours passed away thus I cannot tell, but after a time a loud
peal of laughter burst upon my ear. Someone else, then, was going mad,
I thought; but the idea did not rouse me in the least. The laughter was
repeated with greater vehemence, but I never raised my head. Presently
I caught a few incoherent words.
"Fields, fields, gardens and trees! Look, there's an inn under the
trees! Quick, quick! brandy, gin, water! a guinea a drop! I'll pay for
it! I've lots of money! lots! lots!"
Poor deluded wretch! I thought again; the wealth of a nation could not
buy a drop of water here. There was silence for a minute, when all of a
sudden I heard the shout of "Land! land!"
The words acted upon me like an electric shock, and, with a frantic
effort, I started to my feet. No land, indeed, was visible, but
Flaypole, laughing, singing, and gesticulating, was raging up and down
the raft. Sight, taste, and hearing--all were gone; but the cerebral
derangement supplied their place, and in imagination the maniac was
conversing with absent friends, inviting them into the George Inn at
Cardiff, offering them gin, whiskey, and, above all, water! Stumbling
at every step, and singing in a cracked, discordant voice, he staggered
about among us like an intoxicated man. With the loss of his senses all
his sufferings had vanished, and his thirst was appeased. It was hard
not to wish to be a partaker of his hallucination.
Dowlas, Falsten, and the boatswain, seemed to think that the
unfortunate wretch would, like Jynxstrop, put an end to himself by
leaping into the sea; but, determined this time to preserve the body,
that it might serve a better purpose than merely feeding the sharks,
they rose and followed the madman everywhere he went, keeping a strict
eye upon his every movement.
But the matter did not end as they expected. As though he were really
intoxicated by the stimulants of which he had been raving, Flaypole at
last sank down in a heap in a corner of the raft, where he lay lost in
a heavy slumber.