Chapter Six.
India was reached at last, the nabobs and the Griffins and the young ladies were safely landed, and the ship, as before, proceeded to China. There she took in a cargo of tea, and the time of year being suitable the captain resolved to return home by Cape Horn. The Pacific was true to its character, and the Indiaman had a smooth run across it. Cape Horn was almost doubled. It was a fine night. The passengers tripped it gaily on the quarter deck to the sound of music, the crew amused themselves by singing forward. No one thought of danger. The moon’s bright beams played on the surface of the dark mysterious deep. So passed the evening away. The passengers retired to rest; the first watch was set; silence reigned over the ship. Before the watch was out dark clouds collected in the horizon and came rolling up overhead. Every instant they grew thicker and thicker, the wind whistled louder and louder, the sea rose higher and higher. A heavy gale was blowing; such a sea Jack had never before witnessed. Suddenly a cry arose from below, a cry the dread import of which a sailor too well knows—“Fire! Fire! Fire!” The crew in a moment sprung on deck. The passengers, pale with terror, rushed from their cabins.
Jack listened for the orders of one on whom he knew all must depend—their venerable captain. Quick as lightning all flew to obey them. The courses were brailed up, the ship’s head was brought to the wind. All hands were stationed to pass buckets along the decks, to deluge the hold with water, but a fiercer element was at work. Upward darted the bright flames, grappling savagely with everything they encountered. On—on they fought their way, vanquishing the utmost efforts of the crew. Those who had never before felt fear now trembled at the rapid progress of the devouring element. Already had the flames gained the foremast and were mounting the rigging. Their bright glare fell on the terror-stricken countenances of the passengers and the figures of some of the crew labouring to lower the boats into the water. Others were endeavouring hastily to construct a raft by which, perchance, some few more of those on board might have their lives prolonged. Provisions, water, blankets, compasses, and other articles were collected in haste, and thrown into the boats, as they were got into the water and dropped under the counter. Then the order was given to lower the women and children into them. Rapidly were the flames making their way aft. Still the generous seamen obeyed the call of duty, and endeavoured to see the most helpless rescued from immediate destruction before they attempted to seek their own safety. The frail raft was launched: one by one the people descended on it: still many remained on board.
There was a loud explosion! Fragments of the wreck flew high into the air. Bright hungry flames enveloped the whole ship. Jack felt his arm seized, and in another moment he was struggling in the waves supported by Sambo, who then struck out for the nearest boat, the ship’s launch. They were taken on board. Sad and solemn was the sight as Jack watched the burning ship, casting its ruddy glare on the tossing foam-crested waves, the tossing boats and helpless raft. The launch, already crowded, could take no more people in, and the second officer, who had charge of her, judged it necessary to keep her before the wind. So hoisting sail they soon left their companions in misfortune and the burning wreck far astern. Yet how miserable was the condition of the people in that storm-tossed boat. Great also were their fears as to the fate of those from whom they had just parted. What hope also could they have for themselves? No sail in sight, land far far away, with small supply of provisions or water. The mate, Mr Collins, was a man of decision and judgment. The scanty store was husbanded to the utmost, grumblers were silenced, discipline was maintained.
Still the sufferings of all were great. Exposed to the sun by day, to the cold at night, wet to the skin, with but little food, one after the other they died.
A fortnight passed away. Still no ship appeared in sight, no land was made. Scarcely could any of those in the boat have been recognised by their dearest friends, so sad was the change wrought by those days of suffering. The wind now shifting, the mate determined to steer for the Falkland Islands, the nearest land he could expect to make. There, at all events, they could obtain water and fresh meat. Still it was a hundred leagues or more away: could any hope to live to reach that resting place for their feet? Alas, their hollow voices, their haggard countenances as in despair they looked into each other’s faces, told them that such hope was vain. Jack and Sambo sat side by side, others talked of home and friends, and entreated those who might survive to bear their last messages to those friends in their far, far-off homes; but Jack and the black had no homes, no friends to mourn their loss. Much anguish were they saved. It might have been the reason that they retained their strength while others sunk under their trials. Jack remembered also how he and Sambo had before been preserved, and did not despair.
Day after day passed away, the boat sailed on, her track marked by the bodies of those committed to their uncoffined graves. Strong men, as well as women and children, young as well as old, sank and died. At length six only remained, the mate, and Jack, and Sambo, and three others of the crew. They had no water—no food. The three men had drawn together and had been holding consultation forward. “It must be done,” muttered one, in a low ominous voice.
“We are not all going to die,” growled out another, looking towards the mate who was steering; “we’ve made up our minds, sir, to draw lots.”
“For what?” exclaimed the mate with startling energy; “for what, I ask, fellow?”
The man did not answer. There was something in the mate’s tone which silenced him.
“No more of that while I live,” added Mr Collins, drawing a pistol from his bosom and laying it beside him. For many hours after this not a word was spoken.