Left to Themselves: Being the Ordeal of Philip and Gerald

by Edward Prime-Stevenson

“But—then—then,” said Gerald, eagerly, “we couldn’t have any such story to tell people for the rest of our lives—if we get through this part of it all right. I guess we will. I’m sure we will. Philip”—he suddenly changed his tone—“what was that quarrel, just before we put off last night, between some man—a gentleman, I think—and the captain? Don’t you remember? He said his son was with us. You spoke to Mr. Eversham, too.”

“It was a mistake,” Philip quickly responded. “I—I happened to know it, and Captain Widgins didn’t want to lose an instant. So he put a stop to the man’s tongue.”

The afternoon glided away in much the same way as the morning. After their rations had been apportioned and eaten Gerald slept heavily. No succoring vessel, no glimpses of the sun—fog and the sea still curtaining them around. Philip took account of their provisions. There were two boxes of biscuit, but the water was low in its can. The two light satchels that had been hanging across their shoulders, by straps, at the time of the boat’s overturn had not parted their company, but they contained no eatables. Philip stared out, thinking, it seemed to him, every thing that had ever happened to him in his whole life until this afternoon as far away and unreal. Now and then he read a few pages in a battered copy of Scott’s Poems that he had been carrying in his pocket for a week or two. Night came. With the last light their situation was unchanged, except that they seemed to be in a particular current which sped the boat along with uncommon persistency in a particular direction—north, south, east, or west, he surmised in turn.

Gerald broke down pitifully once. The strain and privation began to tell visibly on the little boy. Then he slept again. Pitch darkness once more. The sea was almost tranquil. Once Philip thought he heard breakers roaring afar on his right, but the faint sound died directly. To steer was useless. He was beaten down, by weariness, exposure, and sleeplessness, night and day. He would be on the alert for both. But he could not be. Unwillingly his senses grew dull, his head drooped. He lay back in the stern, thinking that he was resisting nature successfully, and that his ears and eyes, at least, were performing their self-sacrificing task. In a few moments he slept profoundly, so unwakably that he did not feel the edge of the stern-seat pressing into his neck, nor the occasional dash of a few drops of water over his face.

Awake once more? A cry of wonder and astonishment broke from his lips when he started up. It was a shout of delight that made Gerald, too, open his eyes and lift himself quickly upright.

Where were the night, the fog, the threatenings of the sea? It was a bright, golden, enchanting autumn morning, a little past sunrise. The air was clear as crystal, the sky the bluest of blue, the sea twinkling in the early rays. As far as their eyes could see on one side stretched the water, all its threats turned to one calm smile. A pale sail or two showed above the horizon. On one side opened out the limitless ocean; on the other, only some ten or twelve miles away, stretched the coast near to which they had been tossing ever since their helplessness to reach it had begun.

But there was far more than that of immediate promise that their perils were ended as suddenly as they had risen. There lay, in full view, perhaps two miles from the spot where they drifted, in a current carrying them straight in its direction, a low green island. They could see one or two white buildings, probably a farm-house and other structures. The crow of cocks and the low of a cow came to their ears distinctly. They made out from where they were several tilled fields, stone walls and fences, a hollow tract that possibly contained a pond of fresh water for cattle; and trees grew in an orchard behind the dwelling-house, around which were clumps and patches of deeper verdure. There was no mistake. They were not to be cast on any desolate shore, like some new Robinson Crusoes; but if they could make that land they would set their feet in some one of the little water-locked farms that now and then occur along the shore of the seaboard States of New England—solitary little spots that the owners sometimes make green with every thing, from corn to clover, and to the kitchen-garden of which more than one yachtsman can testify.

“Do you think we can make it?” asked Gerald. They had forgotten every thing of the stern and wearisome past, in their relief and hope.

“I should say we were going there about as straight as we could,” cried Philip. “This is a wonderfully steady current. They’re lazy folks there, though. No smoke from the chimneys yet, and it’s a good deal after six, you say. If only we could row!”

The boat kept on its course with Philip’s care. The light air blew in their faces and dashed the little waves gayly. They were going to get to shore! They were saved! They should see their friends again and tell with living lips the story of their dangers and deliverance. They almost held their breaths with hope and suspense. Still nearer and nearer they slowly drew to the island. New details and those of the farm and the farm-house—there seemed to be only one—came, bit by bit, into clearer sight. At the land’s nearer edge rocks and shallows alternated and long stretches of brush or meadow sloped back. A little creek opened in view, with a rough pier built out into it, and from the rickety dock ran back a road or lane, between what appeared to be corn-fields, to the door of the house, with its high roof and two or three wings. A fence inclosed it and a garden; and some tall trees grouped themselves beside its chimney.