They reached the shore in safety, and drew up the boat high and dry. But none too soon; for, before they got on board once more, a terrible thunderstorm had come on, with lightning more vivid than any one on the hulk ever remembered.
I have Tandy’s log before me as I write, and I do not think I can do better than make a few extracts therefrom.
“The lost Barque, Sea Flower.—On the rocks, in Treachery Bay, Isle of Misfortune, latitude —, longitude —, August 5, 18—. Buried poor James Malone to-day. Halcott terribly cut up. Doesn’t seem to be the same man. But we all miss James; he was so gentle, so kind, and true. We miss Fitz also. His merry ways and laughing face made him a favourite with us all. And honest Tom Wilson; we shall never again hear his sweet music. Thank Heaven that, though the thunder is now rolling, the lightning flashing, and a rain that looks like mud falling, I have my darlings both beside me! In the darkest hours I have ever spent in life, I’ve always had something to comfort me. Yes, God is good.
“The sun is setting. I never saw a sun look so lurid and red before. The thunder continues, but the rain has ceased. There are frequent smart shocks of earthquake.
“August 8.—Two awful days and nights have passed, and still we are all alive. The days have been days of darkness; the ashes and scoriae have been falling constantly, and now lie an inch at least in depth upon our deck. Nights lit up by the flames that spout cloud-high from the volcano, carrying with them rocks and stones and steam. There is a terribly mephitic vapour over everything. How long this may last Heaven alone can tell.”
“August 12.—Four more fearful days. The eruption continues with unabated horror—the thunderings, the lightnings, the showers of stones and ashes, and the rolling clouds of dust through which, even at midday, the sun glares like a ball of crimson fire.
“Poor Chips is dead; we buried him yesterday. More of us are ill. Halcott himself is depressed, and my wee Nelda cares for nothing save lying languidly on the sofa all day long. The thought that she may die haunts me night and day.”
“August 13.—Almost at the last of our provisions. The biscuit is finished; the very dust has been scraped up and eaten. Not more than a score of tins of soupe en bouille left in the ship, and about one gallon of rum. Served out to-day what remained of the salmon, and gave double allowance of rum to-night.
“Not a green thing seems to be left on the island.”
“August 15.—Feel languid and weary. Went to prayers to-day. All our hopes must now centre in the life to come; we have none for this.”