Barclay could not wait till he got on board, but broke the bottle open. Strange, indeed, was the document enclosed, and it proved that the bottle must have floated about for thirty years and over.
Yes, strange and sad was the missive.
“H.M.S. Gun-brig ‘Tartar,’
“August 21st, 1810. Lat. 30° N., long. 43° W.”
“On fire. Nothing can save us. All boats destroyed. Sinking fast. We commend our souls——”
The message broke off abruptly here. There had been no more time. The brave fellows had thrown the bottle into the sea, and now—
“The billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid’s song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave.”
On a heaped-up bank of seaweed one day Barclay found quite a quantity of birds’ nests, those of a large species of gull, plentiful enough in this Sea of Sargasso.
He felt a little compunction in taking them away, but it seemed a necessity, although Barclay was certainly not one of those self-conceited saints who believe that every creature and thing in this world was made for man’s use. Says some poet—Pope, I think, though I cannot be sure, for a man’s memory plays him queer tricks at times, and causes him, in cold blood, to murder the best of quotations—
“‘All things on earth were made for mankind’s use,’
‘And man for mine,’ replied the pampered goose.”
. . . . . .
One night, however, Barclay got belated, and finding he could not reach the Zingara that night, determined to lie where he was.