The First Mate: The Story of a Strange Cruise

by Harry Collingwood

Strenuously we toiled, and when at length the light failed us we had risen the craft sufficiently to determine that she was a fore-and-aft schooner. Then our difficulties began, for there were no stars, and within ten minutes of the time of sunset it fell pitch-dark, from which moment our course was largely a matter of guesswork. The two girls and Julius declared that they were so tired and their hands were so raw that they could do no more; whereupon Mrs Vansittart and Anthea took one oar, while I laboured on at the other. But by this time I, too, was weak and trembling with exhaustion to such an extent that I could scarcely lift the blade of my oar out of the water, while my thirst was so intolerable that at length I was fairly driven to the proposal that we should all risk the indulgence in an extra ration of water.

Even this revived me but for a few minutes, and finally I had to confess to a feeling of such dizziness and confusion that I could no longer be responsible for the course of the boat, and had to beg Mrs Vansittart to assume that duty. The next hour was one of absolute torment to me. My arms felt as though they were about to drop out of their sockets, my back ached intolerably, every breath I drew was like a knife piercing my lungs, my head throbbed as though it would burst, and my eyes were sightless. Then there came a small four-knot breeze out from about North-North-West, which was too shy a wind for us with our unadjustable substitute for a sail; and with the knowledge that unless the schooner happened to be bound in our direction we should miss her, and all our efforts would be thrown away, I dropped insensible in the cockpit and so remained for a full hour or more, despite the efforts of the others to revive me.

When at length I came to myself, a brisk westerly breeze was blowing, and the boat was scudding before it, with Mrs Vansittart at the steering oar. The moon was just rising, but so little of her light as yet came filtering through the veil of cloud which overspread the sky that it was impossible to see anything more than the faint sheen of her light upon the briskly rippling surface of the sea; and although we scanned the whole visible horizon in search of a light that should indicate the position of the schooner, our search was unrewarded.

To be brief, we saw no more of that schooner. As the night progressed the wind increased until by morning it was blowing so strongly that we could do nothing but run before it. Luckily, our craft proved to be an unexpectedly good sea boat, and scudded dry, although her behaviour was at times so unlike that of the boat of normal model that we were somewhat puzzled as to what was going to happen next. We scudded all that day, and the whole of the succeeding night, by which time the wind had raised what was, to us, such a formidable sea that we deemed it wise to heave to, lest some heavier sea than usual should break aboard and swamp us. With great difficulty and considerable danger to ourselves, we therefore lowered the arrangement of planks that served us as mast and sail combined, and, bending our painter to them, rode to them as to a sea anchor.

By this time I was feeling really ill. Hard work and exhaustion were telling upon me with increasing severity almost hourly, and now upon the top of these came bitter anxiety.

My heart ached for my companions, especially the women folk. They did their utmost to seem cheerful, but it was pitiable to see the dreadful languor of their movements, their hollow cheeks, the dark markings under their eyes and, above all, the terrible look of suffering and despair that was beginning to reveal itself in the eyes themselves. Yet not a word of discouragement or complaint passed their black and cracking lips; they simply lay about, moving as little as possible, and endured silently. As for me, I could think of nothing, do nothing to help them. It was horrible!

That gale lasted four interminable days before it blew itself out, which it did later in the afternoon; and about sunset of the same day we consumed the last scrap of food that remained to us. Then, with moans of utter despair, those poor dear women crawled into their lair beneath the deck—to die, as they and I verily believed. As for Julius, he was nearly as bad as they were, but those last days in the wreck and the nine days in the boat had wrought a miracle in him. All the perversity and selfishness of character that had before distinguished him had gone, and he had come out of the fires of adversity and suffering purged, a new and a right gallant, manly boy—how manly I did not know until some time afterward, when it came out that, watching me and observing that I took a trifle less food and water than I served out to others, he had surreptitiously returned a portion of his own meagre allowance. Poor boy! so far as usefulness was concerned, he was already as good as dead, for he could do nothing but just lie where he had flung himself down, utterly exhausted, and moan piteously.

Being naturally robust, I still retained a small modicum of strength. This I utilised by hauling in the sea anchor, and, with superhuman exertion, setting it up in place again, not so much with any hope that it would blow us to land, as that it might attract attention aboard some passing ship and lead them to bear down upon and rescue us. This last bit of exertion finished me off, too, and I had not enough strength left even to stagger aft to the cockpit; I simply collapsed on the deck and knew no more.

I must have lain thus all through the night, for when at length consciousness returned it was broad day, with the sun about an hour high in a sky of exquisite stainless blue. The long hours of unconsciousness or sleep—perhaps it partook of both—had somewhat restored me, and I sat up, staring about me.

Merciful heaven! were my eyes deceiving me? Had I gone crazy, or was what I beheld real? I stared and stared with eyes that seemed to be starting out of my head, but the vision—if vision it was—remained stable. There lay a fair island, with trees that seemed to wave gently in the brisk morning breeze, and a hill that might almost be termed a mountain nearly in its centre. That island was dead to leeward of us, and all that we had to do was to run down to it and land upon it, if God would only be merciful enough to allow the fair breeze to last.