“No, I am here, all right,” said I, “and sound, I think, with the exception of a few bruises. Are there any other officers among us?”
“I’m here,” replied Pottle.
“And I,” said Woodford.
“And I,” added Marchmont, the younger of the two midshipmen.
“Well done!” thought I, “this is better than I dared hope.” I invited the speakers to join me in my comparatively sheltered position in the crosstrees; and when they had done so an effort was made to ascertain the extent of our loss. This, after a great deal of difficulty, we found consisted of the surgeon, the boatswain, the senior mid, and fifty men, leaving thirty-two clinging to the foremast. This was a very heavy loss; and I felt it so bitterly that for the first half-hour after it was ascertained I almost regretted my own preservation. This feeling, however, was nothing short of impious ingratitude, and so, on reflection, I recognised it to be; with an unspoken prayer, therefore, for pardon to that great Being who had so mercifully preserved me, I strove to divert my thoughts from the melancholy reflections which assailed me, by an endeavour to devise some means for our continued preservation. After a long consultation with Woodford respecting our probable position, it was agreed between us that, as soon as the weather moderated and the sea went down sufficiently, an endeavour should be made to construct some sort of a raft out of the wreckage which was then supporting us, and on it to make our way, if possible, to the southward, hoping to be fallen in with and picked up by the Dido; failing which we would try to reach the mainland, and either seize a small vessel or give ourselves up to the Spaniards, according as circumstances turned out.
We had just come to the above-mentioned conclusion when Collins remarked, hopefully:
“The gale seems to have broken, sir; it is certainly not blowing so hard; and the seas don’t seem to be breaking quite so heavily; and—look, sir—look, lads, the sky is breaking away overhead; I can see a star. Ah! it’s gone again—but there’s another. Hurrah, my hearties! keep up your spirits and hold on to the spar like grim death; we’ll weather upon old Davy yet, this bout.”
It was quite true; the sky was rapidly clearing, and half an hour later it was a brilliant starlight night; the wind, too, was dropping rapidly, and the sea no longer broke so heavily or so incessantly over us as it had done at first. Fortunately for us the water was quite warm; we therefore suffered no inconvenience whatever from the immersion.
At length, after what seemed to us an endless night, day broke; the atmosphere was gloriously bright and clear, the wind had dropped to a fine topgallant breeze, and the sea had gone down sufficiently to allow of our commencing operations; as, therefore, we had no breakfast to get or anything else to detain us, we started at once; and all hands were soon busy cutting adrift the spars, knotting and splicing cordage, and in other ways forwarding the work as actively as possible under the circumstances. We found, however, that we had a long and, from lack of sufficient timber, a difficult job before us; and as the morning wore on it was made additionally so by the appearance of several ravenous sharks close to us, which were only restrained from making an attack by an incessant splashing maintained by all hands except the half-dozen we could spare to get on with the work.
At length—it was getting well on in the afternoon, by the appearance of the sun—when, in despite of all our difficulties, we were beginning to bring our raft into something like shape, we were suddenly startled from our work by the hoarse cry of “Sail ho!” raised by one of the men; and, lifting our eyes from our work, we waited until we rose to the top of a wave, when there she was, sure enough, a large ship apparently, under topsails, approaching us from the southward and westward, and only about five miles distant. A hearty cheer was at once raised by all hands at this unexpected prospect of rescue; and then we went to work once more with renewed vigour and activity to establish a means of making our presence known, as we felt convinced that, though she was heading straight for us, we had not yet been discovered by her.