The sixth day dawned as the wind freshened and the waning moon went down in clouds; it dawned upon an angry sea, a leaden sky, and with a cold breeze that bore no ship—no hope of release towards us.
On, this day two more of our men, who had been lying in a torpid state for three hours, died, and were cast overboard. We were completely callous now. About eleven in the forenoon, Hans Peterkin, who was steering, suddenly uttered a hoarse cry.
"See—see!" he exclaimed, pointing a-head, while glaring with haggard eyes; "a sail—a sail! Thanks be to God," he added, pulling off his fur cap, "we are saved!"
We that were rowing turned, and those who were dozing between the thwarts sprang up; and there sure enough, hull down about eighteen miles off, we saw a large ship under a cloud of dark canvas, which had evidently been wet by rain overnight, running close-hauled upon the starboard tack, and going with great speed through the water.
Oh the ecstasy of this sight!
We trimmed our little sail anew; we hoisted all our neck-ties at the mast-head, as a signal; we pulled with the strength of madmen—madmen, who were dying and despairing—towards her; but she saw us not, (I dare not say that her crew heeded not.) Though for a time we seemed to gain upon her, the wind freshened so much that she was soon out of sight; and once more, after all our prayers, our longings, and our joy, we were left alone upon the sullen sea—alone amid emotions too terrible to delineate, for hope and life went with her!
Some of our strongest men wrung their hands and wept. Three days after this, those who had restrained the maddening desire to drink of the sea, now gave loose to their burning thirst, and heedless of the appeals of Hartly and the warnings of Peterkin, plunged their wasted hands in the brine, and drank it in great quantities.
The sequel soon followed—a delirium and insanity which rapidly became infectious.
All were soon raving. Hartly talked of his dead wife—of their little ones, and the green churchyard, where they lay under an old yew-tree; then of his lost ship, and the ring of the Iceland witch.
Hans sang Orkney songs in a guttural dialect—half Scottish and half Norse; and believed himself to be whaling in the Pentland Firth, and Sound of Yell. Paul Reeves sat with a serious but fatuous aspect, writing an imaginary log with his fingers on the boat-thwart; Cuffy played scraps of negro-melodies on his violin; and believed himself to be in his caboose, cooking a sumptuous dinner for those in the cabin.