The rescued sailor was placed in a cot and given at first a small quantity of thin soup which Snowball was busily concocting for the cabin dinner, and after that, nourishment at intervals. By these restorative measures, in a day or two, he recovered sufficiently to be able to tell who he was and how he came to be in such a sad plight.
He was a Norwegian sailor, he said, and belonged to an American whaler which had been on her voyage home after a three years’ whaling cruise in the South Pacific. On rounding Cape Horn, they had encountered a fearful storm which had nearly dismasted the ship and washed the master and five hands overboard. He and four others had launched the only boat they had left over the side, trying to pick up their shipmates; but, the sea was too heavy for them, and when they endeavoured to return, they found they could not fetch their vessel again, which perhaps was just as well, for soon afterwards they saw her go down stern foremost. After that, they ran before the wind for several days and nights—how long he could not tell—until his four comrades had died from exhaustion, and he himself, he believed, was just on the point of giving up his life when providence sent the Nancy Bell to succour him.
“Ach der goot Gott!” said the man in his half German, half English way, speaking brokenly and with tears in his eyes. “Der lieber Gott! I shall nevare vergersen sie nevare!”
They had had, he said, a breaker of water in the boat when they quitted the whaler, but this was soon drunk out, and although they had occasionally something to eat, catching several fish, they suffered terribly from thirst. It was that which had killed his comrades mainly. As for him, he bore it better than them, but it must have been eight days since a drop of liquid had passed his lips.
“Golly, dat am bad,” said Snowball in the galley that evening, when some of the hands gathered round the caboose to have a comfortable pipe and talk over the events of the day. “Dat orful bad, eight day widout grub or liquor! dis niggah not able ’tomach dat for sure!”
“Lor’, Snowball, that’s nothing when you are used to it,” said Ben Boltrope, the man-o’-war’s-man, who was pretty well king of the forecastle by reason of his service in the navy and general smartness as a seaman. “What is eight days in a boat without grub, when you’ve got to go ten, as I’ve done, besides wandering about on a sandy shore after swimming for a day and night to save my life? Why, that’s nothing!”
“Goramighty, Massa Boltrope, you no swim ten day widout habin’ notin’ to eat, nor no water, hey?” said Snowball in astonishment.
“No, you blessed donkey, I didn’t say that,” replied the worthy Jack tar. “I said as how I had gone without grub or water for ten days after swimming for more than twelve hours.”
“Dat berry rum for sure,” said the darkey—“don’t know how to belieb dat, no how!”