“So with a good breeze blowing towards the northward,” Fritz went on, “two hours should be enough to take us to it.”
“Unfortunately,” said Frank, “the breeze is very uncertain, and seems to be inclined to go back. If it doesn’t drop altogether I am afraid it may be against us.”
“What about the oars?” Fritz rejoined. “Can’t we take to the oars, my brother and James, and I, while you take the tiller, bos’un? We could row for several hours.”
“Take to the oars!” Gould commanded, in an almost inaudible voice.
It was a pity that the captain was not in a fit state to steer, for, with four of them to row, the crew might have made a better job of it.
Besides, although Fritz and Frank and James were in the full vigour of youth, and the boatswain was a sturdy fellow still, and all were thoroughly hardened to physical exercise, yet they were terribly weakened now by privation and fatigue. A week had passed since they had been cast adrift from the Flag. They had economised their provisions, yet only enough remained to last them for twenty-four hours. On three or four occasions they had caught a few fish by trailing lines behind the boat. A little stove, a little kettle, and a saucepan were all the utensils they possessed, besides their pocket knives. And if this land were no more than a rocky island, if the boat were obliged to resume her painful course for more long days, looking for a continent or an island where existence might be possible—what then?
But all felt hope reviving again. Instead of the boat that was threatened by squalls and tossed about by the waves and half filled by the sea, they would at least feel firm ground under their feet. They would install themselves in some cave to shelter there from bad weather. Perhaps they would find a fertile soil, with edible roots and fruits. And there they would be able to await the passing of a ship, without need to fear hunger or thirst. The ship would see their signals, would come to the rescue of the castaways—all that and more they saw through the mirage of hope!
Did the coast thus seen belong to some group of islands situated beyond the Tropic of Capricorn? That was what the boatswain and Fritz discussed in undertones. Jenny and Dolly had resumed their seats in the bottom of the boat, and the little boy was sleeping in Mrs. Wolston’s arms. Captain Gould, eaten up with fever, had been carried back under the poop, and Jenny was soaking compresses in cold water to lay upon his head.
Fritz propounded many theories, none of them very encouraging. He was pretty sure that the Flag had sailed a long way to the east during the week after the mutiny. In that case the boat would have been cast adrift in that part of the Indian Ocean where the charts show only a few islands, Amsterdam and Saint Paul, or, farther south, the archipelago of Kerguelen. Yet even in these islands, the former deserted, the latter inhabited, life would be assured, salvation certain, and—who could say?—some day or other they might be able to get home from there.
Besides, if since the 27th of September, the ship’s boat had been carried northwards by the breeze from the south, it was just possible that this land was part of the Australian continent. If they got to Hobart Town, Melbourne, or Adelaide, they would be safe. But if the boat landed in the south-west portion, in King George’s Bay or by Cape Leeuwin, a country inhabited by hordes of savages, the position would be more serious. Here at sea there was at least a chance of falling in with a ship bound for Australia or some of the Pacific Islands.