CHAPTER XXVI
THE OPEN BOAT
That day and night they in the open boat merely lived to die. With each wave of a sea yet in storm Death overhung them, the foam atop gleaming down like a white skull. The boat rode that wave, and then Death rose on another. There seemed naught to do in life but to meet Death—a little candle left to go forth by. Death preoccupied them—it was so wide and massive, it came against them in such tourney shocks. “Now ... No!—Then now....” But still the boat lived and the candle burned. When the dawn broke the waves were seen to be lessening in might.
That day the sea went down and the sky cleared. Sea and sky turned a marvel of blue, Indian, wondrous. There was a wind, steadily and quietly blowing, but it served them not who had no sail. All around—all around the intense sea spread to the horizon, and no sail showed and no land. The sun mounted and for all the moving air they felt its heat which increased. Heat and light—light—light....
The cask of water.... They found beside it a small drinking-cup of horn, and they agreed that each should drink this once filled each day. It was little, but so they might keep Death at bay so many days. They also portioned out the ship’s bread. Likewise they watched for a sail. They were now in seas where ships might be looked for; west and south must lie the islands held by Spain. Once two sea-birds flew past them, and that would mean that land was not inconceivably far away. But they saw no land, and no sail was etched against the sapphire sky. Loneliness profound, and heat and light....
All was done that could be done to preserve life. It remained to live it.... But poor Humphrey Lantern, whom the other two tried to comfort, would not be comforted. He sat and bit his nails, full of remorse and horror, then passed through stages of anger to a melancholy, and thence to a dull indifference, silence, and abstraction. They could not rouse him. Aderhold spoke in vain of the Low Countries and the wars, and of all the good that they owed him, and of how they might yet live to remember these days not unkindly. Lantern, huddled in the bottom of the boat, looked at them blankly. His abused body sank more quickly than did theirs.... He had a knife, and at last one night, when they had been drifting long days and nights, he struck it into his heart. The body, swaying against Aderhold, roused him from uneasy sleep. His exclamation waked Joan; she put out her hand and raised it wet with blood. A moon so great and shining lit the night that they could see well enough what had been done. Lantern was dead. They laid him straight in the bottom of the boat. Aderhold drew out and washed the knife, and then they sat beside the dead man until the moon paled in the vast rose-flush of dawn. Then, while sea and sky were so beauteous, they lifted the body; then, while they looked to the brightening east, let it leave their hands for the great deep. Wind and current bore the boat slowly onward and away. The two were now so weak that they lay still as after great and prolonged exertion.
The day burned to its height, flamed to its close. There came a sunset of supernal beauty, and then the pitying, brief twilight and the glory of the southern night. The coolness gave a little strength. Aderhold set the cup to the mouth of the cask and poured for each a shallow draught of water. They should not have drunk till morning, for their store was nearly gone. But with one mind they took this, to give them voice, to free them for a little from gross pain. When it was done they turned each to the other, came each to the other’s arms.
Another dawn—the furnace of the day—sunset—the night. The wheel went round and they, bound to it, came again to dawn and then to strong light and heat. When they had drunk this morning, there remained of the water but one cupful more. They lay, hand clasping hand, in the bottom of the boat that now drifted on a waveless sea. Sometimes they murmured to each other, but for the most part they lay silent. There was now no outward beauty in the two. They lay withered, scorched, fleshless, half-naked, human life at last gasp between the ocean and the sky. Within, all strength and beauty could summon only negatives. They did not complain, they did not curse, they did not despair, they did not hate. Within was a stillness as of a desert, with a low wind of life moving over it. The physical could not lift far into emotion, but what there was was love and pity. Emotion could hardly attain to thought, nor thought to intuition, but what there was knew still the splendour and terror and all things that we are. Day—eve—the night—the dawn—day. They measured out the last water in the cask and shared it justly between them. They lay side by side, his hand upon her breast, her hand upon his. The fierce heat, the fierce sunlight rose and reigned....
A crazy, undecked sailboat came out of the haze. It was returning from a great island south to a group of small islands lying northerly in these seas, and it held five or six Indians—not the fiercer, southern Caribs, but mild Lucayans. One spied a dot upon the waters and pointed it out. They drew slowly nearer in a light wind, and when they saw that it was a boat adrift, tacked and came up with it. A man leaned overboard, seized and drew it in, and with a rope fastened it to the stern of the larger craft. Uttering exclamations, they examined their prize. In the bottom of the boat lay a man and a woman in man’s dress. They lay unconscious, wreathed in each other’s arms, two parched and gaunt creatures who had suffered the extremity of exposure, hunger, and thirst. The Indians thought that they were dead, and, indeed, they looked like death and terrible death. But when they were lifted and dragged into the larger boat, and when water was put between their blackened and shrivelled lips, there came a faint stir and a moaning breath.... The Indians had good store of water in cask and calabash; they gave it again from time to time, and they crumbled cassava bread and fed that too.... Joan and Aderhold turned back to the land of the living.