“What is it, Ben?” I enquired.
“Ugly news, Will! ugly news!”
“What news?”
“The water be out!”
Chapter Forty Three.
I was not so much affected by this laconic piece of intelligence, as I might have been had I known more of the sea; and perhaps I should have regarded it still less, but for the gloomy glances and apprehensive air of those around me. I was not stunned by it at the first announcement; but it was not long before I became sufficiently alive to the terrible meaning of those simple words—“The water be out.”
Puzzled by the ungrammatical construction of the phrase, you are probably inquiring what it meant. I shall tell you.
It meant that all the fresh-water on board the Pandora had been used—that the water casks were empty, and that we were in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, with not the slightest chance of obtaining a fresh supply—that it would be weeks before we could possibly reach land—that under the burning tropic sun that was shining constantly down upon us, one week would be enough for thirst to do its work; but if any should survive that period, then a second week would finish them—in short, within two weeks one and all of us were doomed to perish! Black slaves and white masters—tyrants and victims—the innocent and the guilty, must all succumb to the same fate—every living thing on board the Pandora must die!