"Surely not!" exclaimed my father in a horrified voice. "Surely not! Count again, Conolly. Perhaps we cannot see every one. Isn't that a man's head just showing above the boat's quarter?"
"... nine, ten, eleven."
There was no mistake in the numbers. Another man had gone to his last account, and who was it? Not my uncle; he was in the water, holding on to the side of the boat; nor the bos'n, nor Lord, the quartermaster. Dailey, Stainer, and Mills were in the boat. Hinks, Money, Lewis, Burbidge, and Alec Johnston, they were safe. Then only Joe Dirham remained to be accounted for.
"Where's Dirham?" shouted my father as the boat crept alongside and was made fast.
"Gone, sir," replied the survivors in a chorus. "Dragged down by the whaler as she sank."
The men came in over the side, and the gig, with four of the boxes of specie, was hauled up in the davits, and despondently, the crew went for'ard to change their saturated garments.
For a while my father remained lost in thought, gazing blankly at the spot where the whaler had sunk, the blue now peaceful and unruffled. At length, overcome by the bitterness of his emotion, he turned on his heel and sought the solitude of his cabin.
But pressing work had to be done. The whole of the iron ballast, including the quantity which we had hoped would be supplanted by the pigs of silver, had to be replaced with the utmost dispatch; the water tanks had to be refilled, and stores procured from the island. Working day and night in relays, the crew accomplished their task within forty hours, and the "Fortuna" was ready for her long homeward voyage.