There was one thing that proved a matter of much regret to the crew, and that was the want of a fowling-piece, or firearm of any kind. Had they possessed a gun, however old and bad, with ammunition for it, they would have been certain, at some period of their voyage, to shoot a few sea-birds, with which they expected to fall in on approaching the land, even although many days distant from it. But having nothing of the kind, their hope of adding to their slender stock of provisions was very small indeed. Fortunately, they had one or two fishing-lines, but in the deep water, over which for many days they had to sail, fishing was out of the question.
This matter of the provisions was a source of constant anxiety to Captain Dunning. He had calculated the amount of their stores to an ounce, and ascertained that at a certain rate of distribution they would barely serve for the voyage, and this without making any allowance for interruptions or detentions. He knew the exact distance to be passed over, namely, 2322 miles in a straight line, and he had ascertained the sailing and rowing powers of the boat and crew; thus he was enabled to arrive at a pretty correct idea of the probable duration of the voyage, supposing that all should go well. But in the event of strong contrary winds arising, no fresh supplies of fish or fowl being obtained, or sickness breaking out among the men, he knew either that they must starve altogether, or that he must at once, before it was too late, still farther reduce the scanty allowance of food and drink to each man.
The captain sat at the helm one fine evening, about a week after their departure from Fairyland, brooding deeply over this subject. The boat was running before a light breeze, at the rate of about four or five knots, and the men, who had been obliged to row a good part of that day, were sitting or reclining on the thwarts, or leaning over the gunwale, watching the ripples as they glided by, and enjoying the rest from labour; for now that they had been for some time on reduced allowance of food, they felt less able for work than they used to be, and often began to look forward with intense longing to seasons of repose. Ailie was sitting near the entrance of her little sleeping apartment—which the men denominated a kennel—and master Jacko was seated on the top of it, scratching his sides and enjoying the sunshine.
“My lads,” said the captain, breaking a silence which had lasted a considerable time, “I’m afraid I shall have to reduce our allowance still farther.”
This remark was received by Gurney and Phil Briant with a suppressed groan—by the other men in silence.
“You see,” continued the captain, “it won’t do to count upon chances, which may or may not turn out to be poor. We can, by fixing our allowance per man at a lower rate, make quite certain of our food lasting us until we reach the Cape, even if we should experience a little detention; but if we go on at the present rate, we are equally certain that it will fail us just at the last.”
“We’re sartain to fall in with birds before we near the land,” murmured Gurney, with a rueful expression of countenance.
“We are certain of nothing,” replied the captain; “but even suppose we were, how are we to get hold of them?”
“That’s true,” observed Briant, who solaced himself with his pipe in the absence of a sufficiency of food. “Sea-birds, no more nor land-birds, ain’t given to pluckin’ and roastin’ themselves, and flyin’ down people’s throats ready cooked.”
“Besides,” resumed the captain, “the plan I propose, although it will entail a little more present self-denial, will, humanly speaking, ensure our getting through the voyage with life in us even at the worst, and if we are so lucky as to catch fish or procure birds in any way, why we shall fare sumptuously.”