God knows to whom that weak, sick voice belonged. It struck a horror into me.
'We must give them air, Jacob,' I cried, 'or they're all dead men. What is to be done?'
'There's nowt for it but to open the hatch,' he answered.
'Yes,' cried I; 'we can lay bare a little space of the hatchway—enough to freely ventilate the forecastle. But how to contrive that they shall not slip the cover far enough back to enable them to get out?'
He thought a moment, then, with the promptitude that is part of the education of the seafaring life, he cried, 'I have it!'
Next moment he was speeding aft. I saw him spring into the starboard quarter-boat with an energy that proved his heart an honest and humane one, and in a trice he was coming forward holding a couple of boat stretchers—that is to say, pieces of wood which are placed in the bottom of a boat for the oarsman to strain his legs against.
'These'll fit, I allow,' cried he, 'and save half an hour of sawing and cutting and planing.'
He placed them parallel upon the after-lid, and their foremost extremities suffered the lid which travelled to be opened to a width that gave plenty of scope for air, but through which it would have been impossible for the slenderest human figure to squeeze. Between us we bound these stretchers so that there was no possibility of their shifting, and then I tried the sliding cover, and found it as hard-set as though wholly closed and padlocked.
'How is it now with you?' I cried, through this interstice.
The reply came in the form of a near chorus of murmurs, which gave me to know that all the poor wretches had drawn together under the hatch to breathe. I desired to be satisfied that there was air enough for them, and called again, 'How is it with you now, men?'