Langton and Owen were unwilling to throw their messmate overboard, for they had nothing to sink the body.
“We must try and carry it to the shore and give it burial,” said Langton.
Owen was perfectly ready to do this, though when they should reach the shore was a question.
Hour after hour the calm continued. Often they could scarcely bear the heat. Langton, who took the command, served out a small piece of melon at a time, which somewhat alleviated their thirst, while the biscuits—though wetted by the water, which had got into the cask—satisfied their hunger.
At length, towards evening, a breeze from the northward sprang up. The sail was hoisted, and by means of a paddle on either side they managed to steer the raft.
“We are making nearly two knots an hour,” said Owen, as the breeze freshened. “During the night we shall, I hope, reach the island to the southward.”
“That depends on what currents me encounter, or whether the wind continues,” answered Langton; “I would rather get up to the shore at daylight when we may choose a place for landing.”
The raft required all their attention, for the sail being large it might in a moment have been upset. Nat was stationed at the halyards, and Mike at the sheet, while Langton and Owen steered. Darkness came on, but the breeze continued. They appeared to have made good progress. The fear was that the wind might increase still more. Langton thought it prudent to reef the sail. Scarcely had they done so than a squall came over the water, and sent the raft flying along at a far more rapid rate than it had hitherto moved. The wind, however, soon again dropped, and the raft moved on as slowly as before. The night became unusually dark, the sky was obscured, and it was impossible to ascertain in what direction the raft was drifting. The party on it could only hope that it was continuing on the same course as before, still it was possible that it might be drifting out through either of the channels to the right or left, and that they might miss the island which they had hoped to reach. Mike and Nat kept up their spirits.
“If it was not for poor Mr Ashurst I’d be afther singing yer a stave to prevent you from getting down-hearted,” exclaimed Mike, “though it would not do just now, lest the poor young gintleman might be thinking we were afther wakin’ him.”
“No, pray do not sing,” said Owen; “it would be more sensible to pray for assistance, for we must admit it is very little we can do to help ourselves.”