“I order you both into the boat. I am not to be disobeyed,” he exclaimed.
Of course we could not refuse. Already the jolly-boat, when we got into her, was very full, and there seemed some risk of her being swamped. Just then one of the seamen struck his boat-hook down alongside. “Why, the water is quite shallow here!” he exclaimed. “Overboard lads! The ladies shall run no risk on our account;” and six or eight men instantly jumped into the water, holding on to the boat, it being tolerably smooth under the lee of the rock where she lay.
By the last trip the master came off, bringing some charts and nautical instruments, which he had secured. “What about food?” some one asked. A small quantity, it appeared, had been secured, but not a drop of fresh water had been brought off. The master now ordered some of the men to get into the lifeboat, and we were pretty evenly divided among the two.
“How far off are we from the Australian coast?” asked Mr Haliday.
“Four hundred miles at the nearest,” was the answer. “It is true, my friends,” said the master, “but half-a-mile off there is a sand-bank. We will make for that, and there pray that God will give us the means of escape.” The grey dawn broke soon after we reached the bank, where we landed in safety. “Now, my friends,” said the master, as we stood grouped around him, “let us lift up our hearts in thankfulness to that merciful God who has thus far preserved us.” Hearty and sincere was, I feel assured, the prayer that rose from that barren sand-bank. We thanked God for preserving us, and we prayed that He might yet watch over us, and carry us in safety to land.
The bank was scarcely more than a hundred and fifty yards long, and about a third of the width. Still we had reason to be thankful. Not a life had been lost, in spite of the fearful risk we had run. Had a gale been blowing, however, not one of us could have escaped. As the sun rose our clothes quickly dried, but its rays soon became fearfully hot, and beat down upon our unprotected heads. The master was suffering all this time from the injury he had received, and was obliged to lie down. He, however, first directed the two mates to return with the boats to the wreck, to bring off whatever they could find likely to be of use, and anxiously we watched them as they pulled away. Our lives depended upon the success of their expedition. Meantime, the hot sun increased, and we all began to suffer from thirst. It was sad to see the poor little children crying for water when there was none to give them. Some of us, with pieces of board, began to dig in the sand, hoping to find water, but after making several deep holes we came each time to the coral rock. That, however, was moist and free from salt. Though the amount of fluid we could obtain was trifling, it afforded us some slight relief to lick the bare rock, and helped to cool our tongues. At length the boats returned. Eagerly we all hurried down to welcome them, and haul them up on the beach. A shout of joy arose when we found that the jolly-boat had a cask of water on board, besides some provisions—a cheese, some potted meat, and some biscuit. How thankfully we poured the sweet liquid down our throats. Captain Johns, however, would allow only half-a-gill to each of us, all sharing alike. These things might prolong our lives for a short time, but yet our hopes of escaping were small indeed. The wreck still hung together, but the wind appeared to be again getting up; indeed, there was so much sea, that the captain was afraid of sending back the boats. Anxiously that night passed away, but our courage was kept up by the captain’s cheerful and manly voice.
“Trust in God, friends,” he continued to say, “that is the best advice I can give you. As I have said before, I will do my best, and I hope all you will do your best, and let us never despair.” Next morning, in spite of the heavy sea running, the mates pushed off in the boats in the hopes of obtaining further supplies from the wreck. Dangerous as was the undertaking, the condition of our party on the sand-bank was not less perilous, for should the boats be lost, our fate, in all human probability, would be sealed. We watched them anxiously. Now they appeared on the crest of a sea, now they were hidden by the foaming breakers. At length they were altogether lost to sight from the sand-bank. We stood, our hands on each others’ shoulders, our necks stretched out, eagerly watching for their return. Now a dark object was seen. We thought it was one of the boats. No, it was a piece of the wreck. Another and another piece appeared. Some drove on to the beach, and we hurried down to secure them. At length I saw the lifeboat drawing near. Alas! was the other lost? “See! see! she is astern of her!” cried someone. On they both came, and we hurried down to welcome them. Both of them came laden. In the jolly-boat were some sails, and several casks of provisions, and in the lifeboat, among other things, a small keg of lime-juice. The surgeon spied it out, and literally shouted for joy. “It may be the saving of our lives,” he exclaimed; “and will at all events keep scurvy at bay.” That night we were able to erect a tent for the poor women and children, as also for some of the men passengers, and two or three of the seamen and boys who were suffering from exposure. Still my friend the surgeon looked grave.
“Jennings,” he said to me, as we were taking a turn together, “there is one thing I dread more than all others—the want of water. What we have will go a very, very short way, and then—! My lad, do you know what it is to die of thirst—the throat becoming drier and drier, the tongue swelling, and getting as hard as shoe-leather, and blacker and blacker, the sight growing dim, the voice failing?”
“A fearful picture!” I said. “What is to be done?”
“Why, we must go off at all risks, and see if we cannot get materials from the wreck to form a still. The ship struck at high water, I observed, and possibly what we want, even though washed out of her, may be obtained at low water. Will you go off with me to make the search?”