Both mates helped the poor woman to escape; but, much to their surprise, amidst all this frightful confusion, she remained quite collected. Not having time to dress herself fully, she slipped a short skirt over her nightdress, and dropped into the pocket thirty rupees, about one hundred and eighty francs, which she noticed lying on the cabin table.

  Trivial though this incident may appear, in the height of the terrible catastrophe which was passing, it will be seen that these thirty rupees were destined to play an important part in the sequel to this awful drama.

  The moment the crew perceived that the vessel was sinking, every one instinctively clung to what he found nearest to hand, endeavouring to raise himself as high as possible and get clear of the rapidly rising water.

  Wade and John Mackay, who were on the companion of the Captain’s cabin, seized the poop-rails, and, with Mrs. Bremner, succeeded in catching hold of the mizzen shrouds.

  At the moment of their clinging to them, a noise like a clap of thunder was heard, followed by a terrible shaking; this was caused by the air pent up in the hull of the ship, which burst open the deck. When this shock occurred every one thought all was over, and recommended his soul to God.

  But scarcely was the deck submerged before the downward movement of the vessel was arrested, not ceasing altogether, for it was easy to feel that with every sea she sank a little, but so slowly that the lowest rungs of the shrouds disappeared very gradually, which enabled the poor fellows in the rigging to go aloft as fast as the vessel sank. The Captain, who had rejoined his wife, and the two mates, who were supporting her, foresaw that they could not thus remain all night clinging to the rigging, and that they must /

  find a more solid footing; the mizzen-top was only about ten feet above them; they reached it the first of all, and took possession of it. This was fortunate for them, for if they had not been the first-comers, and the top had been occupied, in all probability at such a moment the respect due to their rank would not have been shown, and they might have been obliged to remain hanging to the shrouds, or to content themselves with outside places.

  The example set was instantly followed, and the mizzen- top filled. The remainder of the crew hung on to the rigging of the same mast, with the exception of one sailor, who established himself on the foretop.

  They then awaited with anxiety to see whether the fate of the Juno was to be their own.

  The ship continued to sink slowly, for ten feet more or thereabouts; it then seemed to the wrecked sailors that she remained at the depth she had reached, rolling between two currents. The fore and mizzen-tops were about a dozen feet above the sea, all the crew, with the single exception mentioned, being clustered on and about the latter, which, it became evident, was inadequate to carry the great weight it bore, and threatened to break down at any moment. It was imperative to lighten it, but as this could not be done by sacrificing men, it was decided to cut away some of the rigging, and by means of sheath-knives the spanker gaff was detached and thrown into the sea.

  Although the water-logged hull to some extent steadied the standing masts, yet these rolled so terribly that the unfortunate persons who were clinging to them had great difficulty in keeping their positions; notwithstanding this, so fatigued were they, that some who had tied themselves to the rigging with handkerchiefs, and some even who hooked their arms into the rungs of the shrouds, succeeded in sleeping during a portion of the night.

  John Mackay, the second mate, was not among these. He had more strength, both physical and moral, than the sailors, and kept his eyes open to what was going on around him. Near him was Mrs. Bremner, in her husband’s arms. The night air was bitterly cold, although it was the month of July. More warmly clad than the Captain, the good John took off his jacket and gave it to Mrs. Bremner, who thanked him, giving him a look as much as to say:

  “Ah! if they had only taken your advice.”

  John would willingly have spoken some words of encouragement as well as given his jacket, but having lost all hope himself, he could not conscientiously inspire in the breast of another the courage which had deserted his own.

  Still, when after three or four hours of suspense and anguish he found the ship still floating between the two currents and sinking no deeper, he began to hope that during the four or five days for which human life can be sustained without food, some vessel might pass and pick them up; yet, to set against this hope, the horrible alternative of slowly perishing by hunger appeared more imminent and probable.

  His tensely strung nerves received a sudden shock by what sounded like the firing of a cannon; three times did this noise occur; and his own sensation was confirmed by those of such as were near him, and not sleeping, whose attention he drew to the circumstance. Yet, when day broke, they were forced to admit that it was only imagination.

  Worn out with fatigue, John Mackay was about himself to close his eyes in sleep when, in the early dawn, a sailor, thinking he sighted a vessel, cried out:

  “A sail! a sail!”

  The effect this cry produced may be imagined. The Lascars, who are Mussulmans, called upon the Prophet, and the Christians gave thanks to God.

  But, alas! the sail proved as imaginary as the cannon; and when all eyes were directed to the point indicated, this was found to be as deserted as the rest of the ocean.

  CHAPTER III.

  THE RAFT.

  WITH the loss of this double hope the situation was terrible.

  The wind continued to blow with violence, the sea ran mountains high; the upper deck and portions of the ship came away, and at length the stays supporting the mast to which seventy-two persons were clinging seemed about to give way and hurl them into the trough of the sea.

  At intervals during this period of despair, some, losing all hope of rescue, and preferring an immediate death to a long agony, after having said farewell to their comrades, dropped into the sea and were seen no more; others, who desired to remain where they were, lost their hold, and, despite their frantic efforts to regain their footing, were torn away by the waves, uttering piteous and despairing cries. It then appeared that the ship, submerged though she was, was not stationary, but continued to make way, for the swimmers were unable to overtake her and one after the other were engulfed and disappeared. Sad though this sight was, it yet afforded a ray of hope to the survivors.

  During the first three days, while the storm lasted, and the sea ran high, the sight of the yawning gulf, and the loss of those who from time to time were swallowed up in it, deadened the pangs of hunger; but as the wind abated, and the sea grew calm, when the apprehensions of sinking and the fear of the mast breaking were removed, then the hideous prospect of perishing by famine presented itself with all its terrors.

  At this moment several men, inconveniently cramped in the mizzen-top and cramping others as well, tried to reach the foretop in response to the call of the solitary sailor there, whose sufferings were rendered more acute by his loneliness; but of the six who plunged into the sea two only accomplished the distance, short though it was; the four others were drowned.

  As John Mackay was not only the one person who kept his presence of mind throughout this great disaster, but also the one to whom we are indebted for a written account of it, he is naturally the person whom we shall more particularly keep in sight during the pains and anguish, hopes and fears, which he has transmitted to us with the bluff plainness of a sailor.

  To the mental agitation, due firstly to the imminence of destruction, and afterwards to the continuance of danger, there succeeded in his mind, towards the fourth day, a kind of sullen indifference, his chief desire being to sleep as long and as soundly as possible, so as to stifle the pangs of hunger. Consequently the piteous cries of the Lascars and the lamentations of the others annoyed him, because they drew him out of an apathetic frame of mind, hardly conscious, but yet painless.

  For the first three days, suspended, like his companions, between life and death, he had not suffered much from hunger, but only from cold, wet through as he was with spray, and chilled by the wind; but on the fourth day, when the wind had gone down, the sky was clear, and a burning sun filled the sky and beat upon his forehead as it were equatorial torrents of lava, then he began to feel in their full force the pangs of hunger, and even more those of thirst. Still, comparing what he himself experienced with what he had read of in accounts of shipwrecks, he did not at first find these so intolerable as he had anticipated.

  In one of these narratives he remembered reading a recipe by which the agonies of thirst might be much mitigated. This was given by Captain Inglefield, of the Centaur, and consisted in wrapping round the body a sheet soaked in sea-water; the water, freed from the salt, which is left on the skin, is absorbed by the pores, and greatly reduces the pain of the sufferer.

  No sooner had this remedy occurred to him than he determined to put Captain Inglefield’s recipe in practice, both on his own person and on those of his companions; to which end he stripped off the flannel waistcoat which he was wearing, and by means of a rope-yarn dipped it in the sea and put it on again, repeating the process as often as it became dry. The others followed his example, and the action of the water on the skin, assisted, probably, by the distraction which this employment caused, afforded them considerable relief.

  However, during this day, when the sun had regained its power, and the pangs of hunger and thirst became more lively, John became extremely agitated; a kind of delirium presented death before him under a frightful aspect, and the very thought of dying amidst the horrors which were staring him in the face terrified him to such a degree that he could scarcely refrain from shouting cries of despair.

  Happily, during the night which intervened between the fourth and fifth days he was visited by a most soothing dream.

  As almost invariably happens when the end of life is reached, and memory leaps with a single bound over all the intermediate space which separates the cradle from the grave, all his youth passed in review before him, with the procession of ancestors long since dead, neighbours forgotten and young friends lost or gone astray in this vast desert called the world, in which it so rarely happens that, once lost sight of, they are ever found again.

  Then all these first visions disappeared to give place to another dearer than all.

  Poor John dreamt that he was lying sick of a burning fever, during the height of which his father, bathed in tears, was praying at his bedside.

  Now, as this dream, so far as John was concerned, had all the actuality of a real circumstance, he experienced great joy at the presence of his father, whom he had not seen since he last left Europe, four or five years before. As the dream progressed, it seemed to him that while the aged father prayed for his son, the fever left him, and he felt revived and sweetly refreshed; but on the contrary, if the old man ceased praying for an instant, the fever recurred more violently than ever.

  In the sequel, contrary to what generally happens after agitating dreams which irritate the mind rather than soothe it, when John awoke he felt infinitely better; his agitation had given place to a deep melancholy, and involuntary tears suffused his eyes, for the inference which he drew from the dream was that his father was dead, and that, witnessing from heaven his sufferings, he had come down for a brief space to alleviate them.

  On the 25th of June, the fifth day after the submersion of the vessel, death began to ravage the unhappy sufferers. Two died from hunger, one succumbing instantaneously as if from a stroke of fatal cerebral apoplexy; the other slowly and in frightful agony.

  After the shipwrecked party had recovered presence of mind enough to exchange ideas, the Captain and the first mate agreed that as soon as the sea was calm enough they must endeavour to construct a raft. This afforded the only hope of rescue, and Bremner and Wade reposed great confidence in it. The weather being fine, and the sea as smooth as a looking-glass, this great project was at once set about.

  For materials they had the foresail yard, the bowsprit, and a number of small spars which were entangled in the wreckage. The best swimmers set to work; neither timbers nor cordage were wanting; the day after, about noon, the raft was finished. The next question was who should embark on it.

  The Captain, his wife, and Wade were the first. Although John Mackay was not so sanguine as they were about this means of salvage, their example decided him; he came down in turn and took his place beside them. But as every one else did the same, the raft was in an instant so overloaded that it threatened to founder.

  Then a terrible struggle arose, such a struggle as occurs among persons dying with hunger. The stronger drove off the weaker, who were obliged to ascend the shrouds for the shelter of the top which they had just left. Some were so weak that they were drowned during this episode, which happened before the raft was cast off, and was only distant from the wreck the length of the rope by which it was attached. Before letting go the painter, John asked Captain Bremner if he had any idea where the land lay, and if he thought there was a reasonable chance of soon making it. The Captain, who was totally ignorant where he was, made no reply. Then John, stretching out his hand to the man who was waiting to cut the rope, stopped him, and, turning to the Captain, implored him, in his own name and the name of his wife, to reascend into the top, and not to risk himself on this raft, which, in his opinion, offered no chance of safety. These prayers, however, had no influence with the Captain; and as Mrs. Bremner declared that she would not leave her husband, the rope was cut and the raft drifted away. John submitted and went with them. They rowed with pieces of wood torn out of the planking, which the sailors had cut with their knives into the shape of paddles.

  But, after about half an hour, Wade came to John with a sigh.

  “What is the matter?” asked John. Wade shook his head.

  “You were right,” said he; “right when we started; right now. We have neither compass nor chart; we are quite ignorant of the direction of the land, and are going to certain death. From the elevation of our mizzen-top we had at any rate a look-out; we could see a vessel and be sighted by her; but on this raft, lost in the waves, we have not even this chance.”

  “Then,” said John, “let us return to the ship.”

  Wade glanced in the direction of the two floating mastheads, peopled with clusters of wretches suspended over the deep sea, and, judging the distance —

  “We shall never have strength enough to swim back,” said he.

  “No; but to lighten the raft they will take us back.”

  Then he told his companions that he and the chief mate wished to return to the tops, and, as they expected, every one helped them to do so. They pulled back to the wreckage, on to which they climbed; a few seconds after they got back to their former post, and the raft again left.

  It might be supposed that this separation between unfortunates who have suffered together for six days, and are parting to undergo different vicissitudes, would be a cruel one. Not so; the selfishness of pain and the fear of death had displaced every other sentiment. The men on the raft saw the two mates go aloft to the mizzen-top without manifesting any emotion, and the men in the top saw the raft float away with indifference.

  The only person who showed any feeling was poor Mrs. Bremner, who had undergone all her sufferings with marvellous courage, and who, instead of the lamentations and complaints which the strongest men were uttering, had up till then spoken nothing but words of consolation.

  Her presence had at first seemed a burden to her husband.

  No doubt this feeling proceeded from a notion on his part that his wife would hardly forgive him, especially after the warning of John Mackay, for having brought her into such danger; but the more the Captain’s strength diminished the more was he drawn to his wife, becoming as it were riveted to her, neither leaving her nor allowing her to leave him.

  They kept the raft long in sight, but at length it vanished. Night found them still straining their eyes on the point where it was lost to view, and again imprisoned them in darkness. Next morning, at daybreak, they thought they saw a floating object in the wake of the Juno. All eyes were directed towards it, and the sailors in the tops and the rigging discovered, to their great surprise, the raft which had left them the night before; but it was returning from the opposite direction to that in which it started.

  The men had rowed till they were quite exhausted; it must be borne in mind that they had eaten nothing for a week; they then fell asleep, leaning on one another, awaiting the Lord’s pleasure in the apathy of despair. It pleased God that they should rejoin their unhappy companions.

  After drifting about all night at random, they again found themselves, by one of those singular chances which seem the will of Providence, within fifty yards of the waterlogged vessel.

  They stretched out their arms to their shipmates, who helped them to get back, and the raft incident ceased to have any other consequence in their eyes than a futile attempt inspired by despair.

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE PANGS OF DEATH.

  THROUGH a feeling of pity which yet smouldered at the bottom of these suffering hearts, but which, it should be stated, powerfully influenced the good John, the two places in the mizzen-top, which Mrs. Bremner and her husband had previously occupied, were restored to them. The Captain was so enfeebled that he seemed almost unconscious, yet in his ordinary condition he was a seaman inured to all the privations and hardships incidental to his profession, and appertaining to the element which he had ploughed for thirty years. His wife, on the contrary, apparently a delicate and nervous creature, had borne all these fatigues and privations with marvellous courage, and, more extraordinary still, with marvellous strength.

  Scarcely had they got him into the mizzen-top when Captain Bremner became delirious, and in his delirium imagining that he saw before him a table spread with all kinds of food, he would ask, struggling in the hands of those who held him, why, when he was so hungry and thirsty and such abundance was before him, he was refused a piece of bread and a glass of water.