after long and exhausting effort got it to the raft.
It was eagerly opened. It was a barrel of magnesia!
On the fifth day an onion was spied. A sailor
swam off and got it. Although perishing with
hunger, he brought it in its integrity and put it
into the captain’s hand. The history of
the sea teaches that among starving, shipwrecked men
selfishness is rare, and a wonder-compelling magnanimity
the rule. The onion was equally divided into
eight parts, and eaten with deep thanksgivings.
On the eighth day a distant ship was sighted.
Attempts were made to hoist an oar, with Captain
Rounceville’s coat on it for a signal.
There were many failures, for the men were but skeletons
now, and strengthless. At last success was achieved,
but the signal brought no help. The ship faded
out of sight and left despair behind her. By
and by another ship appeared, and passed so near that
the castaways, every eye eloquent with gratitude,
made ready to welcome the boat that would be sent to
save them. But this ship also drove on, and
left these men staring their unutterable surprise
and dismay into each other’s ashen faces.
Late in the day, still another ship came up out of
the distance, but the men noted with a pang that her
course was one which would not bring her nearer.
Their remnant of life was nearly spent; their lips
and tongues were swollen, parched, cracked with eight
days’ thirst; their bodies starved; and here
was their last chance gliding relentlessly from them;
they would not be alive when the next sun rose.
For a day or two past the men had lost their voices,
but now Captain Rounceville whispered, “Let
us pray.” The Portuguese patted him on
the shoulder in sign of deep approval. All knelt
at the base of the oar that was waving the signal-coat
aloft, and bowed their heads. The sea was tossing;
the sun rested, a red, rayless disk, on the sea-line
in the west. When the men presently raised their
heads they would have roared a hallelujah if they
had had a voice—the ship’s sails lay
wrinkled and flapping against her masts—she
was going about! Here was rescue at last, and
in the very last instant of time that was left for
it. No, not rescue yet—only the imminent
prospect of it. The red disk sank under the
sea, and darkness blotted out the ship. By and
by came a pleasant sound-oars moving in a boat’s
rowlocks. Nearer it came, and nearer-within
thirty steps, but nothing visible. Then a deep
voice: “Hol-lo!” The castaways could
not answer; their swollen tongues refused voice.
The boat skirted round and round the raft, started
away—the agony of it!—returned,
rested the oars, close at hand, listening, no doubt.
The deep voice again: “Hol-lo! Where
are ye, shipmates?” Captain Rounceville whispered
to his men, saying: “Whisper your best,
boys! now —all at once!” So they
sent out an eightfold whisper in hoarse concert:
“Here!”, There was life in it if it succeeded;
death if it failed. After that supreme moment
Captain Rounceville was conscious of nothing until
he came to himself on board the saving ship.
Said the Reverend, concluding: