“Then the oars were got out, and the boats forming in a line moved round her remains as if in procession—­the long-boat leading.  As we pulled across her stern a slim dart of fire shot out viciously at us, and suddenly she went down, head first, in a great hiss of steam.  The unconsumed stern was the last to sink; but the paint had gone, had cracked, had peeled off, and there were no letters, there was no word, no stubborn device that was like her soul, to flash at the rising sun her creed and her name.

“We made our way north.  A breeze sprang up, and about noon all the boats came together for the last time.  I had no mast or sail in mine, but I made a mast out of a spare oar and hoisted a boat-awning for a sail, with a boat-hook for a yard.  She was certainly over-masted, but I had the satisfaction of knowing that with the wind aft I could beat the other two.  I had to wait for them.  Then we all had a look at the captain’s chart, and, after a sociable meal of hard bread and water, got our last instructions.  These were simple:  steer north, and keep together as much as possible.  ‘Be careful with that jury rig, Marlow,’ said the captain; and Mahon, as I sailed proudly past his boat, wrinkled his curved nose and hailed, ’You will sail that ship of yours under water, if you don’t look out, young fellow.’  He was a malicious old man—­and may the deep sea where he sleeps now rock him gently, rock him tenderly to the end of time!

“Before sunset a thick rain-squall passed over the two boats, which were far astern, and that was the last I saw of them for a time.  Next day I sat steering my cockle-shell—­my first command—­with nothing but water and sky around me.  I did sight in the afternoon the upper sails of a ship far away, but said nothing, and my men did not notice her.  You see I was afraid she might be homeward bound, and I had no mind to turn back from the portals of the East.  I was steering for Java—­another blessed name—­like Bankok, you know.  I steered many days.

“I need not tell you what it is to be knocking about in an open boat.  I remember nights and days of calm when we pulled, we pulled, and the boat seemed to stand still, as if bewitched within the circle of the sea horizon.  I remember the heat, the deluge of rain-squalls that kept us baling for dear life (but filled our water-cask), and I remember sixteen hours on end with a mouth dry as a cinder and a steering-oar over the stern to keep my first command head on to a breaking sea.  I did not know how good a man I was till then.  I remember the drawn faces, the dejected figures of my two men, and I remember my youth and the feeling that will never come back any more—­the feeling that I could last for ever, outlast the sea, the earth, and all men; the deceitful feeling that lures us on to joys, to perils, to love, to vain effort—­to death; the triumphant conviction of strength, the heat of life in the handful of dust, the glow in the heart that with every year grows dim, grows cold, grows small, and expires—­and expires, too soon—­before life itself.