The cutter sailed smoothly. And the men told yarns. But every eye was on the look-out for the smoke of some pa.s.sing ship.

We saw none. Not a speck on the ocean, save the long-boat ahead. And by-and-by the sun set, and a little fog crept up. And the night came on as black as pitch and very drear.

Sylvia and I huddled close in the blanket that Dr. Atherton had tied about our shoulders; and whispered our prayers together.

"To-morrow will be Sunday, Sylvia," I said.

And she whispered back: "They will pray for those that travel by water in the Litany."

II.

I couldn't sleep. Every time I began to lose consciousness I started up in a fright, and saw the _May Queen_ going down into the sea again; and fancied I saw the captain struggling in the cabin. It was terrible.

I could hear the men snoring peacefully in the boat. They were all asleep except the helmsman.

At midnight he roused up another man to take his place; and after that I remembered no more till I started up in the grey dawn with a loud "Ahoy!" quivering in my ears.

"Ahoy! A-hoy!"

Everybody was wide awake. Everybody wanted to know what the matter was.

And everybody was looking at the helmsman who was peering out at sea.

It was Gilliland. He turned a strange, scared face to the others in the cutter, and:--"_The long-boat's not in sight!_" said he.

Somebody let out an oath. And every eye stared wildly over the sea. It was quite true. Not a speck, not a streak we saw upon the ocean--the long-boat had disappeared!

"G.o.d in heaven!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the first mate. "She must have capsized in the night!"

"And if we don't capsize, we'll starve," said the doctor, "_for she had all our provisions on board_!"

There was an awful silence for just three minutes. Then the man who had sworn before shot out another oath. Hookway began to rave like a madman.

Evans burst into sobs. Davis began to swear horribly, and cursed Gilliland for putting the provisions in the other boat.

It was terrible.

Suddenly Sylvia's voice rose trembling above the babel, quaveringly she struck up the refrain of the sailor's hymn:

_"O hear us when we cry to Thee_ _For those in peril on the sea."_

"G.o.d bless you, miss!" cried Gilliland. And taking up the tune, he dashed into the first verse:

_"Eternal Father, strong to save,_ _Whose arm hath bound the restless wave._ _Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep_ _Its own appointed limits keep:"_

The doctor and the first mate joined in the refrain. And Hookway ceased to rave. They sang the hymn right through. The last verse was sung by every one. The "_Amen_" went up like a prayer at the end. And the sailors, with their caps in their hands, some of them with tears in their eyes, looked gratefully at Sylvia and murmured, "Thank you, miss."

Oh! the days that followed, and the long, hungry nights! Even now I dream of them, and start up trembling in my sleep.

Sylvia and I have very tender hearts when we hear of the starving poor.

To be hungry--oh! it is terrible. But to be thirsty too! And to feel that one is dying of thirst--and water everywhere!

For those first dreadful days Mr. Wheeler dealt out half a biscuit to each--half a biscuit with a morsel of beef that had to be breakfast, and dinner, and tea! And just a little half mug of water tinctured with a drop of rum!

And on that we lived, eight people in the cutter, for something like eleven days! Eleven days in a scorching sun! Eleven calm, horrible nights!

We wanted a breeze. And no breeze came, though we prayed for it night and day. The remorseless ocean was like a sheet of gla.s.s. The sun shone fiercely in the heavens. It made the sides of the cutter so hot that it hurt our poor hands to touch it.

And all those days no sign of a sail! Not a vestige of a pa.s.sing ship!

Evans and Davis grumbled and swore. And so did Hookway sometimes.

Gilliland was the most patient of the sailors; and tried to cheer up every one else with stories of other people's escapes.

On the _May Queen_ Sylvia and I had thought Mr. Wheeler rather a commonplace sort of man. We knew him for a hero in the cutter. Often he used to break off pieces of his biscuit, I know, to add to Sylvia's and mine.

"Friends," he said on the eleventh day, "the biscuit is all gone." His face was ghastly. His eyes were hollow. His lips were cracked and sore.

"And the water?" asked the doctor faintly.

"Barely a teaspoon apiece."

"Keep it for the women then," suggested Dr. Atherton.

"No!" shouted Davis with an oath.

And, "We're all in the same boat," muttered Evans.

Gilliland lifted his bloodshot eyes. "Hold your jaw!" he said.

Hookway groaned feebly.

They looked more like wild beasts than men, with their ghastly faces, and their glaring eyes--especially Davis.

He looked at me desperately. He thought I was going to have all the water.

"I won't take more than my share, Mr. Wheeler," I said. And I looked at Sylvia. She was lying in the stern muttering feebly to herself. She didn't hear.

"G.o.d bless you, miss!" said Davis, and burst into an agony of sobs.

The last spoonful of water was handed round, the doctor forcing Sylvia's portion into her mouth.

And we wafted on, only just moving along, for there was no breeze. And the sun beat on us. And the sea glared. And Davis cursed. And Hookway writhed and moaned.

"Take down the sails," said the first mate. "They are useless without any wind. Rig them up as an awning instead."

The men obeyed.

Then the doctor seized a vessel, and filling it with sea-water poured it over Sylvia as she lay, soaking her, clothes and all.