Sunk at Sea by R. M. Ballantyne (i am malala young readers edition txt) 📕

Few conditions of life are more difficult to bear than that which is described in the proverb, “Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.” Day after day, week after week passed by, and every morning the unfortunate men who had been cast on the coral island rose with revived hope to spend the day in anxiety, and to lie down in disappointment.

The island proved to be a low one, not more than four miles in length by about half a mile in breadth, on which nothing grew except a few cocoa-nut palms. These afforded the wrecked crew a scanty supply of food, which, with the provisions they had brought, enabled them to live, but the prospect of a residence on such a spot was so hopeless, that they would have left it immediately had not an accident happened which deprived them of their boat.

A few mornings after landing, several of the men rose early, and, without obtaining the captain’s permission, went to fish in the lagoon, intending to surprise their comrades by bringing a supply of fresh fish. They were unsuccessful, but, supposing that their chance would be better in the open sea, they rowed through the opening in the reef. They had, however, miscalculated the size and power of the breakers that continually thundered there. The boat was heavy and unmanageable except by a strong crew. She turned broadside to the breakers, and, in a few seconds, was hurled upon the reef and dashed to pieces. The men were saved almost by a miracle. They succeeded in landing on the reef, and afterwards, with the aid of broken pieces of the wreck, swam across the lagoon to the island.

The loss was irreparable, so that they had now no hope left except in the passing of a ship or a native canoe. This latter contingency they were led to hope for by the discovery, one very clear morning, of what appeared to be the mountain tops of a cluster of islands, barely visible on the horizon. But as day after day passed without the appearance of a canoe, they came to the conclusion that these islands were not inhabited. As weeks passed by and no sail appeared, their hearts began to fail them, for the small stock of provisions was rapidly diminishing.

One morning Captain Dall ascended to the highest point on the island, where he was wont to spend the greater part of each day on the lookout. He found Will Osten there before him.

“Good-morning doctor,” said the captain, with a dash of the old hearty spirit in his voice, for he was not easily depressed; “anything in sight?”

“Nothing,” replied Will, with a degree of energy in his tone that caused the captain to look at him in surprise.

“Hallo, doctor, have you made a discovery, or have you made up your mind to swim off the island, that you speak and look so resolute this morning?”

“Yes, I have made a discovery. I have discovered that the provisions will not last us another week; that our vigour is not what it used to be; that a sort of apathy is stealing over us all; that the sands of life, in short, are running out while we are sitting idle here making no effort to help ourselves.”

“What can we do, lad?” said the captain sadly, supposing that the youth was merely giving vent to a spirit of desperation.

“I’ll tell you what we can do,” said Will, rising; “we can cut down most of the trees and make a huge pile of them, which, with the broken pieces of the long-boat to kindle them, will create a blaze that will attract the attention of the people who live on yonder island—if there be any. I know the character of South Sea islanders, but it is better to live in captivity or die by the hand of savages than to perish of hunger and thirst. Come, Captain Dall, we must stir the men up to make a last effort. Rather than die here, I will make a raft and hoist a sail on it, and commit myself to the winds and waves. What say you? Shall we try?”

“There is something in what you say, doctor,” replied the captain, pondering the subject; “at all events, no harm can come of making the attempt. I’ll go speak to the men.”

In pursuance of this intention he left the place of outlook accompanied by Will, and the result of their consultation with the men was, that in a few minutes Larry O’Hale and Mr Cupples set to work with all the energy in their natures to fell trees with the two axes they possessed. When they were exhausted, Will Osten and Goff relieved them, and then the captain and old Bob took the axes. Thus the work went on all day, and in the evening a pile of logs was raised almost as large as a medium-sized cottage.

There was something hopeful in the mere act of working with a view to deliverance that raised the spirits of the men, and when the sun began to sink towards the western horizon, they sat down to their slight meal of biscuit and cocoa-nut milk with more appetite and relish than they had experienced for many days.

“I’ve bin thinkin’,” said Larry, pausing in the midst of his supper.

“Well, wot have ’ee bin thinkin’, lad?” said Muggins, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his coat and wishing for more food—but wishing in vain, for he had finished his allowance—“you’re a good deal given to thinkin’, but there’s not much ever comes on it, ’xcept wind in the shape o’ words.”

“And what’s words,” retorted the cook, in supreme contempt, “but the expression o’ sintiment, widout which there wouldn’t have bin nuthin’ wotsomediver in the univarse? Sintiment is the mother of all things, as owld Father O’Dowd used to say to my grandmother whin he wanted to come the blarney over her. It was a philosopher sintimentilisin’ over a tay-kittle, I’m towld, as caused the diskivery o’ the steam-ingine; it was a sintimintal love o’ country as indooced Saint Patrick to banish the varmin from Ireland, an’ it was religious sintiment as made Noah for to build the Ark, but for which nother you nor me would have bin born to git cast upon a coral island. Sintiment is iverything, Muggins, and of that same there isn’t more in your whole body than I cud shove into the small end of a baccy-pipe. But to return to the pint: I’ve bin thinkin’ as to whether it would be best to set a light to this here little pile in the daylight or in the dark, bekase, in the wan case it’s the smoke that would call attintion, an’ in the other case it’s the flame.”

“That is true, Larry,” said the captain; “I’m inclined to think it would be better seen at night, fire being more powerful than smoke.”

“But they’re more likely to be asleep at night, and to miss seein’ it,” observed Cupples, in a hollow tone.

It may be remarked in passing, that the mate’s voice had become much more sepulchral and his aspect more cadaverous since his arrival on the island.

“True for ye,” chimed in Larry; “an’ who knows, if they did see it, but they might take it for the moon in a fog—or for a volkainy?”

“Wouldn’t the best way to settle the matter be to kindle the fire just now, before it grows dark,” suggested Will Osten, “so that they will have a chance of seeing the smoke, and then, when it grows dark,