The first few days of the voyage of the Maid of the Isle were bright and favourable. The wind, though light, was fair, and so steady that the men were only twice obliged to have recourse to their oars. The boat behaved admirably. Once, during these first days, the wind freshened into a pretty stiff breeze, and a somewhat boisterous sea arose, so that she was tested in another of her sailing qualities, and was found to be an excellent sea-boat. Very little water was shipped, and that little was taken in rather through the awkwardness of King Bumble, who steered, than through the fault of the boat.
Captain Dunning had taken care that there should be a large supply of tin and wooden scoops, for baling out the water that might be shipped in rough weather, as he foresaw that on the promptness with which this duty was performed, might sometimes depend the safety of the boat and crew.
There was one thing that proved a matter of much regret to the crew, and that was the want of a fowling-piece, or firearm of any kind. Had they possessed a gun, however old and bad, with ammunition for it, they would have been certain, at some period of their voyage, to shoot a few sea-birds, with which they expected to fall in on approaching the land, even although many days distant from it. But having nothing of the kind, their hope of adding to their slender stock of provisions was very small indeed. Fortunately, they had one or two fishing-lines, but in the deep water, over which for many days they had to sail, fishing was out of the question.
This matter of the provisions was a source of constant anxiety to Captain Dunning. He had calculated the amount of their stores to an ounce, and ascertained that at a certain rate of distribution they would barely serve for the voyage, and this without making any allowance for interruptions or detentions. He knew the exact distance to be passed over, namely, 2322 miles in a straight line, and he had ascertained the sailing and rowing powers of the boat and crew; thus he was enabled to arrive at a pretty correct idea of the probable duration of the voyage, supposing that all should go well. But in the event of strong contrary winds arising, no fresh supplies of fish or fowl being obtained, or sickness breaking out among the men, he knew either that they must starve altogether, or that he must at once, before it was too late, still farther reduce the scanty allowance of food and drink to each man.
The captain sat at the helm one fine evening, about a week after their departure from Fairyland, brooding deeply over this subject. The boat was running before a light breeze, at the rate of about four or five knots, and the men, who had been obliged to row a good part of that day, were sitting or reclining on the thwarts, or leaning over the gunwale, watching the ripples as they glided by, and enjoying the rest from labour; for now that they had been for some time on reduced allowance of food, they felt less able for work than they used to be, and often began to look forward with intense longing to seasons of repose. Ailie was sitting near the entrance of her little sleeping apartment—which the men denominated a kennel—and master Jacko was seated on the top of it, scratching his sides and enjoying the sunshine.
“My lads,” said the captain, breaking a silence which had lasted a considerable time, “I’m afraid I shall have to reduce our allowance still farther.”
This remark was received by Gurney and Phil Briant with a suppressed groan—by the other men in silence.
“You see,” continued the captain, “it won’t do to count upon chances, which may or may not turn out to be poor. We can, by fixing our allowance per man at a lower rate, make quite certain of our food lasting us until we reach the Cape, even if we should experience a little detention; but if we go on at the present rate, we are equally certain that it will fail us just at the last.”
“We’re sartain to fall in with birds before we near the land,” murmured Gurney, with a rueful expression of countenance.
“We are certain of nothing,” replied the captain; “but even suppose we were, how are we to get hold of them?”
“That’s true,” observed Briant, who solaced himself with his pipe in the absence of a sufficiency of food. “Sea-birds, no more nor land-birds, ain’t given to pluckin’ and roastin’ themselves, and flyin’ down people’s throats ready cooked.”
“Besides,” resumed the captain, “the plan I propose, although it will entail a little more present self-denial, will, humanly speaking, ensure our getting through the voyage with life in us even at the worst, and if we are so lucky as to catch fish or procure birds in any way, why we shall fare sumptuously.”
Here Tim Rokens, to whom the men instinctively looked, upon all matters of perplexity, removed his pipe from his lips, and said—
“Wot Cap’en Dunnin’ says is true. If we take his plan, why, we’ll starve in a reg’lar way, little by little, and p’raps spin out till we git to the Cape; w’ereas, if we take the other plan, we’ll keep a little fatter on the first part of the voyage, mayhap, but we’ll arrive at the end of it as dead as mutton, every man on us.”
This view of the question seemed so just to the men, and so full of incontrovertible wisdom, that it was received with something like a murmur of applause.
“You’re a true philosopher, Rokens. Now Doctor Hopley, I must beg you to give us your opinion, as a medical man, on this knotty subject,” said the captain, smiling. “Do you think that we can continue to exist if our daily allowance is reduced one-fourth?”
The doctor replied, “Let me see,” and putting his finger on his forehead, frowned portentously, affecting to give the subject the most intense consideration. He happened to look at Jacko when he frowned, and that pugnacious individual, happening at the same instant to look at the doctor, and supposing that the frown was a distinct challenge to fight, first raised his eyebrows to the top of his head in amazement, then pulled them down over his flashing orbs in deep indignation, and displayed all his teeth, as well as an extent of gums that was really frightful to behold!
“Oh! Jacko, bad thing,” said Ailie, in a reproachful tone, pulling the monkey towards her.
Taking no notice of these warlike indications, the doctor, after a few minutes’ thought, looked up and said—
“I have no doubt whatever that we can stand it. Most of us are in pretty good condition still, and have some fat to spare. Fat persons can endure reduced allowance of food much better and longer than those who are lean. There’s Gurney, now, for instance, he could afford to have his share even still further curtailed.”
This remark was received with a grin of delighted approval by the men and with a groan by Gurney, who rubbed his stomach gently, as if that region were assailed with pains at the bare thought of such injustice.
“Troth, if that’s true what ye say, doctor, I hope ye’ll see it to be yer duty to give wot ye cut off Gurney’s share to me,” remarked Briant, “for its nothing but a bag o’ bones that I am this minute.”
“Oh! oh! wot a wopper,” cried Jim Scroggles, whose lean and lanky person seemed ill adapted to exist upon light fare.
“Well,” observed the captain, “the doctor and I shall make a careful calculation and let you know the result by supper-time, when the new system shall be commenced. What think you, Ailie, my pet, will you be able to stand it?”
“Oh yes, papa, I don’t care how much you reduce my allowance.”
“What! don’t you feel hungry?”
“No, not a bit.”
“Not ready for supper?”
“Not anxious for it, at any rate.”
“Och! I wish I wos you,” murmured Briant, with a deep sigh. “I think I could ait the foresail, av it wos only well biled with the laste possible taste o’ pig’s fat.”
By supper-time the captain announced the future daily allowance, and served it out.
Each man received a piece of salt junk—that is, salt beef—weighing exactly one ounce; also two ounces of broken biscuit; a small piece of tobacco, and a quarter of a pint of water. Although the supply of the latter was small, there was every probability of a fresh supply being obtained when it chanced to rain, so that little anxiety was felt at first in regard to it; but the other portions of each man’s allowance were weighed with scrupulous exactness, in a pair of scales which were constructed by Tim Rokens out of a piece of wood—a leaden musket-ball doing service as a weight.
Ailie received an equal portion with the others, but Jacko was doomed to drag out his existence on a very minute quantity of biscuit and water. He utterly refused to eat salt junk, and would not have been permitted to use tobacco even had he been so inclined, which he was not.
Although they were thus reduced to a small allowance of food—a smaller quantity than was sufficient to sustain life for any lengthened period—no one in the slightest degree grudged Jacko his small portion. All the men entertained a friendly feeling to the little monkey, partly because it was Ailie’s pet, and partly because it afforded them great amusement at times by its odd antics.
As for Jacko himself, he seemed to thrive on short allowance, and never exhibited any unseemly haste or anxiety at meal-times. It was observed, however, that he kept an uncommonly sharp eye on all that passed around him, as if he felt that his circumstances were at that time peculiar and worthy of being noted. In particular he knew to a nicety what happened to each atom of food, from the time of its distribution among the men to the moment of its disappearance within their hungry jaws, and if any poor fellow chanced to lay his morsel down and neglect it for the tenth part of an instant, it vanished like a shot, and immediately thereafter Jacko was observed to present an unusually serene and innocent aspect, and to become suddenly afflicted, with a swelling in the pouch under his cheek.
One day the men received a lesson in carefulness which they did not soon forget.
Breakfast had been served out, and Phil Briant was about to finish his last mouthful of biscuit—he had not had many mouthfuls to try his masticating powers, poor fellow—when he paused suddenly, and gazing at the cherished morsel addressed it thus—
“Shure, it’s a purty bit, ye are! Av there wos only wan or two more o’ yer family here, it’s meself as ’ud like to be made beknown to them. I’ll not ait ye yit. I’ll look at ye for a little.”
In pursuance of this luxurious plan, Briant laid the morsel of biscuit on the thwart of the boat before him, and, taking out his pipe, began to fill it leisurely, keeping his eye all the time on the last bite. Just then Mr Markham, who pulled the bow oar, called out—
“I say, Briant, hand me my tobacco-pouch, it’s beside you on the th’ort, close under the gun’le.”
“Is it?” said Briant, stretching out his hand to the place indicated, but keeping his eye fixed all the time on the piece of biscuit. “Ah, here it is; ketch it.”
For one instant Briant looked at the second mate in order to throw the pouch with precision. That instant was sufficient for the exercise of Jacko’s dishonest propensities. The pouch was yet in its passage through the air when a tremendous roar from Tim Rokens apprised the unhappy Irishman of his misfortune. He did not require to be told to “look out!” although more than one voice gave him that piece of advice. An intuitive perception of irreparable loss flashed across his soul, and, with the speed of light, his eye was again on the thwart before him—but not on the morsel of biscuit. At that same instant Jacko sat down beside Ailie with his usual serene aspect and swelled cheek!
“Och, ye bottle imp!” yelled the bereaved one, “don’t I know ye?” and seizing a tin pannikin, in his wrath, he threw it at the small monkey’s head with a force that would, had it been well directed, have smashed that small head effectually.
Jacko made a quick and graceful nod, and the pannikin, just missing Ailie, went over the side into the sea, where it sank and was lost for ever, to the regret of all, for they could ill afford to lose it.
“Ye’ve got it, ye have, but ye shan’t ait it,” growled Briant through his teeth, as he sprang over the seat towards the monkey.
Jacko bounded like a piece of indiarubber on to Gurney’s head; next moment he was clinging to the edge of the mainsail, and the next he was comfortably seated on the top of the mast, where he proceeded calmly and leisurely to “ait” the biscuit in the face of its exasperated and rightful owner.
“Oh,—Briant!” exclaimed Ailie, who was half frightened, half amused at the sudden convulsion caused by her favourite’s bad conduct, “don’t be vexed; see, here is a little bit of my biscuit; I don’t want it—really I don’t.”
Briant, who stood aghast and overwhelmed by his loss and by the consummate impudence of the small monkey, felt rebuked by this offer. Bursting into a loud laugh, he said, as he resumed his seat and the filling of his pipe—
“Sure I’d rather ait me own hat, Miss Ailie, an’ it’s be no means a good wan—without sarce, too, not even a blot o’ mustard—than take the morsel out o’ yer purty mouth. I wos more nor half jokin’, dear, an’ I ax yer parding for puttin’ ye in sich a fright.”
“Expensive jokin’,” growled Tarquin, “if ye throw a pannikin overboard every time you take to it.”
“Kape your tongue quiet,” said Briant, reddening, for he felt somewhat humbled at having given way to his anger so easily, and was nettled at the remark, coming as it did, in a sneering spirit, from a man for whom he had no particular liking.
“Never mind, Briant,” interposed the captain quickly, with a good-humoured laugh; “I feel for you, lad. Had it been myself I fear I should have been even more exasperated. I would not sell a crumb of my portion just now for a guinea.”
“Neither would I,” added the doctor, “for a thousand guineas.”
“I’ll tell ye wot it is, lads,” remarked Tim Rokens; “I wish I only had a crumb to sell.”
“Now, Rokens, don’t be greedy,” cried Gurney.
“Greedy!” echoed Tim.
“Ay, greedy; has any o’ you lads got a dickshunairy to lend him? Come, Jim Scroggles, you can tell him what it means—you’ve been to school, I believe, hain’t you?”
Rokens shook his head gravely.
“No, lad, I’m not greedy, but I’m ready for wittles. I won’t go fur to deny that. Now, let me ax ye a question. Wot—supposin’ ye had the chance—would ye give, at this good min’it, for a biled leg o’ mutton?”
“With or without capers-sauce?” inquired Gurney.
“W’ichever you please.”
“Och! we wouldn’t need capers-sarse,” interposed Briant; “av we only had the mutton, I’d cut enough o’ capers meself to do for the sarce, I would.”
“It matters little what you’d give,” cried Glynn, “for we can’t get it at any price just now. Don’t you think, captain, that we might have our breakfast to-night? It would save time in the morning, you know.”
There was a general laugh at this proposal, yet there was a strong feeling in the minds of some that if it were consistent with their rules to have breakfast served out then and there, they would gladly have consented to go without it next morning.
Thus, with laugh and jest, and good-natured repartee, did these men bear the pangs of hunger for many days. They were often silent during long intervals, and sometimes they became talkative and sprightly, but it was observed that, whether they conversed earnestly or jestingly, their converse ran, for the most part, on eating and drinking, and in their uneasy slumbers, during the intervals between the hours of work and watching, they almost invariably dreamed of food.
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