Their names were Harry Blount, Terence O’Connor, and Colin Macpherson.
The fourth individual, who shared with them their frail embarkation, differed from all three in almost every respect, but more especially in years. The ages of all three united would not have numbered his; and their wrinkles, if collected together, would scarce have made so many as could have been counted in the crowsfeet indelibly imprinted in the corners of his eyes.
It would have required a very learned ethnologist to have told to which of his three companions he was compatriot; though there could be no doubt about his being either English, Irish, or Scotch.
Strange to say, his tongue did not aid in the identification of his nationality. It was not often heard; but even when it was, its utterance would have defied the most linguistic ear; and neither from that, nor other circumstance known to them, could any one of his three companions lay claim to him as a countryman. When he spoke—a rare occurrence already hinted—it was with a liberal misplacement of “h’s” that should have proclaimed him an Englishman of purest Cockney type. At the same time his language was freely interspersed with Irish “ochs” and “shures”; while the “wees” and “bonnys”, oft recurring in his speech, should have proved him a sworn Scotchman. From his countenance you might have drawn your own inference and believed him any of the three; but not from his tongue. Neither in its accent, nor the words that fell from him, could you have told which of the three kingdoms had the honour of giving him birth.
Whichever it was, it had supplied to the Service a true British tar: for although you might mistake the man in other respects, his appearance forbade all equivocation upon this point.
His costume was that of a common sailor, and, as a matter of course, his name was “Bill”. But as he had only been one among many “Bills” rated on the man-o’-war’s books (now gone to the bottom of the sea) he carried a distinctive appellation, no doubt earned by his greater age. Aboard the frigate he had been known as “Old Bill”; and the soubriquet still attached to him upon the spar.
Chapter Three.
The Serpent’s Tongue.
The presence of a ship’s topsail-yard thus bestridden plainly proclaimed that a ship had been wrecked—although no other evidence of the wreck was within sight. Not a speck was visible upon the sea to the utmost verge of the horizon; and if a ship had foundered within that field of view, her boats and every vestige of the wreck must either have gone to the bottom, or in some other direction than that taken by the topsail-yard, which supported the three midshipmen and the sailor Bill.
A ship had gone to the bottom—a British man-of-war—a corvette on her way to her cruising ground, on the Guinea coast. Beguiled by the dangerous current that sets towards the seaboard of the Saara, in a dark stormy night she had struck upon a sand-bank; got bilged; and sank almost instantly among the breakers. Boats had been got out, and men had been seen crowding hurriedly into them; others had taken to such rafts, or spars, as could be detached from the sinking vessel; but whether any of these, or the overladen boats, had succeeded in reaching the shore, was a question which none of the four astride the topsail-yard were able to answer.
They only knew that the corvette had gone to the bottom—they saw her go down, shortly after drifting away from her side; but saw nothing more until morning, when they perceived themselves alone upon the ocean. They had been drifting throughout the remainder of that long, dark night, often entirely under water, when the sea swelled over them—and one and all of them many times on the point of being washed from their frail embarkation.
By daybreak the storm had ceased, and was succeeded by a clear, calm day; but it was not until a late hour that the swell had subsided sufficiently to enable them to take any measures for propelling the strange craft that carried them. Then, using their hands as oars, or paddles, they commenced making some way through the water.
There was nothing in sight, neither land nor any other object, save the sea, the sky, and the sun. It was the east which guided them as to direction. But for it there could have been no object in making way through the water; but, with the sun now sinking in the west, they could tell the east; and they knew that in that point alone land might be expected.
After the sun had gone down, the stars became their compass, and throughout all the second night of the shipwreck they had continued to paddle the spar in an easterly direction.
Day again dawned upon them; but without gratifying their eyes by the sight of land, or any other object, to inspire them with a hope.
Famished with hunger, tortured with thirst, and wearied with their continued exertions, they were about to surrender to despair when, as the sun once more mounted up to the sky, and his bright beams pierced the crystal water upon which they were floating, they saw beneath them the sheen of white sand. It was the bottom of the sea, and at no great depth, not more than a few fathoms below their feet.
Such shallow water could not be far from the shore. Reassured, and encouraged by the thought, they once more renewed their exertions, and continued to paddle the spar, taking only short intervals of rest throughout the whole of the morning.
Long before noon they were compelled to desist. They were close to the tropic of Cancer, almost under its line. It was the season of midsummer; and of course at meridian hour the sun was right over their heads. Even their bodies cast no shadow, except upon the white sand directly underneath them, at the bottom of the sea. The sun could no longer guide them; and, as they had no other index, they were compelled to remain stationary, or drift in whatever direction the breeze or the currents might carry them.
There was not much movement any way; and for several hours before and after noon they lay almost becalmed upon the ocean. This period was passed in silence and inaction. There was nothing for them to talk about but their forlorn situation; and this topic had been exhausted. There was nothing for them to do. Their only occupation was to watch the sun until, by its sinking lower in the sky, they might discover its westing.
Could they at that moment have elevated their eyes only three feet higher, they would not have needed to wait for the declination of the orb of day. They would have seen land, such land as it was, but sunk as their shoulders were, almost to the level of the water, even the summits of the sand-dunes were not visible to their eyes.
When the sun began to go down towards the horizon they once more plied their palms against the liquid wave, and sculled the spar eastward. The sun’s lower limb was just touching the western horizon, when his red rays, glancing over their shoulders, showed them some white spots that appeared to rise out of the water.
Were they clouds? No! Their rounded tops, cutting the sky with a clear line, forbade this belief. They should be hills, either of snow or of sand. It was not the region for snow: they could only be sand-hills.
The cry of “land” pealed simultaneously from the lips of all—that cheerful cry that has so oft given gladness to the despairing castaway, and, redoubling their exertions, the spar was propelled through the water more rapidly than ever.
Reinvigorated by the prospect of once more setting foot upon land, they forgot for the moment thirst, hunger, and weariness; and only occupied themselves in sculling their craft towards the shore.
Under the belief that they had still several miles to make before the beach could be attained, they were one and all working with eyes turned downward. At that moment old Bill, chancing to look up, gave utterance to a shout of joy, which was instantly echoed by his youthful companions: all had at the same time perceived the long sandspit projecting far out into the water; and