Part 6

The worst of all was, that in their condition, Having been several days in great distress, ’Twas difficult to get out such provision As now might render their long suffering less: Men, even when dying, dislike inanition; Their stock was damaged by the weather’s stress: Two casks of biscuit and a keg of butter Were all that could be thrown into the cutter.

But in the long-boat they contrived to stow Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet; Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so; Six flasks of wine; and they contrived to get A portion of their beef up from below, And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon— Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon.

The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had Been stove in the beginning of the gale; And the long-boat’s condition was but bad, As there were but two blankets for a sail, And one oar for a mast, which a young lad Threw in by good luck over the ship’s rail; And two boats could not hold, far less be stored, To save one half the people then on board.

’Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask’d but to assail, Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, And grimly darkled o’er the faces pale, And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had Fear Been their familiar, and now Death was here.

Some trial had been making at a raft, With little hope in such a rolling sea, A sort of thing at which one would have laugh’d, If any laughter at such times could be, Unless with people who too much have quaff’d, And have a kind of wild and horrid glee, Half epileptical and half hysterical:— Their preservation would have been a miracle.

At half-past eight o’clock, booms, hencoops, spars, And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, For yet they strove, although of no great use: There was no light in heaven but a few stars, The boats put off o’ercrowded with their crews; She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, And, going down head foremost—sunk, in short.

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell— Then shriek’d the timid, and stood still the brave, Then some leap’d overboard with dreadful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave; And the sea yawn’d around her like a hell, And down she suck’d with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy, And strives to strangle him before he die.

And first one universal shriek there rush’d, Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush’d, Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash Of billows; but at intervals there gush’d, Accompanied with a convulsive splash, A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

The boats, as stated, had got off before, And in them crowded several of the crew; And yet their present hope was hardly more Than what it had been, for so strong it blew There was slight chance of reaching any shore; And then they were too many, though so few— Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat, Were counted in them when they got afloat.

All the rest perish’d; near two hundred souls Had left their bodies; and what ’s worse, alas! When over Catholics the ocean rolls, They must wait several weeks before a mass Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals, Because, till people know what ’s come to pass, They won’t lay out their money on the dead— It costs three francs for every mass that ’s said.

Juan got into the long-boat, and there Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place; It seem’d as if they had exchanged their care, For Juan wore the magisterial face Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo’s pair Of eyes were crying for their owner’s case: Battista; though (a name call’d shortly Tita), Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita.

Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save, But the same cause, conducive to his loss, Left him so drunk, he jump’d into the wave As o’er the cutter’s edge he tried to cross, And so he found a wine-and-watery grave; They could not rescue him although so close, Because the sea ran higher every minute, And for the boat—the crew kept crowding in it.

A small old spaniel,—which had been Don Jose’s, His father’s, whom he loved, as ye may think, For on such things the memory reposes With tenderness—stood howling on the brink, Knowing (dogs have such intellectual noses!), No doubt, the vessel was about to sink; And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepp’d Off, threw him in, then after him he leap’d.

He also stuff’d his money where he could About his person, and Pedrillo’s too, Who let him do, in fact, whate’er he would, Not knowing what himself to say, or do, As every rising wave his dread renew’d; But Juan, trusting they might still get through, And deeming there were remedies for any ill, Thus re-embark’d his tutor and his spaniel.

’Twas a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet, That the sail was becalm’d between the seas, Though on the wave’s high top too much to set, They dared not take it in for all the breeze: Each sea curl’d o’er the stern, and kept them wet, And made them bale without a moment’s ease, So that themselves as well as hopes were damp’d, And the poor little cutter quickly swamp’d.

Nine souls more went in her: the long-boat still Kept above water, with an oar for mast, Two blankets stitch’d together, answering ill Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast: Though every wave roll’d menacing to fill, And present peril all before surpass’d, They grieved for those who perish’d with the cutter, And also for the biscuit-casks and butter.

The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign Of the continuance of the gale: to run Before the sea until it should grow fine, Was all that for the present could be done: A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine Were served out to the people, who begun To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags, And most of them had little clothes but rags.

They counted thirty, crowded in a space Which left scarce room for motion or exertion; They did their best to modify their case, One half sate up, though numb’d with the immersion, While t’other half were laid down in their place At watch and watch; thus, shivering like the tertian Ague in its cold fit, they fill’d their boat, With nothing but the sky for a great coat.

’Tis very certain the desire of life Prolongs it: this is obvious to physicians, When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife, Survive through very desperate conditions, Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife Nor shears of Atropos before their visions: Despair of all recovery spoils longevity, And makes men’s miseries of alarming brevity.

’Tis said that persons living on annuities Are longer lived than others,—God knows why, Unless to plague the grantors,—yet so true it is, That some, I really think, do never die; Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is, And that’s their mode of furnishing supply: In my young days they lent me cash that way, Which I found very troublesome to pay.

’Tis thus with people in an open boat, They live upon the love of life, and bear More than can be believed, or even thought, And stand like rocks the tempest’s wear and tear; And hardship still has been the sailor’s lot, Since Noah’s ark went cruising here and there; She had a curious crew as well as cargo, Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo.

But man is a carnivorous production, And must have meals, at least one meal a day; He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction, But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey; Although his anatomical construction Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way, Your labouring people think beyond all question, Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion.

And thus it was with this our hapless crew; For on the third day there came on a calm, And though at first their strength it might renew, And lying on their weariness like balm, Lull’d them like turtles sleeping on the blue Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm, And fell all ravenously on their provision, Instead of hoarding it with due precision.

The consequence was easily foreseen— They ate up all they had, and drank their wine, In spite of all remonstrances, and then On what, in fact, next day were they to dine? They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men! And carry them to shore; these hopes were fine, But as they had but one oar, and that brittle, It would have been more wise to save their victual.

The fourth day came, but not a breath of air, And Ocean slumber’d like an unwean’d child: The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there, The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild— With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) What could they do? and hunger’s rage grew wild: So Juan’s spaniel, spite of his entreating, Was kill’d and portion’d out for present eating.

On the sixth day they fed upon his hide, And Juan, who had still refused, because The creature was his father’s dog that died, Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws, With some remorse received (though first denied) As a great favour one of the fore-paws, Which he divided with Pedrillo, who Devour’d it, longing for the other too.

The seventh day, and no wind—the burning sun Blister’d and scorch’d, and, stagnant on the sea, They lay like carcasses; and hope was none, Save in the breeze that came not; savagely They glared upon each other—all was done, Water, and wine, and food,—and you might see The longings of the cannibal arise (Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes.

At length one whisper’d his companion, who Whisper’d another, and thus it went round, And then into a hoarser murmur grew, An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound; And when his comrade’s thought each sufferer knew, ’Twas but his own, suppress’d till now, he found: And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, And who should die to be his fellow’s food.

But ere they came to this, they that day shared Some leathern caps, and what remain’d of shoes; And then they look’d around them and despair’d, And none to be the sacrifice would choose; At length the lots were torn up, and prepared, But of materials that much shock the Muse— Having no paper, for the want of better, They took by force from Juan Julia’s letter.

The lots were made, and mark’d, and mix’d, and handed, In silent horror, and their distribution Lull’d even the savage hunger which demanded, Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution; None in particular had sought or plann’d it, ’Twas nature gnaw’d them to this resolution, By which none were permitted to be neuter— And the lot fell on Juan’s luckless tutor.

He but requested to be bled to death: The surgeon had his instruments, and bled Pedrillo, and so gently ebb’d his breath, You hardly could perceive when he was dead. He died as born, a Catholic in faith, Like most in the belief in which they’re bred, And first a little crucifix he kiss’d, And then held out his jugular and wrist.

The surgeon, as there was no other fee, Had his first choice of morsels for his pains; But being thirstiest at the moment, he Preferr’d a draught from the fast-flowing veins: Part was divided, part thrown in the sea, And such things as the entrails and the brains Regaled two sharks, who follow’d o’er the billow— The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo.

The sailors ate him, all save three or four, Who were not quite so fond of animal food; To these was added Juan, who, before Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could Feel now his appetite increased much more; ’Twas not to be expected that he should, Even in extremity of their disaster, Dine with them on his pastor and his master.

’Twas better that he did not; for, in fact, The consequence was awful in the extreme; For they, who were most ravenous in the act, Went raging mad—Lord! how they did blaspheme! And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack’d, Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream, Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing, And, with hyaena-laughter, died despairing.

Their numbers were much thinn’d by this infliction, And all the rest were thin enough, Heaven knows; And some of them had lost their recollection, Happier than they who still perceived their woes; But others ponder’d on a new dissection, As if not warn’d sufficiently by those Who had already perish’d, suffering madly, For having used their appetites so sadly.

And next they thought upon the master’s mate, As fattest; but he saved himself, because, Besides being much averse from such a fate, There were some other reasons: the first was, He had been rather indisposed of late; And that which chiefly proved his saving clause Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, By general subscription of the ladies.

Of poor Pedrillo something still remain’d, But was used sparingly,—some were afraid, And others still their appetites constrain’d, Or but at times a little supper made; All except Juan, who throughout abstain’d, Chewing a piece of bamboo and some lead: At length they caught two boobies and a noddy, And then they left off eating the dead body.

And if Pedrillo’s fate should shocking be, Remember Ugolino condescends To eat the head of his arch-enemy The moment after he politely ends His tale: if foes be food in hell, at sea ’Tis surely fair to dine upon our friends, When shipwreck’s short allowance grows too scanty, Without being much more horrible than Dante.

And the same night there fell a shower of rain, For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth When dried to summer dust; till taught by pain Men really know not what good water ’s worth; If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, Or with a famish’d boat’s-crew had your berth, Or in the desert heard the camel’s bell, You’d wish yourself where Truth is—in a well.

It pour’d down torrents, but they were no richer Until they found a ragged piece of sheet, Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher, And when they deem’d its moisture was complete They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet As a full pot of porter, to their thinking They ne’er till now had known the joys of drinking.

And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, Suck’d in the moisture, which like nectar stream’d; Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were black, As the rich man’s in hell, who vainly scream’d To beg the beggar, who could not rain back A drop of dew, when every drop had seem’d To taste of heaven—If this be true, indeed Some Christians have a comfortable creed.

There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, And with them their two sons, of whom the one Was more robust and hardy to the view, But he died early; and when he was gone, His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw One glance at him, and said, ‘Heaven’s will be done! I can do nothing,’ and he saw him thrown Into the deep without a tear or groan.

The other father had a weaklier child, Of a soft cheek and aspect delicate; But the boy bore up long, and with a mild And patient spirit held aloof his fate; Little he said, and now and then he smiled, As if to win a part from off the weight He saw increasing on his father’s heart, With the deep deadly thought that they must part.

And o’er him bent his sire, and never raised His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed, And when the wish’d-for shower at length was come, And the boy’s eyes, which the dull film half glazed, Brighten’d, and for a moment seem’d to roam, He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain Into his dying child’s mouth—but in vain.

The boy expired—the father held the clay, And look’d upon it long, and when at last Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, He watch’d it wistfully, until away ’Twas borne by the rude wave wherein ’twas cast; Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering, And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering.

Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea, Resting its bright base on the quivering blue; And all within its arch appear’d to be Clearer than that without, and its wide hue Wax’d broad and waving, like a banner free, Then changed like to a bow that ’s bent, and then Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck’d men.

It changed, of course; a heavenly chameleon, The airy child of vapour and the sun, Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion, Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun, Glittering like crescents o’er a Turk’s pavilion, And blending every colour into one, Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle (For sometimes we must box without the muffle).

Our shipwreck’d seamen thought it a good omen— It is as well to think so, now and then; ’Twas an old custom of the Greek and Roman, And may become of great advantage when Folks are discouraged; and most surely no men Had greater need to nerve themselves again Than these, and so this rainbow look’d like hope— Quite a celestial kaleidoscope.

About this time a beautiful white bird, Webfooted, not unlike a dove in size And plumage (probably it might have err’d Upon its course), pass’d oft before their eyes, And tried to perch, although it saw and heard The men within the boat, and in this guise It came and went, and flutter’d round them till Night fell: this seem’d a better omen still.

But in this case I also must remark, ’Twas well this bird of promise did not perch, Because the tackle of our shatter’d bark Was not so safe for roosting as a church; And had it been the dove from Noah’s ark, Returning there from her successful search, Which in their way that moment chanced to fall, They would have eat her, olive-branch and all.

With twilight it again came on to blow, But not with violence; the stars shone out, The boat made way; yet now they were so low, They knew not where nor what they were about; Some fancied they saw land, and some said ‘No!’ The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubt— Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns, And all mistook about the latter once.

As morning broke, the light wind died away, When he who had the watch sung out and swore, If ’twas not land that rose with the sun’s ray, He wish’d that land he never might see more; And the rest rubb’d their eyes and saw a bay, Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for shore; For shore it was, and gradually grew Distinct, and high, and palpable to view.

And then of these some part burst into tears, And others, looking with a stupid stare, Could not yet separate their hopes from fears, And seem’d as if they had no further care; While a few pray’d (the first time for some years)— And at the bottom of the boat three were Asleep: they shook them by the hand and head, And tried to awaken them, but found them dead.

The day before, fast sleeping on the water, They found a turtle of the hawk’s-bill kind, And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her, Which yielded a day’s life, and to their mind Proved even still a more nutritious matter, Because it left encouragement behind: They thought that in such perils, more than chance Had sent them this for their deliverance.

The land appear’d a high and rocky coast, And higher grew the mountains as they drew, Set by a current, toward it: they were lost In various conjectures, for none knew To what part of the earth they had been tost, So changeable had been the winds that blew; Some thought it was Mount Ætna, some the highlands, Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands.