The
sea was tossing; the sun rested, a red, rayless disk, on the sea-line in
the west. When the men presently raised their heads they would have
roared a hallelujah if they had had a voice--the ship's sails lay
wrinkled and flapping against her masts--she was going about! Here was
rescue at last, and in the very last instant of time that was left for
it. No, not rescue yet--only the imminent prospect of it. The red disk
sank under the sea, and darkness blotted out the ship. By and by came a
pleasant sound-oars moving in a boat's rowlocks. Nearer it came, and
nearer-within thirty steps, but nothing visible. Then a deep voice:
"Hol-lo!" The castaways could not answer; their swollen tongues refused
voice. The boat skirted round and round the raft, started away--the
agony of it!--returned, rested the oars, close at hand, listening, no
doubt. The deep voice again: "Hol-lo! Where are ye, shipmates?" Captain
Rounceville whispered to his men, saying: "Whisper your best, boys! now
--all at once!" So they sent out an eightfold whisper in hoarse concert:
"Here!", There was life in it if it succeeded; death if it failed.
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