Startled, the boy paused in mid-flow.
‘We cannot survive without water,’ Tom said. ‘You know as well as I that drinking sea-water will send us mad. We have no fresh water, all that we have is our own.’
It took a moment for Richard to grasp his meaning. ‘No. I will not do that. Are we dogs or men?’
‘We are men who may die of thirst if a ship does not find us soon. Richard, if you are to survive, you must drink it.’
Richard hesitated, then reached for the wooden baler.
Tom shook his head. ‘It is contaminated with sea-water. Use this.’ He passed him the metal case from the chronometer. Richard urinated into the case, but stared at it for a long time before he put it to his lips. He swallowed a mouthful but then gagged and vomited over the side.
Tom reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘You must make yourself drink it, or you will not survive.’
‘I cannot, sir,’ he said, but after a few deep breaths, he again raised the case to his lips. He drained it in one gulp, shuddered and wiped the back of his hand furiously across his mouth.
Tom held the gaze of each of them in turn. ‘We must do what we have to do to survive. And survive we will.’ He paused. ‘Now, it is Sunday morning. Let us say a prayer together that the Lord will see fit to save us and restore us to our families.’
They bowed their heads and joined him in prayer, the murmur of their voices lost in the immense void of sea and sky.
Tom took the first watch. Despite the confident face he had tried to present to his crew, he had little genuine hope of survival. While the others closed their eyes in semblance of sleep, he unfolded the certificate wedged inside the back of the chronometer case, their sole piece of paper. He fumbled in his pocket for a stub of pencil and began scribbling a farewell note to his wife on the back of it.
July 6th 1884. To my dear wife — Phil Dudley, Myrtle Road, Sutton, in Surrey. Mignonette foundered yesterday. Weather knocked side in. We had five minutes to get in boat without food or water. You and our children were in my thoughts to the end. God bless and keep you. Your loving husband, Tom.
He folded the letter tightly and placed it in his inside pocket, then leaned on the oar as he stared, unseeing, at the endless ocean swell.
Stephens had been watching him. He asked Tom for his knife and scratched an even more terse note of farewell to his wife in the varnished surface of the sextant case, then added the boat’s estimated position. The scratching of the knife blade against the wood was the only sound other than the scrape of the baler and the slap of waves against the hull.
They drifted all that day without sight of a sail. In the evening, Tom made a fresh attempt to get them to give up their shirts. ‘The wind is with us. We must make headway to westward into the track of the sailing ships.’
Once more Brooks shook his head. ‘We will be burned by the sun, half frozen at night, and a sail is as likely to capsize us as to send us westward. I say no.’
Tom looked at the others. ‘And are you with him or me in this?’
They both averted their eyes.
The next day dawned without sight of a sail. The sight and sound of the waves lapping at the boat was a constant reminder of their thirst. Tom’s throat felt tight and sore and his lips were swollen and cracked. Early in the morning he told Brooks to open the first tin of turnips. He took out his knife and drove it into the top of the tin, using the wooden baler as a hammer. He worked the knife around the top and peeled back the lid. ‘Five pieces. Divide one piece between two and give us each a little of the fluid. We shall ration the rest to last us until tomorrow night.’
The taste of the turnip was intensely sweet, and it seemed so cool as it slipped down Tom’s parched throat. He felt saliva start to his mouth, but the bare mouthful of fluid gave only fleeting relief.
Stephens managed to take a rough altitude of the sun at noon and guessing the declination, fixed their latitude at roughly twenty-four degrees, fifty minutes south, almost on the line of the Tropic of Capricorn. The winds remained strong, driving them north-west, closer and closer to the equator.
The burning heat gave them no respite. Richard leaned over the side to splash his face, the boat lurched and suddenly he was in the sea. Tom could not say whether he had jumped or fallen. The thought of sharks chilled his blood, but he did not hesitate; neither Brooks nor Stephens could swim.
He tore off his shirt and threw himself into the sea. When he broke surface there was at first no sign of the boy, but as he was carried upwards on the swell he saw an upraised arm and Richard’s face, with his mouth gaping open. Then the sea closed over him again.
Tom thrashed the water with his arms, driving himself towards the boy. The sea was empty, but for the boat. Then, through the grey-green water, he saw the pale shape of an upturned face and dark hair floating on the surface like seaweed.
He dived below the waves and grabbed Richard as he began to sink again. He kicked for the dim light of the surface above them as the dead weight of the boy and their waterlogged clothing threatened to drag them both down.
Kicking again, he clawed at the water with his free hand towards the surface, seemingly an eternity away. There was a roaring in his ears and stabbing pains in his chest. The stale air in his lungs bubbled up to the surface.
He held his breath until he could do so no longer, then took a convulsive, instinctive breath. Water filled his mouth and throat. Then he felt the slap of a wave against his face.
Coughing and choking, he drew air into his lungs and heard the boy gag and retch alongside him. His arms began to flail again. Tom cursed him. ‘Be still. You’ll drown us both. Be still.’
Still supporting the boy with one arm, he began to battle the swell towards the boat. Already exhausted, his stroke was feeble and ragged, and at each wave-crest the dinghy seemed as distant as ever. He felt his strength ebbing and drowsiness began to overcome him. Reaching the boat no longer seemed so important. He was tired; he would pause and rest for a few minutes, then swim on.
His head slipped beneath the waves. He choked and spat water, then struck out for the boat again. He heard a splash and a swirl of water, and froze, bracing himself for the impact as a shark tore him apart. Instead he heard another splash and through the spray he saw the black outline of an oar.
He grasped for it, missed, flung himself forward and caught it. He hauled himself along, hand over hand until he reached the side of the dinghy. Richard seemed barely aware of his surroundings, but Tom dragged him round to face the dinghy. ‘Take hold of the gunwale.’ He shook the boy. ‘Take hold of the gunwale. Both hands.’
A moment later he felt the burden lift from his arm as Richard took his own weight for the first time. Tom clung to the side of the dinghy, too weary for the moment to do more. ‘Keep watch for sharks,’ he said.
They hung there for several minutes. Fearing a capsize, Tom worked his way round to the far side of the dinghy and hung from the gunwale as a counter-balance, while Brooks tried to haul the boy back into the boat. The dinghy rocked, then settled, as he slumped on to the bottom boards. Aided by Brooks, Tom dragged himself over the gunwale with agonizing slowness, then curled up next to the boy, too weary to speak or move again.
The next day was a black day. Hunger was a constant dull, nagging pain, but thirst threatened to overwhelm them. Splashing their faces, necks and arms and wetting their hair seemed to help, but it offered little more than momentary relief.
Tom’s throat was parched and his tongue sore and swollen, and the sea-water he had inadvertently swallowed made his thirst even more extreme. He rinsed out his mouth and gargled to ease his thirst and encouraged the others to do the same, but he watched carefully as they did so, giving constant warnings of the dangers of swallowing any. The temptation to lean over the gunwale, scoop up some sea-water and drink it down was overpowering, but with the blind certainty of every seaman, he knew the terrifying consequences.