CHAPTER XVII
THE RAFT
The words of the old boatswain infused new hope and courage into the drooping hearts of the two boys.
They had been enabled, when the waters grew calm, to creep upon the grating, but they were so chilled and exhausted that they were only conscious of suffering and misery.
Both looked eagerly in the direction where Jack’s glance was fixed.
“I don’t see anything, Jack,” said Will.
“The sun blinds your eyes, lad, and the salt water makes them weak. It’s a sail, and it’s drifting this way.”
And a few minutes later the boatswain reported:
“A raft—two people on it! Do you see it now?”
“Yes, plainly!” cried Will, in excited tones. “Oh, Jack, will they see us?”
Some distance away, on the surface of the waters, could plainly be made out a floating object resembling a raft.
A single pole with a piece of sail was fixed upon it, while two forms, apparently human beings, sat on the raft.
“It’s bearing our way. Now, then, lads, yell your loudest.”
While the boys obeyed the boatswain and shouted vigorously, Jack broke a bar of the wooden grating, tied a handkerchief to its end, and, maintaining a standing position with difficulty, waved the signal wildly.
“They see us!” cried Jack, excitedly. “They are setting the sail to come this way! Ahoy! ahoy!”
Amid his excitement, the boatswain nearly fell into the water. A minute later the raft came towards them. It touched the side of the grating, and a hearty voice cried out:
“Messmates in distress, welcome!”
The occupants of the raft were two—a boy and a man. The dress of the latter indicated him to be a sailor. He was about Jack’s age.
His companion was a boy, a year or two older than Will and Tom. His pallor showed that he had suffered from exposure to the storm, but his eye brightened as he assisted the boys to clamber on the raft.
It was a strong, substantial craft, made of stout timbers, covered with a gangway top, and lashed together with stout ropes.
Old Jack secured the grating to the end of the raft with a rope and then turned to the sailor in charge of it.
There was a gleam of curiosity in the eyes of the latter as he surveyed Jack’s dripping form.
“Well, mate,” he said, “you seem to have been cruising on a frail craft?”
“Since last night, yes.”
“Shipped from—”
“Portland, on the Golden Moose, and sunk in midocean a few hours since. And you?”
“Hugo Arnold, second mate of the merchantman Liverpool, bound for Philadelphia, and went down, disabled in a collision with an unknown ship.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
A few words of interrogation and reply showed that the ship which had hastened the sinking of the Moose was the Liverpool.
“The crew and the passengers all got off—some in the longboats, some on rafts. This one we fixed up quickly, but three others on it abandoned us and swam after the boats.”
“And you’ve been on the water since?”
“Yes. We saw your signal, and are mighty glad of company. We took one precaution,” and the old sailor pointed to a cask and a box. “Drink and food,” he remarked.
Never did food have a more welcome taste to Will and Tom than the hard ship’s biscuit they were proffered.
They learned that the Liverpool had come from Germany with a large cargo and that the mate’s companion was a student of a German university, returning to his home in Boston.
His name was Willis Moore, and the boys soon struck up a genial acquaintanceship.
The two old sailors indulged in a long confidential conversation while the boys were discussing the situation among themselves.
They were experienced sailors, and their general knowledge of the ocean enabled them to very clearly estimate their probable location.
“We cannot have floated far out of the course of ships,” said Jack. “The storm has gone down, and if we can keep afloat for a few days we will probably be picked up by some passing craft.”
Except for the keen wind, the rescued Will and Tom did not suffer on the craft. There was sufficient to eat and drink for some time, and, after their dreadful experience on the Moose and the grating, they were insensible to minor discomforts.
There was a shade of anxiety cast over the forlorn group of voyagers as the days and nights wore on, however.
For two days passed and there was no indication of a ship. The sail rudely improvised was not of much use, and, as they had lost all accurate bearings, the raft had been allowed to drift at its will.
“We’ll set a watch tonight,” said Jack, that evening. “It looks as if we might have a storm before evening. Now, Hugo, you and the boys turn in and I’ll take the lookout for half the night.”
It must have been on towards midnight when Will awoke to feel the rain beating on his face.
The wind, too, was blowing, and he aroused himself as he remembered Jack’s prediction of the storm, and he noticed a slight ruddy glow on the waters near the raft.
He discerned the cause of the strange illumination as he hurried to where Jack was.
The boatswain was at the extreme windward end of the raft. Before him, on the bottom of the raft, a small fire flashed and spluttered.
He had emptied the water out from the cask, knocked it in the head, and then, breaking up the box that held the biscuits, had built a fire with the wood inside the cask.
This he kept feeding continuously with bits of the wood.
Will crept to his side and spoke his name.
The boatswain did not speak until he had drawn the grating in tow upon the raft, and, breaking a piece of wood from it, placed it in the cask.
“Don’t wake the others up,” said Jack, in a low, hurried tone, that had a shade of excitement quite unusual to the old sailor.
“What is it, Jack,—the cask—the fire?”
“A light—some ship, sure,” replied the boatswain, pointing into the darkness.
“Did you see it?”
“Yes; it comes and goes yonder. I keep the open end of the cask in that direction, and if they see the light we may be rescued.”
“But you’ve thrown away the water, and if we shouldn’t be seen?”
“It’s raining. We can get plenty more.”
Jack kept feeding the fire with broken pieces of the grating. The open end of the cask gave the light quite a focus; but Will, scanning the horizon, could see no indication of the light Jack claimed to have discovered.
The cask itself had begun to burn and would soon fall in and no longer confine the fire.
In the glare, Jack’s face looked seriously disappointed.
“The light I saw is gone, sure. The ship may have turned so we can’t see it.”
“Maybe it was a star.”
“No, no. Ahoy! ahoy! Look, lad; we’re almost upon them.”
The wild call of the boatswain aroused the remaining sleeping occupants of the raft.
Only a short distance ahead of them a ship’s light could be seen, and the outlines of the ship itself made out.
Evidently, Jack had been looking in the wrong direction for it. He redoubled his cries and piled the wood on the fire, which, fanned by the breeze, threatened to set the entire raft in flames.
“Ahoy!”
The responsive call came near at hand. A yawl, manned by several sailors, drove directly into the raft.
Their signal had been heard! They were rescued!
Ten minutes later, as the boys and sailors clambered upon the deck of a stately ship to which the yawl had conveyed them, they could see the burning raft, a diminishing speck of light, in the far distance.
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