Chapter 97 - A Story of Adventure on Land and Sea by Mayne Reid
A cheering Cup
They made no attempt to move from the spot upon which the sun saw them at setting.
As yet they had not restored the mast with its sail; and they had no motive for toiling at the oar. All the little way they might make by rowing was not worth the exertion of making it; and indeed it had now become a question whether there was any use in attempting to continue their westward course. There was not the slightest chance of reaching land before starvation could overtake them; and they might as well starve where they were. Death in that shape would not be more endurable in one place than another; and it would make no difference under what meridian they should depend the last few minutes of their lives.
Into such a state of mind had these circumstances now reduced them,—a stupor of despair rather than the calmness of resignation.
After some time had been passed in this melancholy mood,—passed under darkness and in sombre silence,—a slight circumstance partially aroused them. It was the voice of the sailor, proposing “supper!” One hearing him might have supposed that he too had taken leave of his senses. Not so, nor did his companions so judge him. They knew what he meant by the word, and that the assumed tone of cheerfulness in which he pronounced it had been intended to cheer them. Ben’s proposal was not without some significance; though to call it “supper” of which it was designed they should partake was making a somewhat figurative use of the phrase.
No matter; it meant something,—something to supply the place of a supper,—if not so substantial as they would have wished, at least something that would not only prolong their lives, but for a while lighten their oppressed spirits. It meant a cup of Canary.
They had not forgotten their possession of this. Had they done so, they might have yielded to even a deeper despair. A small quantity of the precious grape-juice was still within the cask, safe stowed in its old locker. They had hitherto abstained from touching it, with the view of keeping it to the last moment that it could be conveniently hoarded. That moment seemed to Ben Brace to have arrived, when he proposed a cup of Canary for their supper.
Of course no objection was made to a proposition equally agreeable to all; and the stopper was taken from the cask.
The little measure of horn, which had been found floating among the débris of the wrecked gig, was carefully inserted upon its string, drawn out filled with the sweet wine, and then passed from lip to lip,—the pretty lips of the Lilly Lalee being the first to come in contact with it.
The “dipping” was several times repeated; and then the stopper was restored to its place, and without any further ceremony, the “supper” came to an end.
Whether from the invigorating effects of the wine, or whether from that natural reaction of spirits ever consequent on a “spell” of despondency, both the sailor and Snowball, after closing the cask, began to talk over plans for the future. Hope, however slight, had once more made entry into their souls.
The subject of their discourse was whether they should not forthwith re-step the mast and set the sail. The night was as dark as pitch, but that signified little. They could manipulate the “sticks,” ropes, and canvas without light; and as to the lashings that would be required, there could be no difficulty in making them good, if the night had been ten times darker than it was. This was a trope used by Snowball on the occasion, regardless of its physical absurdity.
One argument which the sailor urged in favour of action was, that by moving onward they could do no harm. They might as well be in motion as at rest, since, with the sail as their motive power, it would require no exertion on their part. Of course this reasoning was purely negative, and might not have gone far towards convincing the Coromantee,—whose fatalist tendencies at times strongly inclined him to inaction. But his comrade backed it by another argument, of a more positive kind, to which Snowball more readily assented.
“By keepin’ on’ard,” said Ben, “we’ll be more like to come in sight o’ somethin’,—if there be anythin’ abroad. Besides, if we lay here like a log, we’ll still be in danger o’ them ruffians driftin’ down on us. Ye know they be a win’ard, an’ ha’ got theer sail set,—that is, if they bean’t gone back to the sparmacety, which I dar say they’ve done. In that case there moutn’t be much fear o’ ’em; but whether or no, it be best for us to make sure. I say let’s set the sail.”
“Berra well, Massa Brace,” rejoined the Coromantee, whose opposition had been only slight. “Dar am troof in wha you hab ’ledged. Ef you say set de sail, I say de same. Dar am a lubbly breeze bowlum. ’Pose we ’tick up de mass dis berry instam ob time?”
“All right!” rejoined the sailor. “Bear a hand, my hearties, and let’s go at it! The sooner we spread the canvas the better.”
No further words passed, except some muttered phrases of direction or command proceeding from the captain of the Catamaran while engaged with his crew in stepping the mast. This done, the yard was hauled “apeak,” the “sheets” drawn “taut” and “belayed,” and the wet canvas, spread out once more, became filled with the breeze, and carried the craft with a singing sound through the water.