Neil Hanson - The Custom of the Sea

Richard baled out the dinghy, then Tom set down the chronometer case in the bottom of the boat and began to butcher the turtle. He severed the tough flippers and laid them in a row on one of the crossmembers, then tore the turtle from its shell.

He removed the head and entrails and threw them over the side, but he dropped the heart and liver into the metal case and cut them in quarters. All four men fell on them ravenously, despite the fishy stench. Almost at once, Tom felt stronger.

He cut the turtle’s flesh into strips and Stephens hung them around the boat to dry. There were only a few pounds of meat, but they were so overjoyed at their good fortune that, in the euphoria of the moment, they ate the rest of the second tin of turnips as well, savouring the sensation and the sweetness.

For over a week the gales continued. They were driven stern-first by a south-easterly gale — the trade winds that had failed them on the Mignonette — unable to turn and run before the wind for fear of being swamped. Even with the sea-anchor out, the bow of the dinghy constantly sheered off a few degrees either side of the wind. One man worked a steering oar at the stern, fighting to hold the dinghy head-on to each rising wave, but they broke constantly over the bows. At times they were a few seconds from foundering as the water level inside the boat rose to within inches of the gunwales. Everyone joined in frantic baling of the boat with anything that came to hand — the chronometer case, an empty tin or the wooden box that housed the sextant — until the water level began to drop again. Finally, on 13 July, the storm at last blew itself out, the seas slackened and they slumped into an exhausted sleep.

Each dawn Tom dragged himself up to search the horizon for a sail. Although he knew there was no land within hundreds of miles he could not stop himself from scanning the sky for the greenish tint of light reflected from the shallow water of a lagoon, or a telltale cloud formation — a patch of fixed cumulus in a clear sky or a thin line of the cloud — that indicated an island or a coastline nearby. There were no such signs on that day or on any of the succeeding days, only the endless march of the waves to the horizon.

At each passing squall or cloud they held out their oilskin capes to catch the rainwater. They put them on back to front, and held out their arms, ‘waiting with burning throats and stomachs, and praying to the Almighty for water until the squall had passed. If we caught a little, how thankful we were.’

Many squalls seemed almost to mock them. On several occasions rain pocked the surface of the sea within sight of the dinghy, yet not a drop fell on them. The first of any rain that did fall had to be cast away, used only to clean the salt from their oilskins, and few squalls yielded more than a mouthful of drinkable water. Often even that would be spoiled by waves breaking over the boat before they could drink, but one storm gave them each about a pint.

As he drank it down, forcing himself to sip it and roll each mouthful around his mouth before swallowing it, Tom felt saliva in his mouth and the constriction of his throat ease for the first time in days.

It was to be the last rain for four days, however, and soon they were again suffering in the savage heat. They could talk for no more than a few seconds before their hoarse whispers turned into hacking coughs.

Tom cut off a bone button from his oilskins and placed it in his mouth, hoping it would ease his thirst like a pebble in the desert. It seemed to soften a little in his mouth and there was a faint taste on his tongue. As he sucked it over the next few hours the button grew smaller and eventually dissolved completely. He cut off another and another over the succeeding days, until they had all been used.

Every couple of hours they rinsed their mouths and gargled with sea-water. Late one burning afternoon, Tom thought he saw the boy swallowing a mouthful. ‘Lad, we are all driven mad with thirst, but you must not drink that.’

The boy’s sallow cheeks flushed. ‘Surely it will do no harm if we just drink a little of it.’

‘Regard it as the poison that will kill you.’

The heat troubled them as much as their thirst. Their exposed flesh was burned an angry red, pocked with white blisters, and the rubbing of their salt-encrusted flannel shirts was agonizing to their skin.

To cool themselves, Stephens suggested soaking their flannel shirts, wringing them out and putting them on again. He and Brooks tried the experiment, but they soaked them again too close to dusk and shivered uncontrollably in their wet clothes during the night.

On the following days they all stripped naked and took turns to hang from the gunwale and dip themselves once or twice in the water. They did it one at a time, for only a few seconds, while the others remained in the boat on watch, for every time they bathed in this way, sharks would soon circle the boat, as if able to sense the naked bodies in the water.

The cool water on their skins refreshed them and even slaked their thirst a little, but as the days went by, they became too weak even to undress themselves. They could only ladle a little water over their heads and the effort required even for that task left them exhausted.

As Tom took his turn on watch, he looked with horror on the bodies of his crew. Their ribs and hip-bones were already showing through their wasting flesh. There were angry, ulcerating sores on their elbows, knees and feet, their lips were cracked and their tongues blackened and swollen.

They had continued to live on the turtle-flesh for a week, even though some of the fat became putrid in the fierce heat. Tom cut out the worst parts and threw them overboard, but they devoured the rest and when the flesh was finished, they chewed the bones and leathery skin.

They ate the last rancid scraps of it on the evening of 17 July. When he had finished chewing on his piece, Tom looked at the others. ‘If no boat comes soon, we shall have to draw lots.’

There was a long silence. ‘We would be better to die together,’ Brooks said. After a moment, Stephens nodded.

‘So let it be,’ Tom said, ‘but it is hard for four to die when perhaps one might save the rest.’

The following afternoon, Stephens roused them from their torpor with a hoarse shout. ‘A sail! A sail! Thank God, a sail.’

Tom pulled himself up. A sailing barque was speeding through the waves towards them. Richard began to wave his arms.

Brooks grabbed him and pulled him down again. ‘Get down in the bottom of the boat with me. If they see four mouths to feed, they may not stop.’

The boy gave him a frightened look and lay down at once.

Tom stared towards the ship. There was no need to row, it was making almost straight for them. It was impossible they would not be seen, but he held his excitement in check, knowing the truth of Brooks’s words. The ship closed on them rapidly and Tom could make out the individual sails and the pennant flying from its masthead.

‘It’s an English ship,’ Stephens said. He tore off his shirt and began to wave it over his head.

Tom saw crewmen swarming up the rigging and reefing the sails. The barque’s bow-wave subsided and it lost headway. The predatory spike of its bowsprit slid past, separated from them by no more than forty yards.

There was a moment’s silence, then the captain of the ship came hurrying on deck, buttoning his jacket. His words carried to them across the water. ‘Who gave the order to heave to?’

A crewman backed away from him, saying nothing but pointing towards the dinghy.

Tom rose and called out, his cracked voice echoing back to him from the ship’s hull. ‘Captain, please help us. We have been adrift these thirteen days with no food or water.’