“You’ll have to wait for that, my lads,” he said.
He made his way aft to the other group around the wheel and binnacle. There was a corpse here still hanging in its lashing – Knyvett. Hornblower took note of the fact, with the terse requiem that perhaps with death overpowering him then might be some excuse for his not attempting to cut away the foremast. Another corpse lay on the deck, among the feet of the six survivors here. Nine men had survived of the crew of sixteen, and apparently four had disappeared entirely, washed overboard during the night, or perhaps during the night before. Hornblower recognised the second mate and the steward; the group, even the second mate, were croaking for water just like the others, and to them Hornblower made the same grim reply.
“Get those dead men overboard,” he added.
He took stock of the situation. Looking over the side he could see that Pretty Jane had about three feet of freeboard remaining, as close as he could judge while she was pitching extravagantly in the still-turbulent sea. He was conscious now, as he walked about right aft, of dull thumpings under his feet corresponding to the heave and the roll. That meant floating objects battering on the underside of the deck as they were flung up against it by the water inside surging about. The wind was steady from the north-east – the trade wind had reasserted itself after the temporary interruption of the hurricane; the sky was still gloomy and overcast, but Hornblower could feel in his bones that the barometer must be rising rapidly. Somewhere down to leeward, fifty miles away, a hundred miles, two hundred perhaps, was the chain of the Antilles – he could not guess how far, or in what direction, Pretty Jane had drifted during the storm. There was still a chance for them, or there would be if he could solve the water problem.
He turned to the tottering crew.
“Get the hatches up,” he ordered. “You, Mr Mate, where are the water casks stowed?”
“Amidships,” said the mate, running a dry tongue over his dry lips at the thought of water. “Aft of the main hatchway.”
“Let’s see,” said Hornblower.
Water casks constructed to keep fresh water in would also perhaps keep sea water out. But no cask was ever quite tight; every cask leaked to some extent, and only a small amount of water percolating in would make the contents unfit to drink. And casks that had been churned about for two nights and a day by the surging sea water below decks would probably he stove in, every one of them.
“It’s only a faint hope,” said Hornblower, anxious to minimise the almost certain disappointment ahead of them; he looked round again to see what chance there was of a rain-squall coming.
When they looked down the open hatchway they could appreciate the difficulties. The hatchway was jammed with a couple of bales of coir; as they watched them they could see them move uneasily with the motion of the ship. The water that had invaded the ship had floated up the cargo – Pretty Jane was actually supported by the upward pressure of the cargo on the underside of the deck. It was a miracle that she had not broken her back. And there was not a chance of going down there. It would be certain death to venture amid those surging bales. There was a general groan of disappointment from the group round the hatchway.
But another possibility was present in Hornblower’s mind, and he turned upon the steward.
“There were green coconuts for the use of the cabin,” he said. “Were there any left?”
“Yes, sir. Four or five dozen.” The man could hardly speak, with thirst, or weakness, or excitement.
“In the lazarette?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In a sack?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come along,” said Hornblower.
Coconuts floated as lightly as coir, and were more watertight than any cask.
They pried up the after-hatch cover, and looked down at the heaving water below. There was no cargo there; the bulkhead had stood the strain. The distance down to the surface corresponded to the three-foot freeboard remaining to Pretty Jane. There were things to be seen there – almost at once a wooden piggin came floating into sight, and the surface was nearly covered with fragments. Then something else floated into view – a coconut. Apparently the sack had not been fastened – Hornblower had hoped he might find a whole sackful floating there. He leaned far down and scooped it up. As he rose to his feet again with the thing in his hand there was a simultaneous wordless croak from the whole group; a dozen hands stretched out for it, and Hornblower realised that he must maintain order.