The ill fated wretch had stolen several pints of water from the
barrel that had been untouched, and that water had poisoned him!
CHAPTER XLIII.
JANUARY 11th to 14th.--Owen's convulsions returned with increased
violence, and in the course of the night he expired in terrible
agony. His body was thrown overboard almost directly; it had
decomposed so rapidly that the flesh had not even consistency
enough for any fragments of it to be reserved for the boatswain
to use to bait his lines. A plague the man had been to us in his
life; in his death he was now of no service!
And now, perhaps, still more than ever, did the horror of our
situation stare us in the face. There was no doubt that the
poisoned barrel had at some time or other contained copperas; but
what strange fatality had converted it into a water-cask, or what
fatality, stranger still, had caused it to be brought on board
the raft, was a problem that none could solve. Little, however,
did it matter now: the fact was evident; the barrel was
poisoned, and of water we had not a drop.
One and all, we fell into the gloomiest silence. We were too
irritable to bear the sound of each other's voices; and it did
not require a word, a mere look or gesture was enough, to provoke
us to anger that was little short of madness. How it was that we
did not all become raving maniacs, I cannot tell.
Throughout the 12th no drain of moisture crossed our lips, and
not a cloud arose to warrant the expectation of a passing shower;
in the shade, if shade it might be called, the thermometer would
have registered at least 100deg.
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