Silence continues to reign upon the raft. Not a sound, not even
a groan, escapes our lips. We do not exchange ten words in the
course of the day, and the few syllables that our parched tongue
and swollen lips can pronounce are almost unintelligible. Wasted
and bloodless, we are no longer human beings; we are spectres.
CHAPTER LI.
JANUARY 24th.--I have inquired more than once of Curtis if he has
the faintest idea to what quarter of the Atlantic we have
drifted, and each time he has been unable to give me a decided
answer, though from his general observation of the direction of
the wind and currents he imagines that we have been carried
westwards, that is to say, towards the land.
To-day the breeze has dropped entirely, but the heavy swell is
still upon the sea, and is an unquestionable sign that a tempest
has been raging at no great distance. The raft labours hard
against the waves, and Curtis, Falsten, and the boatswain, employ
the little energy that remains to them in strengthening the
joints. Why do they give themselves such trouble? Why not let
the few frail planks part asunder, and allow the ocean to
terminate our miserable existence? Certain it seems that our
sufferings must have reached their utmost limit, and nothing
could exceed the torture that we are enduring. The sky pours
down upon us a heat like that of molten lead, and the sweat that
saturates the tattered clothes that hang about our bodies goes
far to aggravate the agonies of our thirst.
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