Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1929-09-15

pumped vigorously. We were new men. reborn
in hone. we even smiled Notwithstanding our
suffering week in wet clothing is nkeiy 10
dampen any ones ardor. Our course was SET
far Falmouth and safety. Still there was no
improvement in the Nightingale's state; indeed,
she moved more and more sluggishly; the
weight of water in her hold settled her. deeper
hour by hour, until 1t seemed tnat sne was
being driven against her Will.
Ere long a change in the wind forced US TO
steer for Brest, France, the nearest port Not
for moment could we leave the pumps. except
when urgent necessity demanded that we trim
the yards or attend to the sails All this time
our only food was hard biscuit and raw pork
without galley, cooking was impossible.
We pumped, up and down, up and down,
through a century of eternitieS; we ate stand
ing slept on our feet, still worked the pumps
in our slumber; struggled to save the ship
ourselves, that little universe of men drifting
from one chaos into another, even while our
bodies strove to sink dreamily into extinction
in defiance of our immortal wills. More than
once laughed Historically to see man awaken
from his forty winks and stare about him in
stupid daze, as though wondering where and
what he was; and others no doubt likewise
giggled crafty at me-
Little by little the vessels speed lessened,
until on the third day after turning tail our
Roadway was barely perceptible. Three days!
Had we lived so long? Only three days? No,
it had been infinity of years multiplied by
itself We had been living forever, and we
had never done anything except pump, pump,
pump. Then we realized that we could attain
no port, neither Falmouth nor BreSt; that the
bottom of the ocean was to be the Nightin-
gales destination
That night, when she rolled tremendously
in the grip of huge seas, her braces parted
permitting the yards to swing as they would
The ship became unmanageable. Under the
ominous swayng of the yards it appeared that
the mastS must snap at any moment. To re-
main about the deck was virtual suicide, and
accordingly all hands perched upon the poop,
where the officers were dischargng rockets in
an effort to summon help We had left the
vessel to shift for herself-and for us.
Our end was near; the place was the dreaded
Bay of BiScay-about $50 miles, as we afterward
learned, from BreSt. Yet with the destruction
of the Nightingale imminent, We could do little
or nothing to help ourselves because the long
boat, as I have said had been smashed to bits,
and the other boats were almost falling to
pieces from neglect, with seams gaping like
rents in cid shoes. That taught me a lesson,
which did not forget when I myself attained
to positions of responsibility; always to look
after the boats and to see that they were main
tanned in good condition, stored with water
and food, and that all necessary gear was
dashed inside
HARDLY a word was spoken; every one was
dumb; but each man, as likely as not,
repeated to himself the report that soon world
be posted at Lloyds: Florence Nightingale
lost with all hands" Yet only one, the cook,
whimpered An irrepressible sailor pretended
to sympathize with him: Your poor wife?
Why man, she'll be an interesting widow soon
all widows are interesting; and will be hand
some in black" For myself, can only say
that resolved in the last extremity to throw
a BOBBY hatch overheard and cling to it as
long as could, and if die I must, to die hard
Three sailing vessels passed close enough to
see our signals, but deferred perhaps by heavy
seas from trying to help us, they kept on their
way. AS our own craft more and more re-
sembled a half-tide rock, her decks a smother
of foam, we began to lose hope. After all, how
ever fortune did not desert us: about mid