Don Juan
Page 14
Been their familiar, and now Death was here.
50
Some trial had been making at a raft
With little hope in such a rolling sea,
A sort of thing at which one would have laughed,
If any laughter at such times could be,
Unless with people who too much have quaffed
And have a kind of wild and horrid glee,
Half epileptical and half hysterical.
Their preservation would have been a miracle.
51
At half past eight o’clock, booms, hencoops, spars
And all things for a chance had been cast loose,
That still could keep afloat the struggling tars,
For yet they strove, although of no great use.
There was no light in heaven but a few stars,
The boats put off o’ercrowded with their crews.
She gave a heel and then a lurch to port,
And going down head foremost – sunk, in short.
52
Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell,
Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave,
Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave.
And the sea yawned around her like a hell,
And down she sucked with her the whirling wave,
Like one who grapples with his enemy
And strives to strangle him before he die.
53
And first one universal shriek there rushed,
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder, and then all was hushed,
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gushed,
Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.
54
The boats, as stated, had got off before,
And in them crowded several of the crew.
And yet their present hope was hardly more
Than what it had been, for so strong it blew
There was slight chance of reaching any shore.
And then they were too many, though so few,
Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat
Were counted in them when they got afloat.
55
All the rest perished; near two hundred souls
Had left their bodies. And what’s worse, alas,
When over Catholics the ocean rolls,
They must wait several weeks before a mass
Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals,
Because, till people know what’s come to pass,
They won’t lay out their money on the dead.
It costs three francs for every mass that’s said.
56
Juan got into the longboat and there
Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place.
It seemed as if they had exchanged their care,
For Juan wore the magisterial face
Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo’s pair
Of eyes were crying for their owner’s case.
Battista, though (a name called shortly Tita),
Was lost by getting at some aqua vita.
57
Pedro, his valet, too he tried to save,
But the same cause, conducive to his loss,
Left him so drunk he jumped into the wave
As o’er the cutter’s edge he tried to cross,
And so he found a wine-and-watery grave.
They could not rescue him although so close,
Because the sea ran higher every minute,
And for the boat – the crew kept crowding in it.
58
A small old spaniel, which had been Don Jóse’s,
His father’s, whom he loved as ye may think
(For on such things the memory reposes
With tenderness), stood howling on the brink,
Knowing (dogs have such intellectual noses),
No doubt the vessel was about to sink.
And Juan caught him up and ere he stepped
Off threw him in, then after him he leaped.
59
He also stuffed his money where he could
About his person and Pedrillo’s too,
Who let him do in fact whate’er he would,
Not knowing what himself to say or do,
As every rising wave his dread renewed.
But Juan, trusting they might still get through
And deeming there were remedies for any ill,
Thus re-embarked his tutor and his spaniel.
60
’Twas a rough night and blew so stiffly yet
That the sail was becalmed between the seas,
Though on the wave’s high top too much to set,
They dared not take it in for all the breeze.
Each sea curled o’er the stern and kept them wet
And made them bail without a moment’s ease,
So that themselves as well as hopes were damped,
And the poor little cutter quickly swamped.
61
Nine souls more went in her. The longboat still
Kept above water, with an oar for mast.
Two blankets stitched together, answering ill
Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast.
Though every wave rolled menacing to fill,
And present peril all before surpassed,
They grieved for those who perished with the cutter,
And also for the biscuit casks and butter.
62
The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign
Of the continuance of the gale. To run
Before the sea until it should grow fine
Was all that for the present could be done.
A few teaspoonfuls of their rum and wine
Were served out to the people, who begun
To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags.
And most of them had little clothes but rags.
63
They counted thirty, crowded in a space
Which left scarce room for motion or exertion.
They did their best to modify their case;
One half sate up, though numbed with the immersion
While t’other half were laid down in their place,
At watch and watch. Thus, shivering like the tertian
Ague in its cold fit, they filled their boat,
With nothing but the sky for a greatcoat.
64
’Tis very certain the desire of life
Prolongs it; this is obvious to physicians,
When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife,
Survive through very desperate conditions,
Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife
Nor shears of Atropos before their visions.
Despair of all recovery spoils longevity,
And makes men’s miseries of alarming brevity.
65
’Tis said that persons living on annuities
Are longer lived than others, God knows why,
Unless to plague the grantors; yet so true it is,
That some, I really think, do never die.
Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is,
And that’s their mode of furnishing supply.
In my young days they lent me cash that way,
Which I found very troublesome to pay.
66
’Tis thus with people in an open boat;
They live upon the love of life and bear
More than can be believed or even thought,
And stand like rocks the tempest’s wear and tear.
And hardship still has been the sailor’s lot,
Since Noah’s ark went cruising here and there.
She had a curious crew as well as cargo,
Like t
he first old Greek privateer, the Argo.
67
But man is a carnivorous production
And must have meals, at least one meal a day.
He cannot live like woodcocks upon suction,
But like the shark and tiger must have prey.
Although his anatomical construction
Bears vegetables in a grumbling way,
Your labouring people think beyond all question,
Beef, veal, and mutton better for digestion.
68
And thus it was with this our hapless crew,
For on the third day there came on a calm,
And though at first their strength it might renew,
And lying on their weariness like balm,
Lulled them like turtles sleeping on the blue
Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm
And fell all ravenously on their provision,
Instead of hoarding it with due precision.
69
The consequence was easily foreseen:
They ate up all they had and drank their wine
In spite of all remonstrances, and then
On what in fact next day were they to dine?
They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men,
And carry them to shore. These hopes were fine,
But as they had but one oar, and that brittle,
It would have been more wise to save their victual.
70
The fourth day came, but not a breath of air,
And ocean slumbered like an unweaned child.
The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there,
The sea and sky were blue and clear and mild.
With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair)
What could they do? And hunger’s rage grew wild,
So Juan’s spaniel, spite of his entreating,
Was killed and portioned out for present eating.
71
On the sixth day they fed upon his hide,
And Juan, who had still refused, because
The creature was his father’s dog that died,
Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws,
With some remorse received (though first denied)
As a great favour one of the forepaws,
Which he divided with Pedrillo, who
Devoured it, longing for the other too.
72
The seventh day and no wind. The burning sun
Blistered and scorched, and stagnant on the sea
They lay like carcasses, and hope was none,
Save in the breeze that came not. Savagely
They glared upon each other. All was done,
Water and wine and food, and you might see
The longings of the cannibal arise
(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes.
73
At length one whispered his companion, who
Whispered another, and thus it went round,
And then into a hoarser murmur grew,
An ominous and wild and desperate sound,
And when his comrade’s thought each sufferer knew,
’Twas but his own, suppressed till now, he found.
And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood,
And who should die to be his fellow’s food.
74
But ere they came to this, they that day shared
Some leathern caps and what remained of shoes;
And then they looked around them and despaired,
And none to be the sacrifice would choose.
At length the lots were torn up and prepared,
But of materials that much shock the Muse.
Having no paper, for the want of better,
They took by force from Juan Julia’s letter.
75
The lots were made and marked and mixed and handed
In silent horror, and their distribution
Lulled even the savage hunger which demanded,
Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution.
None in particular had sought or planned it;
’Twas nature gnawed them to this resolution,
By which none were permitted to be neuter,
And the lot fell on Juan’s luckless tutor.
76
He but requested to be bled to death.
The surgeon had his instruments and bled
Pedrillo, and so gently ebbed his breath
You hardly could perceive when he was dead.
He died as born, a Catholic in faith,
Like most in the belief in which they’re bred,
And first a little crucifix he kissed,
And then held out his jugular and wrist
77
The surgeon, as there was no other fee,
Had his first choice of morsels for his pains,
But being thirstiest at the moment, he
Preferred a draught from the fast-flowing veins.
Part was divided, part thrown in the sea,
And such things as the entrails and the brains
Regaled two sharks who followed o’er the billow.
The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo.
78
The sailors ate him, all save three or four,
Who were not quite so fond of animal food.
To these was added Juan, who, before
Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could
Feel now his appetite increased much more.
’Twas not to be expected that he should,
Even in extremity of their disaster,
Dine with them on his pastor and his master.
79
’Twas better that he did not, for in fact
The consequence was awful in the extreme.
For they who were most ravenous in the act
Went raging mad. Lord! how they did blaspheme
And foam and roll, with strange convulsions racked,
Drinking salt water like a mountain stream,
Tearing and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing,
And with hyena laughter died despairing.
80
Their numbers were much thinned by this infliction,
And all the rest were thin enough, heaven knows,
And some of them had lost their recollection,
Happier than they who still perceived their woes,
But others pondered on a new dissection,
As if not warned sufficiently by those
Who had already perished, suffering madly,
For having used their appetites so sadly.
81
And next they thought upon the master’s mate
As fattest, but he saved himself, because,
Besides being much averse from such a fate,
There were some other reasons: the first was
He had been rather indisposed of late,
And that which chiefly proved his saving clause
Was a small present made to him at Cadiz,
By general subscription of the ladies.
82
Of poor Pedrillo something still remained,
But was used sparingly. Some were afraid,
And others still their appetites constrained,
Or but at times a little supper made;
All except Juan, who throughout abstained,
Chewing a piece of bamboo and some lead.
At length they caught two boobies and a noddy,
And then they left off eating the dead body.
83
And if Pedrillo’s fate should shocking be,
Remember Ugolino condescends
To eat the head of his archenemy,
The moment after he politely ends
His tale. If foes be food in hell, at sea
’Tis surely fair to dine upon our friends
When shipwreck’s short allowance grows too scanty,
Without being much more horrible than Dante.
84
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And the same night there fell a shower of rain,
For which their mouths gaped like the cracks of earth
When dried to summer dust. Till taught by pain,
Men really know not what good water’s worth.
If you had been in Turkey or in Spain,
Or with a famished boat’s crew had your berth,
Or in the desert heard the camel’s bell,
You’d wish yourself where truth is – in a well.
85
It poured down torrents, but they were no richer
Until they found a ragged piece of sheet,
Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher,
And when they deemed its moisture was complete,
They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher
Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet
As a full pot of porter, to their thinking
They ne’er till now had known the joys of drinking.
86
And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack,
Sucked in the moisture, which like nectar streamed.
Their throats were ovens, their swoll’n tongues were black,
As the rich man’s in hell, who vainly screamed
To beg the beggar, who could not rain back
A drop of dew, when every drop had seemed
To taste of heaven. If this be true, indeed
Some Christians have a comfortable creed.
87
There were two fathers in this ghastly crew
And with them their two sons, of whom the one
Was more robust and hardy to the view,
But he died early, and when he was gone,
His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw
One glance on him and said, ‘Heaven’s will be done!
I can do nothing,’ and he saw him thrown
Into the deep without a tear or groan.
88
The other father had a weaklier child,
Of a soft cheek and aspect delicate,
But the boy bore up long and with a mild
And patient spirit held aloof his fate.
Little he said and now and then he smiled,
As if to win a part from off the weight
He saw increasing on his father’s heart,
With the deep deadly thought that they must part
89
And o’er him bent his sire and never raised
His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam
From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed,
And when the wished-for shower at length was come,
And the boy’s eyes, which the dull film half glazed,
Brightened and for a moment seemed to roam,
He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain
Into his dying child’s mouth – but in vain.
90
The boy expired. The father held the clay
And looked upon it long, and when at last
Death left no doubt, and the dead burden lay