Человек, который смеется / The Man Who Laughs. Уровень 4

But suddenly something terrible appeared to them in the darkness. On the port bow arose, standing stark, a tall, opaque mass, vertical a tower of the abyss. They watched it open-mouthed.

The storm was driving them towards it. They knew not what it was. It was the rock.

It was a moment of great anxiety. Meanwhile a thickening mist had descended on the drifting wretches. They were ignorant of their whereabouts.

Suddenly the boat was driven back. The wave reared up under the vessel. It was again on the open sea.

The hurricane had stopped. The fierce clarions of space were mute. None knew what had become of it; flakes replaced the hailstones, the snow began to fall slowly. No more swell: the sea flattened down. In a few minutes the boat was floating in sleeping waters.

All was silence, stillness, blindness. It was clear that they were delivered out of the storm, out of the foam, out of the wind, out of the uproar. In three or four hours it would be sunrise. Some passing ship would see them; they would be rescued. The worst was over. They said to themselves, “It is all over this time.”

Suddenly they found that all was indeed over.

One of the sailors, went down into the hold to look for a rope, then came above again and said, -

“The hold is full[19 - The hold is full. – Трюм полон.].”

“Of what?” asked the chief.

“Of water,” answered the sailor.

The chief cried out, -

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” replied the captain, “that in half an hour we shall founder.”

THE LAST RESOURCE

There was a hole in the keel. When it happened no one could have said. It was most probable that they had touched some rock. The other sailor, whose name was Ave Maria, went down into the hold, too, came on deck again, and said, -

“There are two varas of water in the hold.”

About six feet.

Ave Maria added, “In less than forty minutes we shall sink.”

The water, however, was not rising very fast.

The chief called out,

“We must work the pump.”

“We have no pump left.”

“Then,” said the chief, “we must make for land[20 - make for land – плыть к берегу].”

“Where is the land?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nor I.”

“But it must be somewhere.”

“True enough.”

“Let some one steer for it.”

“We have no pilot.”

“Stand to the tiller yourself.”

“We have lost the tiller.”

“Let’s make one. Nails – a hammer – quick – some tools.”

“The carpenter’s box is overboard, we have no tools.”

“We’ll steer all the same, no matter where.”

“The rudder is lost.”

“We’ll row the wreck.”

“We have lost the oars.”

“We’ll sail.”

“We have lost the sails and the mast.”

“We’ll make one.”

“There is no wind.”

The wind, indeed, had left them, the storm had fled; and its departure, which they had believed to mean safety, meant, in fact, destruction. The swiftness of the storm might enable them to reach land; but no more wind, no more hope. They were going to die because the hurricane was over. The end was near! The snow was falling, and as the wreck was now motionless.

The chief said,

“Let us lighten the wreck.”

They took the luggage, and threw it over the gunwale. Thus they emptied the cabin. The lantern, the cap, the barrels, the sacks, the bales, and the water-butts, the pot of soup, all went over into the waves.

The wreck was lightened, it was sinking more slowly, but none the less surely.

“Is there anything else we can throw overboard?”

“Yes”, said the old man.