It was in vain that
those on board made remonstrances and entreaties, and represented
the horrors of abandoning men upon a sterile and uninhabited
island; the sturdy captain was inflexible.
In the meantime the penguin hunters had joined the engravers of
tombstones, but not before the ship was already out at sea. They
all, to the number of eight, threw themselves into their boat,
which was about twenty feet in length, and rowed with might and
main. For three hours and a half did they tug anxiously and
severely at the oar, swashed occasionally by the surging waves of
the open sea, while the ship inexorably kept on her course, and
seemed determined to leave them behind.
On board the ship was the nephew of David Stuart, a young man of
spirit and resolution. Seeing, as he thought, the captain
obstinately bent upon abandoning his uncle and the others, he
seized a pistol, and in a paroxysm of wrath swore he would blow
out the captain's brains, unless he put about or shortened sail.
Fortunately for all parties, the wind just then came ahead, and
the boat was enabled to reach the ship; otherwise, disastrous
circumstances might have ensued.
