the poor Jacques found a safe harbour.
Some of the exhausted crew killed
themselves with ravenous eating, on finding
themselves suddenly furnished with
abundant food.

The Dolphin, in more recent times, bound
from the Canaries to New York, was a
hundred and sixty-five days at sea—an
inordinate period, as any one may see by
tracing the route on a map. Seventy-five
days after the start, the food was nearly all
gone; and the remaining ninety were days
of misery indeed. A dog and a cat were
cooked and eaten; the old shoes were
eaten; then the appalling ordeal of casting
lots was talked about. The captain,
remembering an old pair of breeches of his,
lined with leather, succeeded in deterring
the crew from their dread purpose, by
giving them a small piece of leather each, as
a daily allowance, with some grass which
had by that time begun to grow on deck.
He was rewarded for his forethought and
humanity; the Andalusia, Captain
Bradshaw, hove in sight, and saved the small
crew of the Dolphin from starvation.

The story of the Peggy, again, excited
much attention a century ago. This vessel,
commanded by Captain David Harrison,
after a successful voyage from New York to
Fayal, one of the Azores, took in a cargo of
wine, brandy, and other commodities, and
started back for New York on the 24th of
October, 1769. November storms tore the
rigging, and loosened the old timbers. As
the provisions were getting low, Harrison
put all hands on short allowance on the
1st of December. Each man's daily ration
was reduced to a quarter of a pound of
bread, a pint of wine, and a  quart of water.
As wine was the principal item in the
cargo, drink was obtainable throughout the
voyage; but the scarcity of water led to
distressing results. Two ships passed within
sight, but the weather was too rough to
render approach safe. When the food was
absolutely gone, the crew took, in frenzied
eagerness, to the wine; the captain urged
them to more caution, but was unheeded.
He himself took special care of two gallons
of dirty water, found at the bottom of a
cask. Christmas Day came, and with it the
sight of a vessel, which, at first, seemed
inclined to render help; but it would have
been better if she had not been sighted at
all, for she sailed on without coming near.
Nevertheless, the poor fellows did manage to
get something extra for Christmas fare; two
small pigeons made a dinner for the whole of
them. Having one cat on board, poor puss
was killed on Boxing Day, and divided into
nine parts; Captain Harrison taking the
head as his share, and giving the remaining
eight portions to the eight men. On
the following day, the outside of the vessel
was scraped for barnacles, but they were
too low down for the weakened men to get
at them. The ship was in such a helpless
state, that the crew could hardly have
navigated her, even had they been in average
health and strength; but, as matters stood,
they were almost too exhausted to labour;
and, having little or no solid food, their only
resource was wine. They were all half
intoxicated, and the mate much more than
half, during the rest of the sad voyage.
Captain Harrison adhered to his modicum
of dirty water, with a few drops of
medicinal balsam in it, for days. As all the
candles and lamp oil had been taken for
food, the long, dark, winter nights added
to the misery of all hands. The last bit
of ragged sail was blown away by a strong
wind; the tobacco was gone; the leather
of the pumps, and the horn coat buttons,
were boiled or softened and eaten; at last
came the day which Harrison had long
foreseen and dreaded. The mate and the
men asked permission to cast lots. He
refused; they determined to do it without
him; and a poor negro became the victim.
He was eaten; another man died three
days afterwards; the captain, living on
nothing but his drop of water, lay
prostrate in bed with weakness. The remaining
six men demanded another casting of
lots; it fell upon David Flatt, who
happened to be the favourite of the whole
ship. The wretched men were agonised;
they resolved to wait until eleven o'clock,
on the following day, to see whether,
by any possibility, help would come to
them. They had their reward. At eight
o'clock on the eventful morning, a vessel
was descried. The men could hardly
believe their eyes; one had gone mad, the
mate was nearly mad with wine, two were
dead, the captain was lying helpless, and
the other five had only strength enough to
make signals of distress. These were seen.
The succouring ship was the Susannah,
of London, Captain Thomas Evans, on her
return voyage from Virginia to England.
Three of the crew of the poor Peggy, worn
out with their prolonged sufferings, died on
the homeward voyage, leaving only four
of the original nine remaining, when the
Susannah reached England early in March.
In one remarkable instance, the detention
of a fine ship was due to the loss of her
rudder— a loss which was braved in a
noteworthy manner. Her Majesty's ship Pique