Forgiving Human Weakness

• Author: David M. Paciocco
• Pages: 251-268

CHAPTER

11

Forgiving

Human

Weakness

that

rolled

and

spat

on the

tops

of its

waves. Pelting rain streaked

the

white

sails

grey

and

cold.

The

cabin boy, Richard Parker, then seventeen

years

of

age, decided whether

to be

afraid

by

watching

the

eyes

of the

crew

of

three

that

had

charge

of the

vessel.

It

comforted

him to see

that

Thomas Dudley,

the

thirty-one-year-old captain

who had

been commis-

sioned

to

deliver

the

yacht

to

Henry

M.

Want,

in

Sydney,

Australia, smiled

broadly

as he

yelled orders

to

Edward Stephens,

the

mate,

and to

Edmond

Brooks,

the

seaman. Even

as the

storm grew worse, these

men

were calm

in

their aspect,

and

calming

in

their

effect

on

young Parker.

By the

time

the

weather cleared,

the

cabin

boy had

developed complete confidence

in

the

crew

who

handled

the

craft

so

ably

as it

fell

into deep troughs,

always

to

climb

again

to the

crest

of the

next wave

as

though this

was the

most

natural thing

in the

world.

For

Richard

Parker,

this

was

high adventure.

The

boat

was to

skirt

the

west coast

of

Africa

before rounding

the

Cape

of

Good Hope

for its

passage

across

the

great

Pacific.

As

they approached

the

equator, Parker

enjoyed

standing

on the

deck while

the

sun,

now

more

efficient

than

he

had

ever experienced

it,

warmed

him and

dried

the sea

spray almost

as

quickly

as it

bathed

his

face.

All was

well,

if not

idyllic, until

the

boat

had

the

temerity

to

turn

away

from

the

coastal path

it had

been

following

into

the

teeth

of the

Atlantic.

On 5

July 1884 "the

sea

broke strange

and

dangerous."1

It

swelled,

heavy

and

then

violent.

The

waves, which rose high

in

front

of the

craft,

blocking

out the

horizon, stood like some great black mass before collapsing

from

their height, lashing

the

boat with brine. Richard

Parker,

clutching

his

oilskin

with

one

hand

and the

stair rail with

the

other, looked into

the

eyes

of

Thomas Dudley.

He

found

no

comfort. What

he saw was

naked terror.

1884. No sooner had the docks and the smoke of Southampton

fallen out of sight than the sea became black, save for the froth

T

he Mignonette, a private yacht, set sail from England on 19 May

252

JUSTIFIABLE

HOMICIDE

It was too

late

to

change

the

rigging.

The

four

men

were clinging

to

what they could

as

they heard

the

foresail

rip.

At

that

point,

the

boat,

which

had

performed well until then, leaned

as

though

she

would roll,

but

held

for a

time. Then

the sea

stove

in her

side

and all was

panic.

Parker,

frozen

by

fear,

closed

his

eyes

and

silently implored

the

crew

to

hurry

as

they made

the

13-foot

lifeboat ready. Thomas Dudley,

not

prepared

to go

down

with

his

ship, managed

to

rescue

the

chronometer, sextant,

and

com-

pass.

As if by

last-minute impulse,

he

also grabbed

two

one-pound

tins

of

turnips. With these things

and no

more,

the

four

clambered into

the

lifeboat

just

as the

Mignonette

pointed skyward, before leaving

the

roar

of

the

storm

for the

eerie tranquillity

of the

sea-bed, hundreds

of

fathoms

below.

The

last reading showed that

she

went down

27

degrees

south,

10

degrees west, around

1600

miles

from

the

"camelhump"

of the

coast

of

Africa,

2000

miles east

and 500

miles north

of Rio de

Janeiro.2

In

time,

the sea

quelled, leaving

the

four

men

leaning against

the

sides

of the

boat while their tiny

craft

bobbed towards

Brazil

at the

ago-

nizingly

slow speed

of

13/4

miles

per

hour under

a

makeshift sail they

had

fashioned

from

their clothing.

If

this held

up,

there

was

promise they

might

reach shore

in

about seventy-five days

— a

figure

all of

them

understood

to

mean certain death. Their only hope

was to

find

a

sail

breaking

on the

horizon.

On the

third day,

the

turnips were opened. Until then,

the men had

survived

on the

rain water

they

had

gathered

in

their

oilskins, which

they

draped

over their laps while they scanned

the sea

around them.

On the

fourth

day a sea

turtle happened

too

close

to the

boat

and was

caught.

The

crew forced

it

from

its

shell,

pulled

the

grey-white

flesh

from

its

leathered crust,

and ate

reasonably well

on it for

eight days. That

was the

last they would consume until

five

days later, when,

in the

non-hospitable

sense,

the

other

three

had

Richard Parker

for

dinner.

The day

after

the

turtle

was

caught,

the men had

broached

the

pos-

sibility

of

having ultimately

to

draw lots

to see who

might

be

consumed

to

save

the

others.

If

history

is any

guide,

it is a

dangerous business

to be

the one to

make this proposal.

A

Dutch writer, Nicolaus Tulpius, recorded

in

Amsterdam

in

1641

how

seven Englishmen

had

found themselves

in

similar

circumstances

in the

Caribbean.

In the

second week,

one of

them

proposed they should "cast lots

to

settle

on

whose body they should

assuage

their ravenous

hunger."3

It is not

clear

if the men

cast dice, broke

matches, drew straws,

or

played "rock, paper, scissors," but,

in the

end,

the

one

who

proposed

the

idea lost

the

contest

and was

eaten,

no

doubt over

his

protests

that

he had

just been kidding. With

the

lesser odds

of one in

four

for the

intrepid crew

of the

fated

Mignonette,

Edmond

Brooks would