Working with a will, they got the whaleboat over, and whilst Tari and Jim jumped into her, Jack and Broncho passed the provisions along.
She was a magnificent boat, a fine specimen of New Bedford handiwork, and held a vast amount without any overloading.
The four boat-breakers were passed in, a keg of biscuits, and enough salt horse to last close on a month with care; then a huge tarpaulin, a spare mast and sails from one of the other boats, four Winchester rifles and ammunition, whilst the three white men each buckled on a revolver and belt of cartridges.
This armament was Jack's forethought, for he knew that possibly they might find themselves amongst the Paumotu or Low Archipelago of atolls, which had got a very bad reputation and lay right in their course for either Tahiti or the Marquesas.
The sextant was not forgotten, or the chronometer; and even oilskins, blankets, and spare clothing were handed aboard. Whilst the small ship's company worked hard to provision the whaleboat, the old oil-sodden Ocmulgee was blazing furiously.
The whole of her, forward, was now a mass of flame, which with long yellow tongues went licking out to the end of the jibboom and up the tarred shrouds aloft. The foresail and topsails soon caught fire, and, with the blazing jibs and rigging, lit up the scene until the castaways were working as if by daylight.
At two bells in the first watch the fore-topmast came down with a crash, a mass of sparks like a St. Catherine's wheel; then, plunging into the sea with a loud hiss, it lay dead, a blackened, charred wreck.
By this time the main rigging had caught, and the ship was like a gigantic beacon.
"We'd better shove off clear of her at once," cried Jack, as he appeared out of the cabin entrance, his arms full of odds and ends.
"What you totin' along, Jack?" inquired Broncho, from the boat.