If the crew of the Circassian, the whole of which were on deck, had been struck with an electric shock, the sudden change of their countenances could not have been greater than was produced by this appalling intelligence.
Heap upon sailors every disaster, every danger which can be accumulated from the waves, the wind, the elements, or the enemy, and they will bear up against them with a courage amounting to heroism. All that they demand is, that the one plank “between them and death” is sound, and they will trust to their own energies, and will be confident in their own skill: but spring a leak and they are half paralysed; and if it gain upon them they are subdued; for when they find that their exertions are futile, they are little better than children.
Oswald sprang to the pumps when he heard the carpenter’s report. “Try again, Abel—it cannot be: cut away that line; hand us here a dry rope-yarn.”
Once more the well was sounded by Oswald, and the result was the same. “We must rig the pumps, my lads,” said the mate, endeavouring to conceal his own fears; “half this water must have found its way in when she was on her beam-ends.”
This idea, so judiciously thrown out, was caught at by the seamen, who hastened to obey the order, while Oswald went down to acquaint the captain, who, worn out with watching and fatigue, had, now that danger was considered to be over, thrown himself into his cot to obtain a few hours’ repose.
“Do you think, Bareth, that we have sprung a leak?” said the captain, earnestly, “She never could have taken in that quantity of water.”
“Never, sir,” replied the mate; “but she has been so strained, that she may have opened her top-sides. I trust it is no worse.”
“What is your opinion, then?”
“I am afraid that the wrecks of the masts have injured her: you may recollect how often we struck against them before we could clear ourselves of them; once, particularly, the mainmast appeared to be right under her bottom, I recollect, and she struck very heavy on it.”
“Well, it is God’s will: let us get on deck as fast as we can.”
When they arrived on deck, the carpenter walked up to the captain, and quietly said to him, “Seven feet three, sir.” The pumps were then in full action; the men had divided, by the direction of the boatswain, and, stripped naked to the waist, relieved each other every two minutes. For half an hour they laboured incessantly.
This was the half-hour of suspense: the great point to be ascertained was, whether she leaked through the top-sides, and had taken in the water during the second gale; if so, there was every hope of keeping it under. Captain Ingram and the mate remained in silence near the capstan, the former with his watch in his hand, during the time that the sailors exerted themselves to the utmost. It was ten minutes past seven when the half hour had expired; the well was sounded and the line carefully measured—Seven feet six inches! So that the water had gained upon them, notwithstanding that they had plied the pumps to the utmost of their strength.
A mute look of despair was exchanged among the crew, but it was followed up by curses and execrations. Captain Ingram remained silent, with his lips compressed.
“It’s all over with us!” exclaimed one of the men.
“Not yet, my lads; we have one more chance,” said Oswald. “I’ve a notion that the ship’s sides have been opened by the infernal straining of last night, and that she is now taking it in at the top-sides generally: if so, we have only to put her before the wind again, and have another good spell at the pumps. When no longer strained, as she is now with her broadside to the sea, she will close all up again.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if Mr Bareth is not right,” replied the carpenter; “however, that’s my notion, too.”
“And mine,” added Captain Ingram. “Come, my men! never say die while there’s a shot in the locker. Let’s try her again.” And, to encourage the men, Captain Ingram threw off his coat and assisted at the first spell, while Oswald went to the helm and put the ship before the wind.
As the Circassian rolled before the gale, the lazy manner in which she righted proved how much water there was in the hold. The seamen exerted themselves for a whole hour without intermission, and the well was again sounded—eight feet!
The men did not assert that they would pump no longer; but they too plainly showed their intentions by each resuming in silence his shirt and jacket, which had been taken off at the commencement of his exertions.
“What’s to be done, Oswald?” said Captain Ingram, as they walked aft. “You see the men will pump no longer: nor, indeed, would it be of any use. We are doomed.”
“The Circassian is, sir, I am afraid,” replied the mate: “pumping is of no avail; they could not keep her afloat till day-break. We must therefore, trust to our boats, which I believe to be all sound, and quit her before night.”
“Crowded boats in such a sea as this!” replied Captain Ingram, shaking his head mournfully.
“Are bad enough, I grant; but better than the sea itself. All we can do now is to try and keep the men sober, and if we can do so it will be better than to fatigue them uselessly; they’ll want all their strength before they put foot again upon dry land—if ever they are so fortunate. Shall I speak to them?”
“Do, Oswald,” replied the captain; “for myself I care little, God knows; but my wife—my children!”
“My lads,” said Oswald, going forward to the men, who had waited in moody silence the result of the conference—“as for pumping any longer it would be only wearing out your strength for no good. We must now look to our boats; and a good boat is better than a bad ship. Still this gale and cross-running sea are rather too much for boats at present; we had therefore better stick to the ship as long as we can. Let us set to with a will and get the boats ready, with provisions, water, and what may be needful, and then we must trust to God’s mercy and our own endeavours.”
“No boat can stand this sea,” observed one of the men. “I’m of opinion, as it’s to be a short life, it may as well be a merry one. What d’ye say, my lads?” continued he, appealing to the men.
Several of the crew were of the same opinion: but Oswald, stepping forward, seized one of the axes which lay at the main-bits, and going up to the seaman who had spoken, looked him steadfastly in the face:—
“Williams,” said the mate, “a short life it may be to all of us, but not a merry one; the meaning of which I understand very well. Sorry I shall be to have your blood, or that of others, on my hands; but as sure as there’s a heaven, I’ll cleave to the shoulder the first man who attempts to break into the spirit-room. You know I never joke. Shame upon you! Do you call yourselves men, when, for the sake of a little liquor now, you would lose your only chance of getting drunk every day as soon as we get on shore again? There’s a time for all things; and I’ve a notion this is a time to be sober.”
As most of the crew sided with Oswald, the weaker party were obliged to submit, and the preparations were commenced. The two boats on the booms were found to be in good condition. One party was employed cutting away the bulwarks, that the boats might be launched over the side, as there were no means of hoisting them out. The well was again sounded. Nine feet of water in the hold, and the ship evidently settling fast. Two hours had now passed, and the gale was not so violent; the sea, also, which at the change of wind had been cross, appeared to have recovered its regular run. All was ready; the sailors, once at work again, had, in some measure, recovered their spirits, and were buoyed up with fresh hopes at the slight change in their favour from the decrease of the wind. The two boats were quite large enough to contain the whole of the crew and passengers; but, as the sailors said among themselves (proving the kindness of their hearts), “What was to become of those two poor babbies, in an open boat for days and nights, perhaps?” Captain Ingram had gone down to Mrs Templemore, to impart to her their melancholy prospects; and the mother’s heart, as well as the mother’s voice, echoed the words of the seamen, “What will become of my poor babes?”
It was not
till nearly six o’clock in the evening that all was ready: the ship was slowly brought to the wind again, and the boats launched over the side. By this time the gale was much abated; but the vessel was full of water, and was expected soon to go down.
There is no time in which coolness and determination are more required than in a situation like the one which we have attempted to describe. It is impossible to know the precise moment at which a water-logged vessel, in a heavy sea, may go down: and its occupants are in a state of mental fever, with the idea of their remaining in her so late that she will suddenly submerge, and leave them to struggle in the waves. This feeling actuated many of the crew of the Circassian, and they had already retreated to the boats. All was arranged; Oswald had charge of one boat, and it was agreed that the larger should receive Mrs Templemore and her children, under the protection of Captain Ingram. The number appointed to Oswald’s boat being completed, he shoved off, to make room for the other, and laid-to to leeward, waiting to keep company. Mrs Templemore came up with Captain Ingram, and was assisted by him into the boat. The nurse, with one child, was at last placed by her side; Coco was leading Judy, the other nurse, with the remaining infant in her arms, and Captain Ingram, who had been obliged to go into the boat with the first child, was about to return to assist Judy with the other, when the ship gave a heavy pitch, and her forecastle was buried in the wave: at the same time the gunwale of the boat was stove by coming in contact with the side of the vessel. “She’s down, by God!” exclaimed the alarmed seamen in the boat; shoving off to escape from the vortex.
Captain Ingram, who was standing on the boat’s thwarts to assist Judy, was thrown back into the bottom of the boat; and, before he could extricate himself, the boat was separated from the ship, and had drifted to leeward.
“My child!” screamed the mother: “my child!”
“Pull to again, my lads!” cried Captain Ingram, seizing the tiller.
The men, who had been alarmed at the idea that the ship was going down, now that they saw that she was still afloat, got out the oars and attempted to regain her, but in vain—they could not make head against the sea and wind. Further and further did they drift to leeward, notwithstanding their exertions; while the frantic mother extended her arms, imploring and entreating. Captain Ingram, who had stimulated the sailors to the utmost, perceived that further attempts were useless.
“My child! my child!” screamed Mrs Templemore, standing up, and holding out her arms towards the vessel. At a sign from the captain, the head of the boat was veered round. The bereaved mother knew that all hope was gone, and she fell down in a state of insensibility.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Old Maid
One morning, shortly after the disasters which we have described, Mr Witherington descended to his breakfast-room somewhat earlier than usual, and found his green morocco easy-chair already tenanted by no less a personage than William the footman, who, with his feet on the fender, was so attentively reading the newspaper that he did not hear his master’s entrance. “By my ancestor, who fought on his stumps! but I hope you are quite comfortable, Mr William; nay, I beg I may not disturb you, sir.”
William, although as impudent as most of his fraternity, was a little taken aback. “I beg your pardon, sir, but Mr Jonathan had not time to look over the paper.”
“Nor is it required that he should, that I know of, sir.”
“Mr Jonathan says, sir, that it is always right to look over the deaths, that news of that kind may not shock you.”
“Very considerate, indeed.”
“And there is a story there, sir, about a shipwreck.”
“A shipwreck! where, William? God bless me! where is it?”
“I am afraid it is the same ship you are so anxious about, sir,—the—I forget the name, sir.”
Mr Witherington took the newspaper, and his eye soon caught the paragraph in which the rescue of the two negroes and child from the wreck of the Circassian was fully detailed.
“It is indeed!” exclaimed Mr Witherington. “My poor Cecilia in an open boat! one of the boats was seen to go down,—perhaps she’s dead—merciful God! one boy saved. Mercy on me! where’s Jonathan?”
“Here, sir,” replied Jonathan, very solemnly, who had just brought in the eggs, and now stood erect as a mute behind his master’s chair, for it was a case of danger, if not of death.
“I must go to Portsmouth immediately after breakfast—shan’t eat though—appetite all gone.”
“People seldom do, sir, on these melancholy occasions,” replied Jonathan. “Will you take your own carriage, sir, or a mourning coach?”
“A mourning coach at fourteen miles an hour, with two pair of horses! Jonathan, you’re crazy.”
“Will you please to have black silk hatbands and gloves for the coachman and servants who attend you, sir?”
“Confound your shop! no; this is a resurrection, not a death; it appears that the negro thinks only one of the boats went down.”
“Mors omnia vincit,” quoth Jonathan, casting up his eyes.
“Never you mind that; mind your own business. That’s the postman’s knock—see if there are any letters.”
There were several; and amongst the others there was one from Captain Maxwell, of the Eurydice, detailing the circumstances already known, and informing Mr Witherington that he had despatched the two negroes and the child to his address by that day’s coach, and that one of the officers, who was going to town by the same conveyance, would see them safe to his house.
Captain Maxwell was an old acquaintance of Mr Witherington—had dined at his house in company with the Templemores, and therefore had extracted quite enough information from the negroes to know where to direct them.
“By the blood of my ancestors! they’ll be here to night,” cried Mr Witherington; “and I have saved my journey. What is to be done? better tell Mary to get rooms ready: d’ye hear, William? beds for one little boy and two blacks.”
“Yes, sir,” replied William; “but where are the black people to be put?”
“Put! I don’t care; one may sleep with cook, the other with Mary.”
“Very well, sir, I’ll tell them,” replied William, hastening away, delighted at the row which he anticipated in the kitchen.
“If you please, sir,” observed Jonathan, “one of the negroes is, I believe, a man.”
“Well, what then?”
“Only, sir, the maids may object to sleep with him.”
“By all the plagues of the Witheringtons! this is true; well, you may take him, Jonathan—you like that colour.”
“Not in the dark, sir,” replied Jonathan with a bow.
“Well, then, let them sleep together: so that affair is settled.”
“Are they man and wife, sir?” said the butler.
“The devil take them both! how should I know? Let me have my breakfast, and we’ll talk over the matter by-and-by.”
Mr Witherington applied to his eggs, and muffin, eating his breakfast as fast as he could, without knowing why; but the reason was that he was puzzled and perplexed with the anticipated arrival, and longed to think quietly over the dilemma, for it was a dilemma to an old bachelor. As soon as he had swallowed his second cup of tea he put himself into his easy-chair, in an easy attitude, and was very soon soliloquising as follows:—
“By the blood of the Witheringtons! what am I, an old bachelor, to do with a baby, and a wet-nurse as black as the ace of spades, and another black fellow in the bargain. Send him back again? yes, that’s best: but the child—woke every morning at five o’clock with its squalling—obliged to kiss it three times a-day—pleasant!—and then that black of a nurse—thick lips—kissing child all day, and then holding it out to me—ignorant as a cow—if child has the stomach-ache she’ll cram a pepper-pod down its throat—West India fashion—children never without the stomach-ache!—my poor, poor cousin!—what has become of her and the other child, too?—wish they may pick her up, poor dear! and then she will come and take ca
re of her own children—don’t know what to do—great mind to send for sister Moggy—but she’s so fussy—won’t be in a hurry. Think again.”
Here Mr Witherington was interrupted by two taps at the door.
“Come in,” said he; and the cook, with her face as red as if she had been dressing a dinner for eighteen, made her appearance without the usual clean apron.
“If you please, sir,” said she, curtseying, “I will thank you to suit yourself with another cook.”
“Oh, very well,” replied Mr Witherington, angry at the interruption.
“And if you please, sir, I should like to go this very day—indeed, sir, I shall not stay.”
“Go to the devil! if you please,” replied Mr Witherington, angrily; “but first go out and shut the door after you.”
The cook retired, and Mr Witherington was again alone.
“Confound the old woman—what a huff she is in! won’t cook for black people, I suppose—yes, that’s it.”
Here Mr Witherington was again interrupted by a second double tap at the door.
“Oh! thought better of it, I suppose. Come in.”
It was not the cook, but Mary, the housemaid, that entered.
“If you please, sir,” said she, whimpering, “I should wish to leave my situation.”
“A conspiracy, by heavens! Well, you may go.”
“Tonight, sir, if you please,” answered the woman.
“This moment, for all I care!” exclaimed Mr Witherington in his wrath.
The housemaid retired; and Mr Witherington took some time to compose himself.
“Servants all going to the devil in this country,” said he at last; “proud fools—won’t clean rooms after black people, I suppose—yes, that’s it, confound them all, black and white! here’s my whole establishment upset by the arrival of a baby. Well, it is very uncomfortable—what shall I do?—send for sister Moggy?—no, I’ll send for Jonathan.”
The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales Page 123