by Ellen Wood
But we will not follow him in his illness, or the ship through the weeks that they tried in vain to double Cape Horn. William Allair had deliberately brought all this discomfort upon himself. One vague hope — it seemed too far off to be anything but vague in their present peril — did buoy up his sinking heart: the hope that it would all be as he had seen it in his feverish dream.
CHAPTER XV.
THE OPEN BOAT AT SEA.
THE weary weeks wore away, and the ship progressed. A happy day on board was that, when they left the Cape behind them. They had finer weather after passing it, and a change for the better became not a hope, but a certainty. Each day the sun began to get higher, though the ice on the ship did not yet thaw; whilst every night sank some constellation in the south, and raised a more familiar one in the northern horizon. When William had first seen the groups of stars he had been accustomed to live under, disappear and give place to strange ones, the Magellan clouds, the Southern Cross, a sharp undefined feeling of dread would shoot across him; it seemed as if he was going into an unknown world.
And now the good ship went on gallantly, bearing a press of sail. They had got into open water and open weather, as the sailors called it. Hey for home! William’s heart leaped to every knot she made; and he almost dared to whisper to himself that God had seen how terrible had been his punishment, and would in mercy forgive him and send him safely home again.
Fair and gently! Stop a bit. This favourable change was not to last to the end. After some prolongation of it, which had got them well forward, the weather one morning altered. Squalls of wind and rain came on, which soon increased to half a gale, and the look-out — to use the words of the mate — was downright ugly. The captain ordered the courses to be reefed and furled, the sails secured, and all other precautions taken against the storm that was threatening.
A dark, heavy night set in. The gale increased, the captain remained on deck, and the ship laboured much, the boiling waves rushing over her bows and flinging their foam aloft. Now she rose on the heaving waves, now she buried her black shrouds in the deep, her tall masts rising and sinking, looking — had there been any distant spectators — like a thing supernatural amidst the surrounding gloom. Suddenly she plunged wildly forward, and encountered a heavy sea, which threw her on her beam ends. There was a sharp, affrighted cry, and one of the sailors came forward, terror on his countenance. The vessel had shipped a quantity of water.
The mate rushed to the hold. It was even as the man said. The ship had sprung a leak. A short while, and the water rose up to five feet. —
All hands were set to work at the pumps; and after some hours’ labour, the quantity was considerably decreased. The leak was found, and the carpenter set about repairing it. But the gale increased. By the morning it was blowing awfully. The captain’s face wore a look of anxiety, while the mate seemed to be gifted with ubiquity, so many parts of the ship was he seen in, almost at the same moment.
The wind abated a little with the broad daylight; but when the sun went down, the storm came on again with terrific violence. Another leak was sprung; either the former had re-opened, or the fresh one was close to it, and the water rushed in impetuously. Everything was done that could be, in their unhappy situation. The pumps were worked incessantly, the captain strove to give his orders cheerfully: whatever his faults of temper, he was a thorough seaman, and the men obeyed him. They worked, but not with a will; one dark thought weighed down their spirits — that they might, before morning, be in another world. Oh, what an awful time it was! we, who have lived all our lives on shore, can form no idea of it. The night pitchy dark; the wind howling and shrieking in gusts that seemed to be almost unearthly; the crashing of the timbers as the ‘masts rent and toppled; the devoted ship, huge and shadowy in the night’s gloom, crying and groaning as she was tossed about with the blast; the waves rushing mountains high, foaming and hissing, beating over and against the ship, buffeting those who were in her. The ill-fated men plyed away at the pumps, their spirits and their bodies sinking, but conscious that it was their one only chance for life. Every moment threatened to dash the ship in pieces. Her mizen-mast and rudder had been carried away, and her decks swept. Two of the seamen, poor fellows, were already gone. Worn out with fatigue, numbed with the cold, bruised and battered by the tempest, they had been washed away, not having the strength to hold on, while performing some necessary duty.
And was it for this that William Allair had quitted his sheltering home? to endure years of never-ceasing hardship, and at last to perish far away, amidst the horrors of that night?
It was now a matter of certainty that the ship was gradually sinking, and they must meet their fate with what calmness and resignation they could. Another soul, the second mate, was washed overboard. Nothing more could be done; the pumps were abandoned in despair; three of the crew climbed up to the main rigging, deeming that a few minutes more of life would be left to them there than if they remained below.
With the morning, the violence of the storm had worn itself out, and the sea was, comparatively speaking, calm. The captain announced to the mate that he had resolved to make one trial for their lives, by trusting themselves to the jolly boat, which, strange to say, had not been swept away.
The mate shook his head. He did not think it possible the boat could live, even if they could succeed in launching it and getting safely into it.
“It is worth the trial,” argued the captain. “To remain in the ship is certain destruction. In a few hours her masts will be under water. I am aware that death is almost as certain, and may, perhaps, be quicker in the boat; still there is a chance. Life is sweet to us all.”
“Oh, try it, sir!” uttered William, clasping his hands in supplication. “If there be but the faintest glimmering of hope, let us try it, rather than die here!”
The captain turned sharply upon him. But common peril has a wonderful tendency to equalize men; and the breach of discipline passed unreproved.
The sailors were called from the rigging, where they had climbed; but they did not answer, and remained immovable. They had been frozen to death amidst the horrors of that fatal night.
With immense difficulty the boat was launched, another life having been lost in the process. The captain lowered himself into it last. “God alone,” said he, “can save and help us now.”
And God did help them, and carried them in safety away from that wreck, through the tempestuous sea, in the direction they wished to go. Ere they were out of sight of the ship, the water had nearly engulfed her, the feet of the dead men, as they dangled from the rigging, being just immerged in it.
Four days passed away, and that frail boat and its suffering crew were still at the mercy of the waters. The weather, meantime, had become beautifully serene and mild, and there was a favourable breeze to fill their bit of canvas, that they were fain to call a sail. This was the fifth day that they had been driftings on that desolate sea; no land, no sail in view to cheer their drooping spirits; no eye conscious of their need of help, save ONE. Their stock of sustenance, consisting of biscuit and water, was running low, although they had been, from the first, on the shortest allowance, the captain pointing out the necessity of the food being eked out. The nights were raw and cold, exposed, as they were, in the open boat; but as they drew nearer to the equator, towards which, happily to say, the wind continued to drift them, the temperature grew milder.
They suffered greatly from thirst, a very small quantity of water being doled out each morning. If a shower of rain fell, they spread handkerchiefs — all they had — to catch it; and when they were thoroughly wet, they wrung the rain out, and drank it. This afforded some relief. The captain’s character appeared to be entirely changed since the commencement of their sufferings; but nothing subdues a man like the fear of approaching death. There was a Prayer Book in the boat; it had belonged to poor Bob Stone, and the captain had brought it with him from the ship. Each day he read prayers to the men, never omitting the service to be used
in peril at sea. The men bared their heads, and listened reverently. Hardened as they were, reprobate as they had been, there was not one but supplicated fervently for forgiveness, whether it should be their fate to live or die.
But now, for two successive days and nights, they had no rain; their allowance of water was less, and the most intolerable thirst prevailed. Another day, and the pangs of famine were added to those of thirst, their biscuit being exhausted. The carpenter and one of the other men yielded to the temptation of drinking the sea water, although cautioned against it by the rest, who declared they would endure any amount of suffering rather than attempt it. It produced a widely different effect upon the two. The carpenter seemed renovated and refreshed by it, suffering no evil consequences; while the other, in a short space of time, died in delirious agony.
And, next, the captain began to sink. Of all those in the boat, the one who might be supposed least calculated to battle with the hardships of their situation was William Allair. Yet he appeared to bear up manfully; while the captain, a strong man and hearty, was slowly resigning his life. It was a calm, peaceful evening, that on which he died. The sun was drawing towards the west, and its beams fell aslant upon his pallid features.
He knew he should not see it rise on the morrow. With a feeble farewell to the men, he leaned his head upon William’s shoulder, next to whom he sat, and never moved again. William heard him softly praying. Ah, my boys, what a mercy it is that we have a God, a Saviour to fly to, in our extremity of need! When the sun rose in the morning they were consigning his body to the deep; the mate, though himself scarcely able to speak, reading over him the service for the burial of the dead at sea. I hope his spirit was happy!
A fearful thought began to pervade the boat. You may guess what it was, if you are familiar with accounts of this kind of suffering. The pains of hunger are grievous to be borne, the love of life is strong, and — ; but they drove away the horrible thought for the present.
Again returned the dawn of day, and there was no relief. About mid-day another died. William Allair, the only good scholar left in the boat — in fact, the only scholar of any account who had been in it, or in the ship — feebly read the prayers over him as they threw him into the sea. The mate was too far gone to attempt it.
And now the dreadful thought, above alluded to, passed into words. William Allair raised his voice against it; the mate also, who collected strength to speak. William told them that where the unnatural food had been resorted to, those partaking of it had become raving mad, and so died.
Before the discussion ended, the night closed in, and they tacitly agreed to leave its decision until the morning. When that morning came, the mate was dead, and William Allair was in a feverish stupor. The men were desperate now, and bruited a question amongst themselves: should they draw lots, or should they kill him — William?
But what is that object in the distance? One of the sailors spies it out. A sail! And making towards them! Oh, surely it cannot be! And yet — IT IS! God had remembered them at last.
Such was the depression and lethargy of the men, that they mostly looked at it with a stupid, unmeaning stare. But soon they burst into tears; and the carpenter, taking the book, read from it a prayer of thanksgiving in his untutored accent.
Gallantly came on the good ship. And now it neared them; and now it was abreast of them. Her captain turned away his face as he drank in at a glance the sorrow and suffering disclosed to view. The mate was in the boat, unburied; for they had been too weak, perhaps too apathetical, to be in a hurry to throw him overboard.
The hearty, rough sailors, compassionate in their help as women, descended from their ship, and tenderly bore the weak on board in their arms. By proper care and attention all were recovered. But when William Allair first awoke to the change, his confused thought was that he was in an angel’s ship, sailing to the blessed port of Heaven.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE MEETING IN CALCUTTA.
THE vessel which had picked them up proved to be the barque “Texas,” bound from one of the ports of Brazil to Calcutta. Here was an overwhelming disappointment to William! — he was about to be borne once more far away from his home. But there was no help for it; and he could not in gratitude quarrel with the means which had saved his life. He, with the other men saved, assisted to work the ship, she being short of hands; a fever having carried off four or five of her crew, after the “Texas” left port. But she was healthy now. The carpenter was especially welcome, their own having been one of those who had died.
As if to compensate for their previous disasters, the voyage to Calcutta was most favourable, and performed in a remarkably short time. When they reached that port, William Allair quitted the ship: he was not wanted longer. So there he was, adrift in the world in a strange land: possessing nothing; not even a shred of clothing, save what he stood upright in. 1848 was now drawing to a close.
His whole thoughts were directed towards getting to England. And the only way open to him to accomplish that, was by working his passage over. Down he went to the river, to see if there were any craft about to sail who might require hands. Moored there was a small brig, containing some officers and men belonging (as was told to William) to a fine frigate lying at Diamond Harbour — a British man-of-war. His informant said that he heard hands were wanted for the frigate. William resolved to go on board the brig, and get himself engaged, if possible. He was extremely anxious; for he began to fear that he was again growing ill. In point of fact, he had not recovered the fever, or the hardships following upon it.
He made his way on to the brig, which was called the “Lord Hastings,” and was waiting to Be spoken to, when his attention was attracted to a tall, handsome young officer pacing the quarter-deck. Not for his fine figure did William regard him, not for his prepossessing looks; but because the face seemed known to him.
Where had he seen it? He could not recollect. The features were familiar; and yet not familiar. Once, as a brother officer passed and spoke, the object of William’s attention smiled in reply. That smile awoke a strange thrill in his heart, for it seemed to call up remembrances of Whittermead.
“Who is that gentleman?” inquired William, of the steward’s man, who was standing by.
“That? He’s one of our lieutenants. Mr Vane.”
The flush of awaking recollection flew to William’s countenance. Could it be? “What is his Christian name?” he hastily asked.
“His Christian name? Well — let’s see. Oh, it’s Harry.”
“Belonging to the ‘Hercules?’”
“The ‘Hercules,’ Captain Stafford.”
“This is not the ‘Hercules?’”
“This the ‘ Hercules!’ You are not much of a sailor, young fellow; or else you have never heard what her tonnage is. Why, she’s a seventy-gun ship! Vessels of that class can’t get up here; they have to stop at Diamond Harbour. This brig is only a temporary thing that we got to bring us up the Ganges to Calcutta. You won’t see many a finer man than Lieutenant Vane.”
It was even so! His dear old companion and friend, Harry Vane, stood before him. The man talked on, but William heard him not. For one brief moment he forgot his position: the tide of memory ebbed back to the past, obliterating the present; there was the Harry Vane of their school days, and he was William Allair. He took a step forwards: pleasurable eagerness in his eyes, his hand extended, an exclamation on his lips; but recollection returned to him in time, and he retreated again. What! should he — a common sailor, low in rank, shabby in appearance, applying on the ship for work — should he dare to advance to the quarterdeck, and boldly offer his hand, and claim acquaintance with one of its chief officers? Back! back, William Allair! you deliberately chose your own station in life, and you must abide by it.
The heart bitterness rose in his throat as if it would have suffocated him. He turned away; and, without saying a syllable to anybody, left the ship. He must find some other means of going home, or stay in India. Anything rather than
join the “Hercules.”
The next day, William was lying in Calcutta Hospital, with an attack of incipient brain fever. The severity of the voyage round Cape Horn, the privations, the exposure on the open sea, and now the dreadful heat raging in Calcutta, all combined to induce it. Added to which causes, must be classed his remorse and anxiety of mind. The attack, in truth, was a slight one; more to be called a threatening than a positive attack. The remedies applied were prompt, and in a few days its danger had passed; but it left him deplorably weak and spiritless, and, as he believed, dying.
Oh! his had been a bitter fate! To have toiled hard, lived hard, and now to die in an Indian hospital! Without a familiar face around him! without a possibility of sending a farewell word to the mother he had so rashly disobeyed and cast aside!
Yes, there was a chance. If the brig “Hastings” had not sailed, he might send to Harry Vane. Unless the latter’s nature was strangely altered, he would not fail to come at the summons, although it was but to see a poor sick sailor. A sick sailor! Harry Vane would have tramped to the end of the world to relieve one. He would bear home William’s dying messages.’ But how was he to be communicated with?
Means for that seemed to rise up without searching. In the next bed to William’s lay a young man who was frequently visited by a sailor, an Englishman. William had been too ill to take much note of this previously; but when the man came again, he spoke to him.
“Do you know,” he feebly asked, beckoning the man to him, as he was about to leave his friend, “whether the brig ‘ Lord Hastings’ has gone down the river?”
“Not yet,” was the answer. “But I fancy she’ll be off by to-morrow, for they have been busy aboard her all day, getting her into sailing trim. Our ship’s a-lying alongside of her, and I only wish we was a-doing the like. I hate this horrid weather: it have broiled some of us pretty nigh to death since we come. I have been froze stiff at the North Pole, and thought nothing o’ that, compared with this here heat.”