On leaving the roads of Madras, we bent our course to the eastward. For
a day or two we had light winds and agreeable weather, and our gallant
vessel glided on, under a cloud of snowy canvas, like some stainless
swan before the dimpling breezes of a mountain tarn, little heeding the
coming danger, which was to lay all her bravery low. Soon, however, a
(by me) never-to-be-forgotten tornado, which I shall attempt to
describe, burst in upon us in all its fury.
The first indication we had of the coming storm (being still but a short
distance from Madras) was on the morning of the third day, when a few
wild clouds began to scatter themselves over the face of the hitherto
spotless sky. The breeze freshened, and an occasional squall made the
good ship _salaam_ deeply to the waves. Captain McGuffin looked to
windward, shook his head, and appeared grave. He now (for there was
evidently mischief brewing) held a brief consultation with Gillans, the
chief mate, and then immediately ordered the small sails to be taken in.
At about 8 P.M. of the same day, the fore and main topsails, as I was
told, were double-reefed, and the mainsail and maintopsail furled. The
next morning, the breeze still continued strong, and the albatrosses and
gannets, heralds of the storm, skimmed wildly over the yeasty waves. A
heavy and a turbulent sea now got up, which broke over the ship, causing
her to roll heavily, and admit much water.
“We’re in for it, I’m afraid,” said Grinnerson to the first mate, “and
no mistake.”
“You may say that, when you write home to your friends,” growled forth
that sententious worthy; “I’d rather be looking at the end than the
beginning of it, I can tell you.”
Scarcely were the words out of Gillan’s mouth, when a screeching blast
flew through the shrouds and ratlines; “bang!” went one of the sails,
with the report of a six-pounder, and the _Rottenbeam Castle_ took a
deep and fearful heel to leeward.
“How’s her head now?” said Gillans, with energy, starting up, to the man
at the wheel.
“North-east, and by east, sir,” was the quick reply.
“All hands aloft,” roared the mate, “to take in mainsail;” and away went
the tars swarming up the rigging, poor little shivering middies and all,
and the perilous duty was soon performed, the sail being set to steady
her. Towards noon, the wind and sea increased, and the weather wore a
still more threatening appearance.
There are few situations which more thoroughly call forth all the noble
energies and resources of man’s mind, than the working of a vessel in a
tempest, or the ordering of troops in the heat of a battle. A cool head,
and nerves as steady as a rock, are essentially necessary in both.
McGuffin was quite a Wellington in his way; and on the present occasion,
I felt a pride in my countrymen, as I marked him, the officers, and men,
calmly preparing, as it were, move by move, for the coming onset of the
gale.
“Down royal-masts and top gallant yards,” shouted the iron-tongued
Gillans; and down, spite of the flapping of canvas and banging of blocks
and ropes, they came in a trice. This precautionary measure was not
taken a whit too soon, for the wind rapidly increased to a gale, and the
ship rolled heavily, from the violence and irregularity of the sea. At
this moment, Grundy, evidently very uneasy, and in violation of all
nautical decorum, began to whistle, less, probably, from want of
thought, than with a view to drown it. This brought the first mate upon
him immediately.
“Halloa, sir,” said he, “haven’t we got wind enough, but you must be
whistling for more? Drop that music, if you please.”
Grundy incontinently held his peace. The dismayed passengers now sought
shelter in their cabins, with the exception of a few well-muffled storm
amateurs, who clung about the cuddy doors, casting furtive glances aloft
at the wild-driving scud, and listening to the manly voices of the
officers, and seamen as heard above the roaring of the gale. A rough
cradle, and a dismal lullaby, indeed, was this, for myself and the other
nautical _infants_ on board.
At about 11 o’clock the wind increased; the decks were almost
continually submerged, the fore and maintopsails were furled, and soon
after the ship was wore, the sea running mountains high, under the fore
and maintop-mast stay-sail. The captain, having ordered the foresail to
be hauled up, the ship, in nautical language, was hove-to, the gale
blowing with uncommon fury. The sky now began to assume a most
threatening and lurid aspect. Just such a murky gloom surrounded us as
that in which Satan is finely described by Milton; when “aloft incumbent
on the dusky air,” he hovered over that “ever-burning” region, which his
“unblest feet” were about to tread. The barometer fell rapidly, and our
courage, that is, of us landsmen, in a proportionate ratio, whilst the
vast and angry billows, like wild and maned steeds above prostrate foes,
swept in rapid succession over our quivering bark. With what intense
longing to be there did I now think of the snug green parlour and
blazing sea-coal fire at home! Ah! thought I, with a sigh, how true it
is, “we never know the value of a friend till we lose him!”
An attempt to take in, and house, the top gallant masts, failed, owing
to the violent rolling of the ship; but every thing practicable was
effected by our indefatigable crew, although reduced by the recent
impressment, to secure the masts from the evidently increasing
hurricane. The hatches were battened down, and all made snug for the
approaching “tug of war.” All was now breathless suspense and a stern
gravity sat on the boldest countenance, when a sudden and tremendous
blast threw the ship on her beam-ends, and, with a terrific crash, the
mainmast went by the board, carrying with it, in its fall, the
mizen-yard, poop, sky-lights, hen-coops, larboard quarter gallery, and
three of our seamen. Here was “confusion worse confounded”—passengers
and servants making their escape from beneath the wreck—sailors
shouting, tugging, and hauling—a chaos of disasters enough to daunt, one
would suppose, the stoutest heart; but he little understands the stuff
of which English seamen are composed, who thinks there was any quailing
or relaxation of energy here. Sudden as the disaster were the efforts
made to repair it. The voice of the officer was instantly heard above
the storm, giving directions, and the active crew immediately at work,
with their axes, cutting the shrouds and ropes, for the purpose of
detaching the wreck of the mast from the vessel, which, beating
furiously against the bottom and sides, seemed to threaten her with
instant destruction.
With infinite difficulty, this operation was at last effected, and the
short but delusive “pleasures of hope” once more dawned upon us. On
getting clear of the wreck, the vessel partially righted, the hurricane
raging with awful violence, the sea running right over her, and
sweeping, with resistless force, every opposing article from the deck.
Our only remaining sail, the foresail, was now, with much difficulty,
taken in, and the vessel scudded under bare poles. Throughout the
remainder of the day, the hurricane raged with unabated fury: the ship
rolled gunwales under, and the water poured in through the aperture
caused by the broken mast. Never can I forget the sounds and scenes
below—the groaning of the timbers, the labouring and lurching of the
ship, like the throes and struggles of a dying man; the moans and cries
of the women—stores, cargo, cabin, bulk-heads, baggage, and a cannon or
two, all loose and adrift, and dashing with frightful violence from side
to side, as if animated by some maddening spirit of destruction.
“Colonel,” said Marpeet rather archly:—who, in or out of season, loved a
joke—to the ex-resident, clinging on close to me, his teeth chattering
like a pair of castanets; “Colonel, _you_, I take it, have never seen
anything to beat this?”
“Eh! why—no! not exactly,” said the colonel, who, having the fear of
Davy’s Locker before his eyes, seemed rather loath to indulge in
anything apocryphal.
But the climax was yet to come. About 8 P.M. the wind suddenly shifted
to an opposite quarter, and blew, if possible, with greater fury. My
feelings, however, exhausted by excitement, now sank into that state of
apathetic quiescence which disarms death of all its terrors; when, in
fact, we can feel no more, but patiently await the worst. Nature thus
wisely, at a certain point, always brings insensibility to our
relief—the last sigh of departing hope gives birth to resignation. About
one o’clock the next day a tremendous sea broke on board, burst open and
destroyed the remainder of the poop-cabins and cuddy, and swept chairs,
tables, medicine-chests, and every movable they contained, overboard,
filling the lower deck with water; but providentially no more lives were
lost. The hurricane still raging, clouds and sea commingled; the
foremast snapped short off by the deck, and falling athwart the bows,
carried with it the jib-boom, leaving the battered hulk, with one
mutilated mast, to contend alone with the fury of the elements. A wave,
moreover, at this instant, dashed one of our boats to splinters, and
nearly made a wreck of another. Thus were the grounds of hope giving
way, like a quicksand, under our feet. To add to the intensity of our
distress, a pitchy darkness enveloped us when the foremast fell
overboard, and the sea breaking, in one continued mighty volume, over
the vessel, none could go forward to cut it away; perilous to our safety
as was its continuing attached to the bows. Oh! for the genius of a
Falconer, that I might adequately depict the horrors of the scene at
this moment! Ye “fat and greasy citizens,” ye grumbling John Bulls of
every grade, who own the great oracle of retrenchment as your leader,
little need ye grudge the soldier or sailor his hard-earned pittance,
the price of perils such as these. An inky night, whose gloom was, ever
and anon, pierced by a long, blue, zigzag flash of lightning, like one
of those wrath-directed bolts of heaven, which Martin, with such fine
effect, introduces into his pictures—the roar of elements—the crippled
and lumbered vessel, rolling and plunging like a maddened steed,
encumbered with the wreck of a shattered vehicle, the few dim lanterns,
buttoned up, and hugged to the bosoms of the quarter-masters, the
dripping, comfortless, but uncomplaining tars; the captain and his
officers, muffled in fear-noughts, and the group, of which I formed one,
clinging on here and there, in order to see the worst of what we had to
encounter, formed a portion of the picture. Then the stifled sobs, and
shrieks and prayers from the women below, filling, like the voices of
wailing spirits, the momentary lullings of the gale; the violent
beatings of the fallen mast, like a catapult, against the bows, felt
through the whole vessel, and filling, even the stout hearts of the
captain and his crew with well-founded dismay at each successive thump,
formed some of its alarming accompaniments.
“Gillans, we maun get clear of that mast, or ’twill be the ruin of us
all,” shouted the captain through his trumpet.
Gillans paused a moment: “It must be done, sir,” said he; “but how to
get to her head through this mountain sea I hardly know.”
“I’ll try it,” said the gallant Grinnerson—the wag now transformed into
the hero—“happen what may.”
Saying this, he seized an axe, and accompanied by a part of the crew,
dashed forward, holding by the shattered bulwarks as they advanced. A
few seconds of breathless suspense now elapsed, when a long dazzling
flash illumined the vessel; down she lay, deep in the trough of the sea,
whilst, by its light, a mountain wave appeared hanging over her, like a
spirit of evil, and about to break by its own enormous weight. It
broke—down it came, with a stunning smash, on the devoted vessel, taking
her on the forecastle and midships, sparkling and fizzing in the lurid
glare of the lengthened flash. The ship dived down, as if about to be
engulphed. “We’re gone!” burst forth from many a voice. Slowly, however,
she rose again from the effects of the stunning blow, and another flash
exhibited a group of sailors on the forecastle, actively cutting and
hacking away at the ropes and shrouds. In a few seconds the vessel
seemed eased; the mast had been cut away, and shortly after, the heroic
Grinnerson, streaming with sea-water, was amongst us. He had escaped,
though two of the gallant fellows who had accompanied him had been swept
away to a watery grave.
“The Lord be thankt! ye ha’e done weel, sir,” said McGuffin, wringing
the second mate’s hand in his iron gripe; “ye ha’e saved the ship.”
The ship was now relieved, and the wind evidently falling, hope revived.
I descended below, and throwing myself into my cot, slept, spite of the
uproar, soundly till morning.
On rising, I found the wind had greatly subsided; but a heavy sea still
remained, in which our mutilated vessel rolled and tumbled like a
porpoise. All danger, however, was past, and the sea was rapidly going
down. Damages were partially repaired. The crew and passengers refreshed
themselves, and deep and heartfelt congratulations were exchanged.
Captain McGuffin, towards evening, the vessel being steadier, assembled
the crew on deck, and offered up thanksgivings to Him who “stilleth the
raging of the storm,” for our happy preservation. It was an impressive
sight to behold the weather beaten tars, their hats reverentially
doffed, ranged along the deck, their lately excited energies sunk into
the calm of a thoughtful and devotional demeanour; the pale and jaded
passengers, seated abaft, many an eye gratefully upturned; the wild sea
and battered hull; and in the centre, bare-headed and erect, the tall
and brawny, yet simple-hearted man, our commander, his prayer-book
resting on the capstan, his left hand on the leaves, and his right
stretched out, as, with a fervour which nothing but his religious
feeling could have excited in him, he read firmly, in his broad but
nervous Scotch accents, the form of thanksgiving due to Him who had
succoured us in our danger, and “with whom are the issues of life and
death.”
To prove a particular providence is a hard and baffling task; but we can
never err—or if we do it is on the right side—when we pour out our
hearts in gratitude to God, for every blessing or deliverance, come to
us by what concurrence of causes it may.
By an observation we now found we were off the Tenasserim coast. The
ship’s head was consequently put to the northward, and on we sailed
towards our destination. At length, on a fine blowing day in the S. W.
monsoon, the good ship the _Rottenbeam Castle_, after a five months’
voyage, entered on the turbid waters of the Sand Heads, renowned for
sharks, shipwrecks, and the intricacy of its navigation, dashing on in
good style, despite of the battering of the late gale, under all the
sail she could carry on the foremast, and two spars rigged out as
substitutes for those we had lost. All eyes were, at this time,
anxiously on the look-out for the pilot. At length a sail was visible on
the horizon, and ere long, a rakish little brig, with the Company’s
Yankee-looking pilot-colours flying from the peak, came bowling down,
and was pronounced _nem. con._ to be (strange misnomer) the pilot
schooner. Not a moment elapsed ere a boat, manned by lascars, put off
from her, and in a few minutes more, the rattle of oars and the
boatswain’s whistle announced its arrival alongside. The pilot,
accompanied by a bronzed stripling of fifteen, in a seaman’s round
jacket and large straw hat, and whose business was to cast the lead, now
mounted the side, and as he stepped on deck, touched his hat in a
consequential sort of manner, which plainly indicated that pilots were
no small men, in these latitudes. Mr. Merryweather, for so I believe he
was called, was one of a numerous class, variously subdivided, called
the pilot-service, whose extreme utility none can question who studies a
chart of the Sand Heads, and the embouchure of the Ganges. The seniors,
or branch-pilots, are, some of them, excellent old fellows, have their
vessels in high order, give capital _feeds_ out of silver plate, and
have generally some valetudinarian from Calcutta on board, invigorating
the springs of existence by copious indraughts of the sea-breeze. Mr.
Merryweather had quite the cut of an original, and I cannot, therefore,
resist the inclination I feel to present the reader with a sketch of
him. He was a sturdy, square-built man, of about forty, of whose jolly
countenance it might be truly said, and in the language of the Latin
grammar, “_qui color albus erat, nunc est contrarius albo_.” It
presented, at one view, one of the most singular compounds of brown,
brickdust, and purple I ever beheld; clearly indicating that it had long
been the scene of a fierce struggle for the ascendency between the skyey
influences of the Sand Heads, on the one hand, from without, and those
of aqua vitæ, from within. Sun and wind, on the whole seemed to have had
the best of it; but the forces of aqua vitæ had made a most determined
stand on that elevated position, the nose, from which there appeared
little chance of their being dislodged. Our sturdy Palinurus was attired
in a camlet coat, with the uniform lion button, the colour whereof, once
blue, now exhibited in its latter days, like a dying dolphin, a variety
of interesting shades; a pair of tight nankeens, extending about
half-way down the calf, encased his lower extremities, very fully
exhibiting their sturdy and unsymmetrical proportions, in which the line
of beauty, admitting that to be a curve, had by Dame Nature been most
capriciously applied. He would have met with a distinguished reception
in Laputa, being built on strictly mathematical principles; for one leg
exhibited the segment of a circle, the other something very like an
obtuse angle. In a sinewy and weather beaten hand, “spotted like the
toad,” he grasped a huge telescope, covered with rusty green baize, the
length of which was nearly “the standard of a man;” whilst a large white
hat, which bore nearly the same proportion to his size that a mushroom
does to its stalk, completed a manly, but not very inviting, portrait.
“Mr. Merryweather, ma gude friend, I’m glad to see ye luking sae weel,”
exclaimed our Scotch commander, who, it appeared, was an old
acquaintance of the pilot’s. “Why, somebody telt me at Madras, that
ye’ed been near deeing sin’ we were here last.”
“Ay, ay, they told you right, captain; I had a very tightish touch of
the _mollera corbus_, or whatever ’tis called, after you left us. Yes, I
was within a pint of getting a birth in Padree Shepherd’s godown;
howsomever, the old ’ooman and Dr. Dusgooly brought my head round to the
wind somehow, and now I’m as fresh as a lark, as a man might say in a
manner, and ready for a tumbler of your toddy, captain, with as little
daylight in it as you please,—ha, ha, ha!”
Thus he ran on for some time, and then in a similar style, gave us the
latest news of the presidency, which, to the best of my recollection,
consisted of a mutiny, death of a puisne judge, and a talked-of-war with
Nundy Row Bickermajeet, a potentate of whom none of us had heard before.
The captain now duly deposed, Mr. Merryweather took charge of the
vessel, and marched up and down the deck with all the confidence of a
small man invested with “a little brief authority,” now peering under
the sail, and conning the bearings of the buoys, which here and there
rode gallantly in the channel, like the huge floats of some giant
“bobbing for whale;” anon asking briskly the man at the wheel how her
head was, or thundering out some peremptory order for trimming or
shortening the sail. Thus we glided on through the turbid channel,
whilst strong ripples or long lines of surf, on either hand, with here
and there the slanting masts of a stranded vessel, indicated the
perilous nature of the navigation. At last we caught a glimpse of a
small island, but recently emerged from the waves, being like many
others at the mouths of great rivers, of rapid diluvial formation, and
immediately after, the low, marshy and jungle-covered shores of Saugor
Island broke in sight.
To those whose Oriental imaginings have led them to expect in the first
view of Indian land some lovely scene of groves, temples, and clustering
palm-trees, the sight of the long low line of dismal sunderbund and
swamp must not be a little disappointing. Saugor, however, Bengal
tigers, and the fate of young Munro, are associated subjects, naturally
blended with our earliest recollections. Full oft in my boyish days had
I gazed on a picture representing the monster springing open-mouthed on
his victim, and wondered if it would ever be my lot to visit a country
where pic-nics were disturbed by such ferocious intruders. Viewed, then,
as the head-quarters of the tigers, and the scene of this memorable
exploit of one of their body, and also as the outpost of our
destination, I deemed Saugor a sort of classic ground, and gazed upon it
with a proportionate interest. Many an eye, too, besides my own, was
bent towards the island, which wore a most sombre and miserable aspect.
Thinking Mr. Merryweather a person likely to be well informed on the
subject, I ventured to ask him, civilly, if tigers were as numerous on
the island as in young Mr. Munro’s time. I at the same time solicited
the loan of his telescope, thinking, peradventure, I might by its aid
descry a royal Bengal tiger, in full regalia, enjoying his evening
perambulation on the beach. The pilot stared at me, with as much
astonishment as the Brobdingnag did at the Splacknuck, when he heard him
talk, or Mr. Bumble, in Dickens’ admirable novel, when the unfortunate
Oliver asked for more soup; but soon settled it in his mind that I was
an arrant griffin, and that it was not worth his while to be
particularly civil to me.
“Tigers!” he grunted out; “Ay, ay, there’s plenty o’ them, I dare say;
but I’ve something else besides tigers to think about, young gentleman;
and you mustn’t talk to me d’ye see, when I’m engaged with a wessel. As
for the glass, it’s in hand, and you’d better ask some one else to lend
you one.”
To borrow the language of the fancy, I was regularly floored by this
rebuff, and incontinently held my peace, determining to reserve my
zoological inquiries for a fitter occasion and more communicative
person; at the same time, lost in astonishment that a man could actually
pass his life in sight of Saugor island, and yet feel no interest in
royal Bengal tigers. The delusion is a common one, and not confined to
griffins, which leads people to imagine that others must be interested
in what they are full of themselves.
The wind now suddenly rose, and the sky, which had long been lowering,
assumed an inky hue. Mr. Merryweather looked anxious and uneasy, and I
heard him observe to the captain, that we were in for a north-wester,
and that he feared it would overtake us before we reached the anchorage
at Kedgeree. What a north-wester was I did not exactly know, but the
precautionary measures taken of diminishing the sail, closing hatches
and scuttles, &c., and the appearance of the heavens, left me no room to
doubt that it was one of the various denominations of the hurricane
family.
[Illustration: Mr. Cadet Francis Gernon, anxious to discover a Royal
Bengal Tiger, falls in with a Bear]
The scene at this moment, to one unacquainted with these tropical
visitants, though rather alarming, was singularly wild and magnificent.
All around, to the verge of the horizon, the sky was of the deepest
indigo hue, whilst dark masses of rolling clouds, like hostile
squadrons, were slowly marshalling over head to the thunder’s deep
rumble and the lightning’s flash, which shot like the gleaming steel of
advancing combatants across the dun fields of death. From the setting
sun, a few long rays, like rods of gold, shot through openings of the
clouds, streaming brightly over sea and land, bringing forth the
lustrous green of the mangroves, and touching, as with a dazzling pencil
of light, the distant sail, or milk-white seabird’s wing.
At length, the sough of the coming tempest was heard mournfully sweeping
through the shrouds, and a few heavy drops fell on the deck. The ladies’
scarves and shawls began to flutter, and one two hats were whisked
overboard, on a visit to the sharks. This was a sufficient hint for the
majority of the idlers, and they forthwith dived below. I lingered
awhile, and casting my eyes over the stem at this moment, beheld the
storm driving towards us—spray, screaming gulls, and tumbling porpoises
heralding its approach. In a moment it was upon us. Sheets and floods of
driving rain burst on the ship, as on she hissed through the frying
waters. Buoy after buoy, however, was safely passed, though it was once
or twice “touch and go” with us; and ere long, to the infinite joy of
all on board, we dropped anchor in safety off Kedgeree.
Never did I listen to more pleasant music than the rattle of the
chain-cable, as it brought us up safe and sound, or rather unsound, in
this harbour of refuge. Here, in the mouth of the Hooghly river, was
comparative calm and tranquillity, and as we cast our eyes seaward, and
saw the dark brown turbulent sea (for here it is not green) heaving and
tossing, with the surrounding tempestuous sky, and night closing in, and
contrasted our position with that of several far-off vessels, some of
them hull-down, struggling under a press of canvas to reach the safe
berth we had gained, before night and the falling tide might leave them
“outside,” environed by perils, we could not help indulging in very
agreeable self-congratulations. ’Tis a sad reflection that our joys
should often derive so much of their intensity from the foil of others’
misfortunes; but, alas! so it is.
Here a fresh supply of fruit, and vegetables, and fish, from the shore;
a batch of Calcutta papers; and sundry other little matters, made things
very pleasant. All were “alive” and cheerful, and at ten o’clock I
turned in and rose in the morning like “a giant refreshed,” full of
agreeable anticipations of the scenes on which I was about to enter.