THE FORLORN LANDING.
"They are at their wit's end. Then they cry unto the Lord in
their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses. He
maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still.
Then are they glad because they be quiet."
So soon as our heartfelt congratulations had blended and been breathed
out in prayer, hope became faintly rekindled in each yet conscious
bosom of our distressed company; and with all our lingering energies
of life, we made for the yet invisible shore. "The wrath of God lay
hard upon us," and, for so many days "we had been afflicted with all
his waves," that we felt as if all safety consisted only in escape from
ocean's "deeps." And yet I was not without apprehension, that
what we so fondly anticipated as the occasion of deliverance, might
prove the fatal scene of our doom. The imminent danger of approaching
a comparatively unknown coast, especially amid the heavy roll of Cape
seas, and in such small boats as ours, demanded the exercise of every
possible precaution, and suggested forebodings of no very pleasing
issue. By my calculations we had been driven to the north of St. Helena
Bay, which, by its bend, gave us forty miles more of sea to traverse
than if we had been able to keep a more southerly course. On consulting
a small fragment of chart--which one of the ladies had preserved for
us, from the action of the sea, in her bosom,--I found, to our great
relief, that the coast for which we were making was free of any outside
shoals, and appeared favourable for our landing. We therefore made
all speed to reach the shore if possible before nightfall; in this,
however, we were disappointed; and a dense fog ahead hid the object
of our solicitude from view, until night descended, and shrouded the
surrounding landscape in darkness. The weather being moderate I
resolved to prosecute our course throughout the night, and endeavour to
effect our landing at daylight. The evening proved intensely cold, and
we endured more acute suffering from the wind and spray, during those
hours of darkness, than we had ever done before. This was probably
caused by our preserving a more southerly course, and keeping the sheet
hauled aft, which exposed us to the action of the sea, and sent the
wind right down on us from the sail. Ere morning came a cold shiver had
consequently seized every frame, and several persons in both boats were
quite unable to stir.
About five o'clock the skiff hailed us, and communicated the melancholy
tidings that the lad John Chisholm was dead. This was the first breach
made among us, and it fell among our wasting company like a forerunner
of our own fate. We were all closely "round the grave's devouring
mouth," and now that it had found its first victim, we felt assured
that others would follow. George Peat, in our boat, was only in life,
and several persons in both boats were visibly sinking fast into the
same unconscious state. I felt this visitation bitterly, as I was in
full hope of reaching land in a few hours, and was sustained--by the
signal mercy hitherto enjoyed--in the pleasing expectation that "God
would have given us the lives of all who sailed with us." But "He who
doeth according to his will" had deemed it otherwise, and our hearts
smote us to think that we had been preserved amid many perils, possibly
only to perish on the threshold of deliverance.
Visions of land floated before our aching and anxious gaze throughout
that weary night, and often we supposed that we could detect the dim
outline of the headlands between the sea and sky. Still we trembled in
uncertainty until morning came; but when the sun arose, it looked down
upon us from behind the African hills, which stood in distinct outline
before us at the distance of twelve miles. Then every heart bounded
with hope, and the fading energies of life revived within us. We
greeted the glad spectacle with our morning incense, and poured out our
thanksgiving to God our Ebenezer. There was a beautiful propriety in
the subject of our song, which then rose on the morning air, from the
margin of that mighty ocean. It was Psalm xlvi.,
"God is our refuge and our strength,
In straits a present aid;
Therefore although the earth remove,
We will not be afraid.
Though hills amidst the seas be cast,
Though waters roaring make
And troubled be; yea, _though the hill
By swelling seas do shake_."
Scarcely had these sublime words passed our lips, ere we felt the awful
importance and value of the holy sentiment. Our eyes could now detect
a long line of frowning and iron-bound coast, fringed only with foam,
and hoary with tremendous breakers. No friendly opening was visible,
along that fearful barrier, and we looked in vain for some quiet creek
amid the strife, where ocean might peacefully surrender the helpless
charge which longed for escape from its horrors. As if to increase
the solemnity of our condition, the wind at this time began to rise,
and a heavy ground swell rolled in from the south-west, so that it
needed no ordinary faith to prepare with calmness for the approaching
crisis. But our only course was to face the danger, and trust to God
for deliverance. I sent the small boat ahead, to examine the coast, if
possible to find a creek for convenient landing, it being lighter than
our boat, and having thafts for easy rowing, which we had not. I then
sought to rally the spirits of my crew by a little exertion; getting
out the oars, I exhorted them to try the exercise of rowing a little,
and took a spell myself. With great difficulty I succeeded in inducing
the most of them to make the attempt, and we felt the benefit of the
effort, in a freer circulation of our blood, which served to relax our
stiffened joints, and relieved us of the cold shivering.
The breeze continued strong, and the sea was very heavy, until we
approached within half a mile of the shore; when God--as if in sympathy
with our situation, and preparing our way--subdued the wind, and made
the strife of waters partially to subside. This gracious interposition
made a deep impression upon us all, and we felt animated by it, in our
very critical circumstances, as a foretaste of deliverance. At this
time, a small rock which appeared to windward, presented to our eager
eyes for a season the likeness of a sail; and we were delighted for the
moment with the idea, that the coast which we were approaching might
be inhabited; but a nearer view soon dispelled the illusion, and left
us to a scene only of wild and desert solitude. Our small boat had now
gone close in with the shore, in search of a landing-place, while we
remained at a short distance on the outside, to wait for instructions.
Our companions, in their eagerness to execute their survey, had
unfortunately got themselves embayed, and in attempting to weather a
projecting point, they failed; so that, in their extremity, one course
only remained to them--for life or death they had to run for the beach.
We, seeing this sudden movement, and supposing that our friends had
discovered a favourable landing-place, bore up, and followed closely
in their track. By signs and cries they attempted to warn us off;
but we, mistaking their signals for encouragement, only pursued with
increasing speed. It was a moment of intense and trembling interest
to us all; death or deliverance hung upon the instant, and our hearts
were fully alive to the immediate and awful alternative. Every faded
and haggard countenance became flushed with eager excitement; every eye
was strained to watch on either hand the impending fate; every hand
grasped the gunwale with convulsive and trembling energy, and we held
our breath in awe, as we dashed among the breakers, and plunged amid
those fearful rocks and shoals. Surely the eye of heaven was watching
over us in that unchosen and accidental landing-scene; for amidst many
perils, it presented favourable opportunities for us--in a narrow
channel among a cluster of small rocks, which was crowned with a sand
beach--that no human foresight could have detected, and that was rare
on that coast. Our small boat, indeed, was in extreme jeopardy; for in
the midst of the breakers it struck upon a sharp rock, and some of the
crew were thrown overboard by the shock. The sail, however, being still
set, the next wave lifted it over, and the wind and sea being dead in
shore, drove them right up to the beach, where, amid many difficulties,
they effected a landing, and rescued their comrades in a state of great
exhaustion. We in the larger boat were somewhat more fortunate; for "by
the good hand of God upon us," we made our way safely through a narrow
channel, among the small rocks, without touching, until we came within
a boat's length of the beach, where we stuck fast upon a rock. There
being deep water between us and the shore, we were all plunged overhead
in our attempts to escape; but the ladies and children being assisted
by the mate and seamen, were soon placed in safety; and "so it came to
pass, that we escaped all safe to land."
This signal deliverance--alike so gracious and remarkable--revealed in
all its course and accomplishment, the direct and immediate agency of
God, and could be attributed solely to his marked interposition and
care. No human foresight or management could have availed to preserve
so helpless a company in such extremities. With boats so frail, and
means of sustenance so slender, nothing less than Omnipotent kindness
could have sustained us throughout a voyage so disproportionate to all
our preparations, and so encompassed with exceeding dangers. If our
course, indeed, revealed no miracles, it was at least replete with
special mercies; for had we been visited by a few days of head winds,
or been overtaken by any of the fearful squalls so common in Cape seas,
or even made our landfall on a bold and unbroken coast, not one of us
would have survived in such a case to tell the tale of our disasters,
and our last struggles would have been hid in the dark and terrible
secrets of ocean, which, like the grave, gives no revelations. We
had been led to look to God in all our way: even the good order and
discipline which had been maintained, we felt we owed to his grace;
and while we had used our best endeavours for our preservation, yet
without his blessing, we were conscious that every exertion must have
been without avail. Therefore, when God had "been better to us than our
fears," and "redeemed our lives from destruction," our utmost gratitude
was due to him, and we invite men "to see his hand," and "to praise the
Lord for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the children of
men."
If it had been possible, at that solemn hour, to have forgotten
or overlooked the signal kindness of heaven, even the continuous
manifestations of Divine goodness to us must have, on the instant,
rebuked such base ingratitude. Scarcely had the feet of our forlorn
company been permitted to touch the shore, when the storm, which had
lulled previously to our landing, burst forth with redoubled fury,
and raged without intermission during the whole time that we remained
in that place. The sea arose in ungovernable wrath, and as it lashed
the shore, lifted our little boats upon its billows to a height of
forty or fifty feet upon the beach. The narrow channel through which
we had reached the shore in safety instantly became one scene of
boiling surge, which would have shattered to pieces the proudest bark,
and engulphed every living thing on board of her. Who could fail to
discover the striking proof of a special and gracious Providence in
this occurrence? If it be said that such sudden storms frequently
occur in these latitudes, still the question arises,--why did that
storm come at the precise moment when we were immediately out of the
reach of its fury? There can be but one answer to this inquiry,--it
was the good pleasure of him "who gave to the sea its decree, that
it cannot pass, and who compasseth its waters with bounds." Our
company stood awe-stricken at the sight. We looked back upon the
scene of destruction, from which we had so recently escaped, with
mingled feelings of dismay and gratitude. Our deliverance, indeed,
was not yet complete. Alas! who could tell whether,--"having escaped
the sea,--vengeance might yet suffer us to live?" "The perils of the
wilderness" lay before us in all their unknown horrors of toil, and
thirst, and frightful famine. Still we had been delivered from "the
floods that affrighted us,"--our bosoms swelled with the full sense
of our rescue, and while we raised our song of deliverance and poured
out our grateful prayers to God, there were many devout hearts in our
circle who could appropriate the sentiment of the poet:--
Thus far on life's perplexing path,
Thus far the Lord our steps hath led;
Safe from the _flame's_ pursuing wrath,
Unharmed though _floods_ hung o'er our head.
Here let us pause--look back--adore,
Like ransom'd Israel from the shore.