AT THE MERCY OF THE SEA.
For an hour or more I sat on the edge of my berth, pondering the matter
first in one way and then in another. The captain's plain speech had
opened my eyes, as it were, and as I recalled many little incidents of
the past, looking at them now in their true light, I saw that I had
indeed been dull-witted and slow of comprehension. I had won Flora's
heart--she returned my affection. That was the meaning of her frequent
blushes and confusion--signs which I had interpreted as indifference
when I thought of them at all.
The discovery both caused me an exquisite joy and added to my
wretchedness. At the first I painted a bright and glowing picture of the
future. Flora should be mine! I would make her my wife, and carry her
off into the wilderness or to one of the lower towns. I was
young and strong. I had some money laid by, and it would be but a
delightful task to carve a home and a fortune for the two of us. So I
reasoned for a time, and then a more sober mood followed. I saw that I
had been indulging in an empty dream.
"There is no such happiness for me!" I groaned aloud. "I was a fool to
think of it for a moment. The girl loves me, it is true, but no
persuasion of mine could ever induce her to break her promise. She
belongs to Griffith Hawke, and she will marry him. And even if it were
possible to win her, honor and duty, which I have always held sacred,
would keep me from such a knavish trick. If I proved unfaithful to my
trust, could I ever hold up my head among men again?"
Thus I revolved the matter in my mind, and I confess that I was sorely
tempted more than once to stake all on the chance of making Flora my
own. But in the end I resolved to be true to my manhood--to the
principles my father had been at such pains to teach me. Without taking
the trouble to undress, I stretched myself on my bed--the hour was
late--and for a long time I dozed or tossed restlessly at intervals. At
last I fell into a sound sleep, and it could have been no great while
afterward when I was rudely awakened by a crash that pitched me out of
my bunk to the floor. A second and far louder crash followed at once,
immediately overhead, and then a shrill commotion broke out. I knew the
ship had struck, and I lost no time in getting to my feet. Luckily no
bones were broken, and with some difficulty--for the vessel was pitching
heavily--I groped my way through the darkness to the deck.
Here I beheld such a scene as I trust I may never see again. The
mainmast had fallen, tearing a great gap in the bulwark, and crushing
two sailors under its weight. Hiram Bunker and some of his men were
rushing to and fro, shouting and yelling; others were gazing as though
stupefied at the wreckage of shattered spars, flapping canvas, and
twisted cordage. The ship was plunging fore and aft--a sure sign that
she was not now aground. The mist had partly cleared, and the air was
raw and cutting. A storm of wind and rain was raging, blowing from the
starboard or seaward side. Several of the crew had followed me above,
but most of them had evidently been busy on deck at the time of the
disaster.
A single lamp was burning, and at first none observed my presence. All
was seemingly confusion and panic, and the skipper's orders were being
tardily obeyed. I moved forward a little, and recognized Captain
Rudstone holding to the snapped-off end of the mast.
"What has happened?" I demanded anxiously. "Are we in danger?"
"Little doubt of it, Mr. Carew," he answered calmly. "The ship struck on
a submerged rock--probably the side edge of it--and immediately sheered
off into deep water. It was a hard blow to shatter the mast, which
crushed two poor fellows to death in its fall."
"What is the time?" I asked.
"Two o'clock in the morning, and we are close to the shore."
"The vessel might have fared worse," said I. "But is she leaking?"
"Ay, there's the rub," the captain replied. "The water is pouring in,
and the ship is already beginning to settle."
"God help us," I cried, "if that is true!"
I wanted further confirmation, and I hurried away to seek the skipper. I
found him close by, and as I hurried up to him he was joined by another
man, a bearded sailor, who called out excitedly:
"There is four feet of water in the well, sir, and it is steadily
increasing. We can't keep afloat long."
"Stick to the pumps, Lucas, and do what you can," the skipper directed.
"Get some food ready, men, and prepare to lower the boats," he shouted
loudly to the crew. Then he turned to me.
"'Tis is a bad business, Mr. Carew," he said hoarsely. "It's all up with
my ship, and I'm a ruined man. But I'm going to save all hands, if it is
possible. Where is Miss Hatherton?"
"In her cabin," I replied.
I had not forgotten the girl, but I had felt reluctant to rouse her
until I knew what danger threatened us. Now there was no time to lose,
and I hastened to the companion way. At the foot of it, where there was
some depth of water, I dimly perceived Flora wading toward me. She
uttered a little cry of joy and clasped my arm.
"So you are up and dressed," I exclaimed. "I was just coming for you."
"I was awakened by the crash," she replied, "and I prepared for the
worst at once. Is the ship sinking, Denzil?"
"She will go down ultimately," I answered; "but there is plenty of time
for all hands to escape. Do not be alarmed."
"I am not frightened," she said bravely. "I know that I am safe with
you."
There was a tenderness in her voice that tempted me to some mad reply,
but I checked the impulse. I bade her stay where she was while I went to
my cabin for some articles of value. I was quickly back, and as soon as
the companion was clear--the skipper and some of the crew were swarming
down--I helped Flora up. We went forward to the bulwark, Captain
Rudstone joining us, and there we waited for a quarter of an hour of
suspense and anxiety.
In spite of the sucking of the pumps, the ship settled steadily, bows
first, and rolled less and less to the waves. It was very dark, and the
wind shrieked and whistled dismally; the rain fell unceasingly, soon
drenching us from head to foot. The worst of it was that we had shortly
to face a deadly peril. The boats were frail, the sea rough, and the
storm-beaten coast of the bay was no great distance off. I had not the
heart to tell Flora how slight was our chance of life, and I do not know
if she suspected it. At all events, she was perfectly calm and
collected.
The men were under control now, and there was little confusion. They
promptly obeyed orders, and Hiram Bunker seemed to be everywhere at
once. We could do nothing but look on, with a growing uneasiness, for
which there was good cause. But at last all was in readiness, and none
too soon, for the bows of the sinking ship were close to the water. It
was from this quarter that the two boats--the longboat and the
jolly-boat--were lowered.
The latter was the smaller, and it was quickly filled by Miss Hatherton,
Captain Rudstone, Baptiste, and I, and four seamen. The first mate, who
had a lantern lashed to his waist, let down some food and then followed
us. The skipper and the rest of the crew occupied the long boat, which
was lowered at the same time from the opposite side. Both craft were
hurriedly thrust off by the aid of boathooks, and there we were on the
open surface of Hudson Bay, exposed to the fury of the storm, and
drifting away into the black maw of the night.
How narrow an escape we had made of it we were quickly to learn, for we
had gone no more than a hundred yards when I heard a bitter cry from
Hiram Bunker, followed by shouts of "Look! Look!" I glanced back from
the stern seat, and at that moment the Speedwell went to her doom. There
was a sound of creaking planks, her bow dipped under and her stern rose
high the air, and then the waves closed over the poop-deck and blotted
out the swinging lantern.
We were beyond the reach of the vortex, and our men pulled hard away
from the fatal spot. The sea grew rougher, and the rain poured in
torrents; we were compelled to keep bailing the water out. The
wind-lashed gap between the two boats widened swiftly, and in a short
time the long boat was lost to sight in the darkness. Again and again we
shouted at the top of our voices, but no reply came back. The wind
shrieked, the billows roared and crashed, and the shadow of death seemed
to be lowering on us from the black sky overhead.
"How are we going?" Captain Rudstone asked of the first mate, who was at
one of the oars.
"Badly enough, sir," the man replied. "It's no use trying to keep off
the shore, pull as hard as we may."
"Is there no hope?" Flora asked of me in a whisper.
"Very little," I replied hoarsely. "It is better to prepare for the
worst."
I put one arm round her, and she voluntarily snuggled closer to me. Thus
we sat for twenty minutes or half an hour, expecting constantly to be
capsized and flung into the sea. The storm still raged with undiminished
violence, but it was growing a little lighter now, and as often as we
rose to the top of the swell we could see the faint blur of the land far
off. It was an ominous sight, for most of us knew what the shore of the
bay was like in a tempest. Wind and tide were drifting us steadily
nearer.
"Look! Look!" Captain Rudstone suddenly shouted. "Pull hard about, men!
Quick, for your lives!"
But it was too late to avert the danger. I had scarcely glanced behind
me, where I saw a mighty wave, yards high, rolling forward swiftly, when
the jolly-boat was pitched far into the air. It hovered an instant on
the crest of the wall of water and then turned bottom up, shooting us
all down the slope into a foamy trough.
I lost my grip of Flora--how I do not know--and was sucked deep below
the surface. When by hard struggling I came to the top and looked about,
I experienced a moment of sickening horror, for I could see nothing of
the girl; but suddenly she rose within a few feet of me, her loosened
hair streaming on the water, and by a desperate effort I reached and
caught hold of her.
It was just then, as we were both at the mercy of the sea, that a
strange and providential thing happened. A heavy spar, which had
doubtless been washed from the sinking ship, floated alongside of us. I
seized it firmly with one hand, while I supported Flora with the other.
We were hurled up on a wave, and from the crest I saw the capsized
jolly-boat some distance off. Two men were clinging to the keel, but I
was unable to recognize them. The next instant the wind seemed to fall a
little and shift to another quarter, bringing with it a gray fog that
settled speedily and thickly on all sides of us. But I had caught a
glimpse of the coast, and above the gale I could faintly hear the
muffled pounding of the surf.
The spar drifted on for several minutes, now high in the air, now deep
in the greenish hollow of the sea. Flora was perfectly conscious, and
partly able to help herself. We were in such peril that I could offer
her no words of comfort, and she seemed to understand the meaning of my
ominous stillness.
"Are we going to be drowned?" she asked.
"We are in God's hands, Flora," I answered huskily. "The shore is very
close, and we are drifting straight in. A tremendous surf is breaking
and it will be a miracle if we live through it."
"Then we will die together, Denzil," the brave girl whispered; and as
she looked up at me I read in her eyes the confession of her heart--the
pure depth of a love that was all my own.