sail her in the wind's eye. I could not "bring her to" in the least,
but she went tearing on right before the wind. "Hamilton," I said, "we
are in a bad way. She cannot beat against this gale under her jib, and
you know that we have not a stitch of spare canvass."
Strange as it may seem, he did not seem at first to catch the idea of
the danger we really were in. He had so accustomed himself to think of
one kind of peril only, that he could see nothing alarming in our state
so long as we carried on under easy canvass.
"Do you mean to say," he at last asked gravely, "do you mean to say
that we are in any danger?"
"Danger!" I said, "do you think there is much safety to be found in a
craft like this, out on the Indian Ocean, with a gale blowing?"
"Out on the ocean!"--here his face fell with the expression of a
dawning apprehension; "what have we to do with the ocean?"
"How are we to keep out of it? Our last chance was to get her round and
run her on the reef,--a poor chance, but all that we could dream of.
You saw me try her just now, and saw that it was impossible."
"Then you mean to say nothing can prevent our drifting out to sea?" My
silence and dejection gave him the sorrowful answer.
Poor Hamilton! he was a brave enough fellow in his way, and willing
to stand any risk for the good of the service,--this was all in the
way of business, and he felt it to be right enough,--but the idea of
being drowned on a pic-nic excursion seemed to strike him as something
altogether out of his way. I will not say that he was afraid on the
occasion, because I do not believe he would admit the influence of
fear. But he gave me the idea of a man labouring under the strangeness
of an inadmissible proposition. It seemed as though a strong sense of
injured innocence were mixed with his apprehensions, as if he felt
himself to have been _done_ and ill-treated.
"You don't mean to say that you cannot get her round?" this was said
to me in a tone that seemed to imply that I could if I would. "If I
could," I answered, "I should have run her on the reef; she would
certainly soon go to pieces there, but it was our only chance."
"Never mind her going to pieces," said he; "I will pay half the damage."
It annoyed me, even at that terrible moment, to hear our condition made
a question of pounds, shillings, and pence. I felt angry, too, with
him, when I reflected that we had been brought to this predicament
simply by his clumsiness. I so far gave way to anger as to tell him
that, if we got safe to land I never would go sailing with him again,
nor trust myself on salt water with a watch-mate who didn't know what
"luff" meant, and who wanted to sail in the wind's eye under a jib.
Poor Hamilton, who now seemed fully to appreciate our peril, contented
himself with assuring me that I might rest quiet, for I never should go
sailing again with him, or with anybody else.
A growing and abiding sense of the truth of this probability soon
checked the spirit of squabbling within each of us. We were every
moment drifting out farther and farther. So long as the lights of the
island had been visible, they had imparted some degree of comfort. They
at least showed whither our course would lay in case matters should so
far mend as to enable us to choose our own course. But our distance was
each moment increasing, and the night was waxing darker continually.
A few more minutes, and the lights were hidden from us; and we were
left simply and literally without any knowledge of our position, on the
Indian Ocean. The sea had got up, prodigiously, the wind blew harder
than ever, and the night was as dark as pitch. Though she was flying
before the wind, we could not keep the sea out of her,--it washed in
over her quarter every few minutes, and it was all that we could do to
keep her free by baling. Happily we had a couple of buckets with us,
that served the turn well.
I shudder when I look back to this part of that fearful night. Later
on in the season of our peril we did not feel so acutely the horrors
of our position, because our sensibilities had been then pretty well
exhausted by the struggle for existence. So little hope remained at
last that our spirits scarcely retained the vitality necessary for
suffering. We were as though already dead, and already taken away from
living pains and feelings. But with the earlier part of the evening
are connected associations of far more active pain--I mean during
that part when I had not resigned hope. I know that there is a theory
current that the living spirit never resigns hope; that a man sinking
alone in the midst of the Atlantic, or bowed down for the stroke of
the descending guillotine, never believes it to be impossible that
he shall escape. I cannot pledge my own experience to the truth of
this theory. The spirit of man is so firmly wedded to hope, that it
is in extremity only that this blessing can be torn from us. But the
divorce may be effected at last, even while the tide of life beats
in the veins. I am quite sure that, during some hours of this night,
we both felt perfectly devoid of hope, and that we could not have
felt more certain of death had we actually passed the gloomy portals.
But this was only latterly, when our physical energies had succumbed
under protracted exertion, when every expedient we could devise for
prolonging our chance seemed to have failed. At first I could not make
up my mind that our case was hopeless, nor familiarise myself with the
idea of approaching death. No rational ground remained of expecting any
thing that could rescue us; and yet I could not forego the expectation
that something would turn up. Our perishing seemed too bad a thing to
be true. It could not be that our jocund morning should have such an
issue; that we, so recent from the companionship of youth and grace,
should be hurried to the contact of death. And yet all the while that I
thus yielded to the promptings of natural instinct, I felt that we were
drifting on each moment rapidly to the catastrophe.
While any room for activity remains, there is to be found some relief
in exertion. The full bitterness of our condition was not felt till we
had tried every device that we could think of, and had been reduced to
inaction--without resignation. Our last resource was one on which I
had been sanguine enough to build up some hope. It occurred to me that
if we were to let go her anchor, the weight of that, together with her
eighteen fathom of chain, might bring her bodily up. I only regretted
that we had no spare spars wherewith to form a sort of breakwater,
for I have great faith in the powers of a boat to ride out a gale and
heavy sea under the lee of such a defence. Still I thought that we
might manage to check her way effectually before we had driven too far
out to sea; and then in the morning we might still find ourselves in
sight of the island. There are circumstances under which one learns to
make much of a very little hope, and I had made the most I could of
this. We watched till we got into a smooth place, and then "let go."
The extremity of peril had been reserved for this moment. The sudden
check certainly brought her up as we expected, but other effects of
our manœuvre followed which were beyond our calculation. She rounded
to abruptly, and swung head to wind. But the weight of her anchor and
chain hanging at her bows seemed as if they would pull her under water.
The depression was so great that we saw that not a minute was to be
lost, and that our only chance lay in heaving up again as quickly as
possible. In our haste we both ran forward to the windlass, and by so
doing nearly completed our destruction, for the additional weight had a
most alarming effect on her immersion. It became evident that we must
at once get rid of the weight, and that it must be done without any
additional strain. Our only plan was to slip the cable, and let both
it and the anchor go by the run. This I accordingly did; but not even
in this extreme peril without a pang of regret. Being relieved, she
rose instantly, and in a moment was before the wind again. It had been
a narrow escape for us, and, but that we had chosen a smooth place, we
must have been swamped there and then. She had shipped a great deal of
water, and we had hard work to clear her; and then once more all our
work to begin again, for she shipped seas almost as quickly as we could
bale them out.
For some little time we worked like men, and as if we really thought
that we might work to good purpose. But soon it became quite manifest
that we must be beaten. Our utmost exertion barely sufficed to keep
her clear; and any little respite that we allowed to ourselves begat
a terrible accumulation of water. This could not go on long. Hamilton
was the first to admit this conclusion, and to give up the struggle for
existence. I observed the particular moment when hope died within him,
and noted it by the token of his sinking listlessly on the locker, and
expressing in his countenance no sign of interest in our proceedings.
To him there remained no more of the interest of speculation; there
was for him but one idea, that of death, present and painful. I cannot
say that I considered it all over with us yet. I am far from laying
claim to any superior degree of courage, or thinking myself a braver
man than was my companion. Perhaps my love of life was greater--at any
rate I did not yet give in, and by after inquiry I know that Hamilton
did. I am thankful that it was so; for my experience made me afterwards
acquainted with this state of feeling, and taught how paralysing
are its effects. It may be that, had I earlier shared my friend's
despondency, we neither should have survived to tell the tale. What I
contrived to do, though little enough, was yet sufficient probably
to make the difference of some hour or so in our foundering, and this
respite proved our salvation.
Each moment that passed was bearing us out continually farther into the
waste of waters. The gale howled, the waters foamed in rage, and washed
over our gunwale; my shipmate had resigned himself to his fate, and
replied not by word or sign to any consolation that I tried to suggest.
All ground of hope seemed stricken from us; and yet, by a sort of
perversity, I would not consent to the verdict that seemed to have gone
forth against us. Such a struggle against adverse circumstance, where
it is according to the habitual tone of a man's spirit, entitles him to
the name of magnanimous; with me, it was rather a particular phase of
obstinacy. One single chance yet remained to us--scarcely enough for
rational hope; but yet enough to justify resistance to actual despair.
As the wind then blew, it was just possible that we should drift off
the Island of Bourbon, or, at any rate, come near enough to be picked
up by some of her vessels. It was, indeed, a slender chance, but being
our all, I made the most of it; so much, indeed, did I make of it,
that I verily believe I should have felt quite confident of making
the port, if I had had the means of steering. As it was, we drifted
along, without any sail set, and without any compass to point us our
whereabout. But the time was coming for me when I was to experience the
pangs that attend the death of hope within us. This I regard as the
painful part of this night's history. In the earlier stage, there was
the relief of exertion; in the later stages there was the insensibility
of apathy. The time of sharp anguish was during the transition from the
one state to the other.
The _coup-de-grace_ came thus. Some half hour or so after the affair of
the anchor, while we were drifting before the sea, we perceived a light
ahead. Of course, this must be a vessel, most probably a _chasse marée_
belonging to the island. It was scarcely possible that we should reach
this vessel, but of course we were violently agitated, at sight of
her, with new-born hope. Hamilton even roused up and did what he could
to help in keeping us afloat; which condition it was very doubtful
whether we should be able to preserve long enough to enable us to come
up with the stranger. She proved to be beating to windward, and we saw
presently that one of her tacks would bring her within hail of us. To
see this was to pass at once from despair to confidence. We regarded
ourselves as saved, and scarcely heeded the time that must pass before
she could come up with us; a time, every minute of which was fraught
with peril, that might shut out from us the prospective help. As she
drew near, one only fear remained, lest she might pass us unobserved in
the obscurity of night; and so diminutive, an object were we, and so
little to be expected in that place, that there was some room for the
fear. As she neared us we shouted loudly, but the din of the elements
was not to be overcome by our puny voices. But on a night like that,
it was necessary to keep a good look-out, and we knew that she must
have watchful eyes peering into the darkness. I had on board a brace
of pistols ready charged, which having been stowed away in the locker
had been kept dry. We fired one after the other, when quite close to
the vessel, and succeeded in attracting their notice. We even made out
in the murky air, to which our eyes were becoming accustomed, one or
two figures of men, who ran forward to see what was the matter. But the
_chasse marée_ held on her way, unheeding. When almost under her bows,
we called out to them in agony, to heave to, and take us on board. But
to our utter horror they held on their way, taking no notice of us
except by some unintelligible cries. The _chasse marée_ passed on, as
if she thought it matter of little heed that two human beings were left
to perish in the elemental strife of that dark night.
To this moment I cannot understand this adventure. It is scarcely
possible to believe that any ship's crew of men could have the horrid
barbarity to leave unsuccoured a boat perishing in that wild night. And
yet it is, perhaps, quite impossible to believe that they could have
thought us sea-worthy and safe. Our signal, our cries, the dismantled
condition of our boat, all spoke for themselves. Bitter, surely,
must be the recollections of that vessel's company! dark must be the
character of that life, in which such an act of barbarism was an
unobserved passage. That skipper's worst enemy might wish for him that
he might have the knowledge of our escape; that so the pillow of his
death may be spared the visitation of that terrible reminiscence.
We looked a moment at each other aghast. We could not believe that the
promised succour had eluded us; that we were deserted by brother man
on the wide ocean. But wind and water raging around us howled into our
very souls the fact. From that time I may say that I gave up hope, that
I became as dead; and when at last safety sprang up, it was as from the
grave that I rose to grasp it.
From this time I have little more to speak of than a dull and stupid
endurance. A period of pain there was to go through, when my mind was
bewildered with thoughts of home, and of those I loved in my present
abode. There was a bitter pang to think that I must resign my young
existence, and there was a realising of the pains of suffocation. I
thought it was a horrid death to drown. I remembered the popular idea
of death by drowning as coming easily; but I _felt_ this to be wrong,
and knew by anticipation that I should have a cruel struggle when the
water occupied my nose and mouth. Both my companion and myself seemed
reduced at last to apathy. We neither spoke nor moved; and both,
evidently, thought it vain to continue any longer the struggle for
existence. We bade each other farewell, and then uttered no more words.
What remained to us of life was given to inward discipline, and to that
communing of which the wise man speaks not lightly.
The events that I have been describing, with I fear but little
distinctness of arrangement, had carried us on to about midnight. It
is difficult to estimate properly the duration of time under such
circumstances; but so nearly as I can guess, it must have been about
ten o'clock when the _chasse marée_ passed us. It must have been
little less than two hours that intervened between this time and the
happy turn for the better that was awaiting us. My wonder is that we
lasted so long; I cannot conceive how it was that the boat kept above
water. The sea washed in continually, and we did nothing to oppose its
progress. Certain it is that nothing in the history of escapes, with
which I am acquainted, was ever more narrow than my own escape; nor
ever did a boat float so exactly up to the indispensable point.
From the stupor of despair I was aroused by the report of a musket; it
was enough to break the spell and re-awaken the love of life within
us. Somebody was near, and we might yet be saved. Another, and another
report followed, and a blue light blazed forth. We then distinctly
saw, and not very far from us, a brig hove to, and, as we had not the
least doubt, making signals to us. Joyously we sprang to renewed life
and hope. We again loaded our pistols and answered the signals of our
unexpected deliverer. To our unspeakable joy these were perceived, and
soon we saw the brig fill her sails and bear away after us. Our plight
was yet bad enough. We certainly were above water, and in sight of
succour; but it was very doubtful whether we should be able to last
long enough to avail ourselves of the assistance that approached. Our
gunwale was nearly level with the water, and in a few more minutes
would be submerged. Oh! how did we long to be able to throw overboard
every weighty article, and yet we feared to stir lest we should farther
disturb the equilibrium. We sat still and motionless on the stern
locker, measuring with our eyes the decreasing distance between us and
the brig, and calculating the chances which each moment increased in
our favour. We feared that the brig might run us down; but we did wrong
to her skilful master. They ranged up nearly alongside of us, with
main-topsail aback, and threw us out a rope. Hamilton was first, and
easily drawn on board, at the expense of little more than an ordinary
ducking. My turn came next; and I might have escaped as well as he did,
but my worldly feelings had wonderfully revived, and I was no longer
content to come off with the mere saving of life; I wanted also to save
the boat, which, be it remembered, I had sold, but for which I had not
received the purchase-money. I thought that if I could manage to make
fast a rope to the step of her mast we might hoist her in bodily, and
save her after all. The rescue would then be complete of the whole
party. I sang out to them to stand by to haul us in, and rope in hand
ran forward to make fast to the mast. But it was not to be. The gallant
little boat had done her utmost; and now her time was come. She had
saved our lives, but was herself to go down to the abyss of waters. She
gave a heavy lurch, and I felt that she was settling. With scarcely the
warning of a moment, she dipped her bows under, and sank at once and
suddenly like a stone. In that moment the waters were boiling around
me, the greedy waves sucked me under; but I held fast the friendly
rope. I was drawn on board, but not without some difficulty; for my
prolonged exertions had severely tried my powers of endurance, and I
could hardly hold on long enough. But saved we were. As I trod the
schooner's deck,--as I saw her make sail, and brave the elements which
had so nearly wrought our destruction, I felt as though I had seen an
angel's arm stretched forth to pluck us from the gulf of waters. I
wanted no explanation of the causes which had led her forth; she had
met us in extremity, and was to me the arm of Providence. The rescue is
as providential in cases where the peril is over in a moment. But there
does not seem to be room for such deep impression, where peril merely
flashes as the lightning across one's path. The bitterness of death
must be tasted by him who is to appreciate the sweetness of deliverance.
On board, we found ourselves in familiar company. Several of our
friends were there, and gave us the history of our rescue. At the time
when the squall had come on, the other boats had been, as I have said,
well ahead of us, and clear of the reef. Some of them had had a little
trouble in getting to their moorings, but all were present at muster
except ourselves. This would not perhaps have alarmed them, had not the
hours continued to pass away without our appearance. By and by their
fears were fully excited by the arrival of a man who from the point
had seen the accident. He declared that he had seen us blown out to
sea, and his report was corroborated by our non-appearance. On this a
regular alarm had been sounded in the island. The good old governor
had despatched his tender to look out for us, and I know not how many
volunteers had started on the same errand. Many were the good fellows
who had braved the horrors of that stormy night, that they might have
the hope of helping us. The brig was a merchant craft, whose skipper
and owner had been induced to start on the cruise. She had been
throwing out signals for an hour and a half, and was nearly giving up
the search as a bad job. Well for us that she did not!
It was gray morning when the good skipper set us on shore; and I might
very well end my yarn, with telling how we heartily shook each other by
the hand, and how then I betook myself to those quarters which I had so
little expected ever to revisit. But circumstances deeply affecting my
after life came as sequels to this adventure, and I think the account
of them should come here also. I reached my room without having met a
single individual; and tired, wet, and worn out with mental agitation,
I threw myself on my bed and slept soundly. My dreams naturally
followed in the train of what had been my waking thoughts. Again I
was afloat, and again underwent the terrors of foundering at sea. The
phantasy of a dreaming spirit presented to my ear the lamentations of
my friends. As waking, I had thought in the hour of peril of some one
or two who would lament my sad doom; so in my sleep I went yet a step
beyond this, and seemed to hear the utterance of the lamentations.
These waxed more and more distinct, till the reality of them broke the
spell of dreams. I awoke, and yet heard the same conversation.
"Poor fellow! what a dreadful thing!" said one voice.
"Shocking!" said another, which I knew to be that of my old boating
antagonist, the first lieutenant of the Bucephalus. "Shocking! I
always prophesied that that craft would be his coffin, but little did
I think my words would come true."
The good fellow actually wept as he spoke.
"And that poor fellow, Hamilton, who scarcely ever set foot afloat?"
"Well, they're both gone, but not without our doing, all we could to
give them a chance--that's one comfort."
I was now fully awake to the consciousness that I was alive and
well--and to the understanding that these mates of mine were lamenting
my loss. I did not waste any words in endeavouring to convince them
that they were mistaken, but, jumping out of bed, I stood before them.
The men stared as if they had seen a veritable ghost, but, recovering
themselves in a moment, almost wrung my arm off in congratulatory
shaking. Intense astonishment was mingled with their delight, and they
were perfectly vociferous in demanding an explanation of the phenomenon
I presented in my own living person. It turned out that they had been
cruising about pretty nearly the whole night, in the hope of falling
in with me. They had full confidence in my resolution; and knew that
I would not give in while a chance remained, and so they hoped I
would manage to keep afloat, till some one of the numerous boats that
were out should fall in with me. I have no doubt that they would have
prolonged their search throughout the night, had they not fallen in
with a craft, (by the description, I doubt not the identical _chasse
marée_ that so cruelly deserted us,) which gave them to understand that
they had seen us go down. "_Fin, fin, allés_,"[46] with expressive
pointing to the depths of ocean, was the answer they had received to
their inquiries. With heavy hearts they had returned home; and without
meeting any but those whose search had been as ineffectual as their own.
"And now, Jack," said my friend the lieutenant, "now that we have got
you within hail once more, safe and sound, who do you suppose it was
that sent me here this morning?"
"To tell you the truth, I thought it was a little sentimental excursion
on your own account."