A Ship of Olden Times—Tempest Tossed—Arrival at the Maison Dieu in
Elgin.
The bark which we left threading its way down the mazes of the Thames
made a tedious and difficult passage northwards along the coast of
England. It was sometimes borne on by favouring breezes, but it often
encountered furious contrary blasts that compelled the dauntless
Mercer, its commander, to yield before them, and to submit to be driven
back for many a league. We must not forget that naval architecture and
nautical science were then, comparatively speaking, in their infancy.
The hull of this Scottish privateer, or pirate, as she was called by
the English, was awkwardly encumbered by two enormous erections. One of
these, over the stern, is still recognized in some degree in the poop
of our larger ships. Of the other, called the forecastle, although
nothing now remains but the name, it was then in reality a tower of
considerable height, manned during an engagement by cross-bow men, who
were enabled to gall the enemy very severely from that elevated
position. The masts were three, one rising from the middle of the
vessel, and the others from the two extremities, each formed of one
thick short tree, the mainmast being the largest. At the upper end of
each mast was fixed a circular stage, walled strongly in with wood;
these were called the round-tops, and were large enough to admit of
several warriors being stationed in them. Each mast had but one sail
hanging from its yard, and that attached to the mainmast was the only
sheet of magnitude.
“Ha! what sayest thou now, Barnard?” exclaimed Mercer, slapping on the
shoulder his steersman, an old sailor, who had served him and his
father before him for some fifty years in the same capacity, and whose
back was bent by his constant position at the helm; “methinks this is
the only breeze that hath promised to be steady during these fourteen
days of our wearisome voyage. An it do but last for some good hour or
twain, we may hope to see the other side of St. Abb’s yonder.”
“Ay,” replied Barnard, casting his eye over his left shoulder, “but I
like not yonder wide-flaming cloud that doth heave itself up so i’ the
sou’-west, Master Mercer. I’m no sailor an it be not big with something
worse than aught we have had yet to deal with.”
“Come, come, no evil-omened croaking, Master Barnard,” replied Mercer;
“should the breeze freshen, we shall speed but the faster.”
“Nay, but I do tell thee, there is some cruel ill-nature yonder,” said
Barnard, sticking testily to his point.
“By St. Rule, but it doth look somewhat angry,” replied Mercer. “We
must get more under the lee of the land ere the mischief cometh.”
“By St. Paul, but it doth come already,” cried Barnard; “seest thou not
yonder white-topped waves tripping after us?”
“By the mass, but it doth come indeed,” cried Mercer, jumping forward.
“Ha, there goeth the foresail flying through the air like a sea-mew.
Down with the mainsail. Come, stir ye, stir ye, my hearts. Out with
your long-sweeps, my brave spirits—put her head to the land, Barnard.
Pull yarely now, my gallants. There is a lull yonder beneath the
rocks.”
“’Tis a lull thou wilt never reach, I’ll promise thee, Master Mercer,
pull as thou wilt,” said old Barnard gruffly. “Better let her drive to
the open sea before the storm. See how angry yonder sinking sun doth
look. Trust me, no human power may force her against the tempest. But
thou art ever for working impossibilities.”
“Tush, old man,” cried Mercer; “time enow to give in when we shall have
tried and failed. I have no fancy for a run to Norway, if by any means
we may reach the bonny Frith o’ Forth. So put her head more to the
land, I say.”
In obedience to the command of his resolute master, the old helmsman,
grumbling like a bear, put the bark into the course he had ordered, and
the mariners, aided by the pike and cross-bow men, put their hands
steadily to the long oars. The brave Mercer moved actively about,
giving life and spirit to their exertions. The storm rapidly increased,
and he climbed the forecastle to look out ahead.
“Mercy on us,” cried old Barnard, “there burneth a blue flame at the
foremast head. ’Tis gone. Some one is near his end, I trow. Run, boy,
and tell the master to come down. He is, as it were, mine own son, and
I like not to see him yonder after that dismal warning.”
The ship-boy carried the steersman’s message, but Mercer laughed and
heeded it not.
“Here, Peter Patullo, do thou take the helm a bit,” cried the old man,
becoming anxious. “He is so wilful, I must go to him myself.”
Barnard had hardly spoken, when a tremendous wave came rolling on
against the head of the ship, and striking the forecastle, a dreadful
crash followed, the huge timber tower being swept away like a cobweb.
“Holy Mother of God, he is gone,” cried Barnard. “My master—Oh! the boy
I nursed, as I may say. Ha, see’st thou nought of Him?” cried the
distracted old man, running to the lee-side of the ship, which was
drifting broadside on, from the sudden cessation of the panic-struck
rowers. “Ha, he’s there; I see him; I saw him as he was heaved up on
the bosom of the billow. I’ll save him, or I’ll perish with him.”
“Stop him,” cried the Franciscan, who had rushed from the cabin on
hearing the confused cry; “stop him, he plunges to certain
destruction.”
But old Barnard was too alert for them all. He was overboard ere any of
them could reach him.
“Madman,” cried the Franciscan, hastily picking up a rope; and as the
sea lifted up the bulky form of the old skipper, who hung for some
moments poised as it were on the crest of the wave, he, with great
dexterity, threw a coil over him, and Barnard was dragged most
miraculously on board, being unwillingly saved from his rash, though
generous, but utterly hopeless attempt.
Meanwhile the brave Mercer was borne away, seemingly to certain
destruction. Everything was done by the active Franciscan to bring the
bark near him. He was seen, now tossed on the high top of a mountainous
surge, and now far down in the gulf out of which it had swelled itself.
Sometimes he was thrown violently towards them, and again he was
whirled far away with the velocity of thought; yet amidst all the
horrors of the apparently inevitable death that surrounded him, he
struggled with a calmness that showed his undaunted soul, and seemed
determined to husband his strength as long as hope remained. A rope
with a noose upon it was thrown to him. He had watched the endeavours
his friends were making to save him, and he now exerted all his
strength and skill to aid them. After many an unsuccessful effort, he
at last caught the rope, and, with great adroitness, passed the noose
over his head and arms. The Franciscan and the half-frantic helmsman,
aided by some of the crew, began to pull him gently towards the vessel.
A long rolling wave came and dashed him against the ship’s side. He was
hastily pulled up—but life was for ever extinct.
The deepest grief fell upon the crew when they beheld their beloved
commander thus stretched inanimate before them; and they forgot their
own safety and that of the vessel in their affliction for his loss.
Poor old Barnard hung over the dripping corpse of his master, and
seemed to be utterly unconscious of all that was passing around him.
“Alas!” he cried, looking in his face, and putting back his drenched
locks with his rough hand as he said so, “would I had but sunk ere I
had beheld thee so. I had never the blessing of wife or of children,
but I did esteem thy father as my son; yea, and thou wert as the
grandchild of mine old age. Thou didst grow to be a man under mine own
especial nurture. I had pride and pleasure in thy gallantry and in thy
success. Right cheerfully did I work for thee; ay, and would have
worked for thee whiles my old timbers did hang together; but now, sith
thou art gone, I have but little tie to this world. I care not how soon
I weigh anchor for the land of souls; for what have I, a poor old
lonesome man, to do here without thee? Let fresher hands take the
watch, for—I—I—” his feelings overcame his hardy nature for a moment,
but he recovered himself. “Take care no harm comes over his corpse,”
cried he, looking sternly round upon his shipmates. “Let it be laid
decently out in his own berth—and—and——” His voice again became
choked—he coughed—he put his hands to his eyes—and turning hastily
away, disappeared into the hole that was his usual place of repose, to
bury his emotions in darkness and silence.
After the loss of Mercer, there was an utter confusion and want of
system among the under officers and crew, until the Franciscan monk
boldly assumed the command. Many of those on board had sailed with him
in the days of old Mercer, and being well acquainted with his resolute
mind, as well as with his nautical knowledge, they scrupled not to obey
him. He was indefatigable in his exertions; but nothing he could do
availed, and he was compelled to allow the bark, crazed as she was, to
drift before the wind with every fear of her foundering.
Dreadful was the night that ensued, and anxiously did every soul on
board long for morning, but when it came it was like a mimic night. The
clouds hung darkly over the sea, as if about to mingle with it.
Torrents of rain fell; and the waves arose like peaked mountains, their
whitened tops piercing the black vault of the clouds. The tempestuous
wind seemed to shift from one point to another; and they were so tossed
to and fro that they became bewildered, and could not even avail
themselves of the imperfect needle then in use. Land they could see
none; and when the second night fell upon them, each man gave his soul
to the care of the Virgin or his patron saint, persuaded that there was
but little chance of ever seeing another sun.
Meanwhile the hardy Franciscan never quailed, nor did he ever leave the
deck. Little could be done to aid the ship, but he ceased not to
encourage the mariners, both by his voice and his example.
At last the tempest seemed to yield. The wind became hushed, and
although the swell of the sea continued for some hours, yet it
diminished every moment, and went on gradually moderating until
daybreak. By this time the sky had cleared itself of the clouds that
had hitherto obscured it, the sun rose above the horizon in full
splendour, and a faint hope arose with it that the vessel might yet be
saved. But no land was yet visible. The needle was consulted, and it
was determined to hoist the mainsail, and to avail themselves of an
eastern breeze, to steer in that direction where they knew the British
coast must lie; and two men, who were placed in the round-top to look
out a-head, soon cheered them with the intelligence that the land was
visible; upon which they gave thanks to Heaven, and, as they scudded
gently before the breeze, the blue mountains began to appear in the
distant haze, and were swelling every moment upon their sight.
Now it was that some of the older men in the ship came to inform the
Franciscan that it had been the wish of Mercer, repeatedly expressed
during his life, that wherever he might die, he should, if possible, be
buried at sea; and, since the cessation of the storm permitted them to
have some leisure, the monk gave directions accordingly to prepare for
the solemn rite. Old Barnard had never appeared since the moment he
left the deck after the catastrophe that befel Mercer, and the struggle
the crew had been maintaining ever since with the angry elements had
hindered any one from visiting him where he had retreated. He was now
sent for; but the sailor who went for him speedily returned with a face
of alarm, to report that he could get no answer from him. The
Franciscan then lighted a lamp, and went below, followed by several
anxious faces. There lay the old man, wrapped up in a blanket, in his
berth. His head was turned from them. The Franciscan shook him gently,
but he stirred not. He then turned him round, and the light of the lamp
fell upon his face. It was ghastly—the eyes were glazed, and the rough
features fixed in death. He seemed to have died soon after he had lain
down; but whether he had suffered some fatal injury in his noble
attempt to save Mercer, or whether he had died of a broken heart for
the loss of the brave young man, to whom he was so much attached, it
was impossible to say.
Preparations were made for bestowing upon old Barnard the same funeral
rites as were contemplated for his master. The religious duties were
performed over both by the Franciscan, and both were consigned together
to the deep amidst the tears that fell from many a weather-beaten face.
The breeze continued, and the distant mountains grew every moment more
and more distinct; but long ere they had approached the land
sufficiently near to enable them to determine what part of the coast
they were borne towards, a thick fog arose, and put an end to every
speculation on the subject, by shutting it entirely from their eyes.
The vessel laboured exceedingly, from her shattered condition, and
there was no hope of safety left for them but to avail themselves to
the utmost of the favourable breeze that still continued to blow. It
lasted them bravely, and earned them cheerily on until sunset, but then
it fell calm; and the mist clearing away, the moon arose, and showed
them a bold coast some miles to the south. Farther on the land became
lower, and thither the Franciscan made the crew pull with all their
might. As they neared the land, the Lady Beatrice was brought out,
half-dead, upon the deck, to be prepared for disembarking immediately,
the frail vessel beginning every moment to show more alarming symptoms
of the shattered state to which the continued storm had reduced it.
They now beheld the lights in some fishermen’s huts on shore, and the
distant murmur of the waves, breaking gently on the beach, was the
cheering music of hope to them. All at once the vessel struck upon some
sunken rock or sand, and instantly began to fill. The confusion was
dreadful. The Franciscan approached Beatrice, and quickly made her
sensible of her danger. The boat was got out, but it was instantly
overloaded—sunk—and all were in the water.
“Hold fast by my cowl, and fear not,” cried the Franciscan, who had the
wisdom to stick to the vessel, and who now committed himself to the
waves, as it went down under them. Where all were men accustomed to the
sea, all were necessarily swimmers, and all made lustily for the shore.
Thither also did the bold monk press his way, the Lady Beatrice hanging
with the gripe of fate to his cowl; and the distance being but short,
and the sea smooth, she was soon placed in safety upon the beach,
whence he quickly carried her to the fishermen’s cottages.
The poor inhabitants of the fishing hamlet did all in their power to
cherish the unfortunate people who were thus shipwrecked amongst them,
but it was little they could do; and the comfort of a large fire was
the utmost that any of the hovels could furnish. The Franciscan eagerly
inquired what part of the coast they had been thrown on; and he
declared that, since it had pleased the saints to deny them an entrance
into the Frith of Forth, where lay their destination, he had reason to
rejoice that they had taken land on the eastern coast of Moray. The
Lady Beatrice, who had never held up her head during the tempestuous
voyage, was grievously weakened by sickness. She sank down exhausted on
the wretched pallet that was provided for her, and, eager as was the
Franciscan to proceed with her to Elgin, the following day was far
spent before she could gather strength enough to undertake even so
short a ride. Horses were then procured, and they arrived at the gates
of the Hospital of the Maison Dieu, where they were kindly received by
the pious brethren and the sisterhood, who administered the
hospitalities of the institutions to pilgrims and strangers of the
better sort, as well as its charities to the poor.