The old _Terrible_, 74, was ploughing her way across the waters of the
Atlantic, now rolling and leaping, dark and angry, with white-crested
seas which dashed against her bows and flew in masses of foam over her
decks. She was under her three topsails, closely reefed; but even thus
her tall masts bent, and twisted, and writhed, as if striving to leap
out of her, while every timber and bulkhead fore and aft creaked and
groaned, and the blocks rattled, and the wind roared and whistled
through the rigging in chorus; and the wild waves rolled and tumbled the
big ship about, making her their sport, as if she was a mere cock-boat.
Stronger and stronger blew the gale; darkness came on and covered the
world of waters, and through that darkness the ship had to force her way
amid the foaming, hissing seas. Darker and darker it grew, till the
lookout men declared that they might as well have shut their eyes, for
they could scarcely make out their own hands when held at arm's length
before their noses.
Suddenly, however, the darkness was dispelled by the vivid flashes of
lightning, which, darting from the low hanging clouds, circled about
their heads, throwing a lurid glare on the countenances of all on deck.
Once more all was dark; then again the forked lightning burst forth
hissing and crackling through the air, leaping along the waves and
playing round the quivering masts. Now the big ship plunged into the
trough of the sea with a force which made it seem as if she was never
going to rise again; but up the next watery height she climbed, and when
she got to the top, she stopped as if to look about her, while the
lightning flashed brighter than ever; and then, rolling and pitching,
and cutting numerous other antics, she lifted up her stern as if she was
going to give a vicious fling out with her heels, and downwards she
plunged into the dark obscurity, amid the high foam-topped seas, which
hissed and roared high above her bulwarks. Her crew walked her deck
with but little anxiety, although they saw that the gale was likely to
increase into a hurricane; for they had long served together, they knew
what each other was made of, and they had confidence in their officers
and in the stout ship they manned.
The watch below had hitherto remained in their hammocks, and most of
them, in spite of the gale, slept as soundly as ever. What cared they
that the ship was roiling and tumbling about? They knew that she was
watertight and strong, that she had plenty of sea-room, and that they
would be roused up quickly enough if they were wanted. There was one
person, however, who did not sleep soundly--that was her Captain, Josiah
Penrose. He could not forget that he had the lives of some eight
hundred beings committed to his charge, and he knew well that, even on
board a stout ship with plenty of sea-room, an accident might occur
which would require his immediate presence on deck. He was therefore
sitting up in his cabin, holding on as best he could, and attempting to
read--a task under all circumstances, considering that he had lost an
eye, and was not a very bright scholar, more difficult of accomplishment
than may be supposed. He had lost an arm, too, which made it difficult
for him to hold a book; besides, his book was large, and the printing
was not over clear, a fault common in those days; and the paper was a
good deal stained and injured from the effects of damp and hot climates.
He was aroused from his studies by a signal at the door, and the
entrance of one of the quartermasters.
"What is it, Pringle?" asked the Captain, looking up.
"Why, sir, Molly Freeborn is taken very bad, and the doctor says that he
thought you would like to know," was the answer. "He doesn't think as
how she'll get over it. Maybe, sir, you'd wish to see the poor woman?"
"Certainly, yes; I'll go below and see her," answered the Captain in a
kind tone. "Poor Molly! But where is her husband--where is Freeborn?
It will be a great blow to him."
"It is his watch on deck, sir. No one liked to go and tell him. He
could do no good, and the best chance, the doctor said, was to keep
Molly quiet. But I suppose that they'll let him know now," answered the
quartermaster.
"Yes; do you go and find him, and take him below to his wife, and just
break her state gently to him, Pringle," said the Captain.
Captain Penrose stopped a moment to slip on his greatcoat, and to jam a
sou'wester tightly down over his head, before he left the cabin on his
errand of kindness, when a terrific clap was heard, louder than one of
thunder, and the ship seemed to quiver in every timber fore and aft.
The Captain sprang on deck, for the moment, in his anxiety for the
safety of his ship, forgetting his intention with regard to Molly
Freeborn.
Poor Molly! There she lay in the sick-bay, which had been appropriated
to her use, gasping out her life amid the tumult and disturbance of that
terrific storm. She was one of three women allowed, in those days,
under certain circumstances, to be on board ship for the purpose of
acting as nurses to the sick, and of washing for the officers and men.
Her husband was captain of the maintop, and as gallant and fine a seaman
as ever stepped. Everybody liked and respected him.
But Molly was even a greater favourite. There was not a kinder-hearted,
more gentle, sensible, and judicious person in existence. No one had a
greater variety of receipts for all sorts of ailments, and no one could
more artistically cook dishes better suited to the taste of the sick.
Most of the officers, who had from time to time been ill and wounded,
acknowledged and prized her talents and excellencies; and the Captain
declared that he considered he owed his life, under Providence, entirely
to the care with which she nursed him through an attack of fever when
the doctor despaired of his life.
"All hands on deck!" was the order given as soon as the Captain saw what
had occurred. The main-topsail had been blown from the boltropes, and
the tattered remnants were now lashing and slashing about in the gale,
twisting into inextricable knots, and winding and wriggling round the
main-topsail yard, rendering it a work of great danger to go out on it.
The boatswain's whistle sounded shrilly through the storm a well-known
note. "All hands shorten sail!" was echoed along the decks. "Rouse out
there--rouse out--idlers and all on deck!" Everybody knew that there
was work to be done; indeed, the clap made by the parting of the sail
had awakened even the soundest sleepers. Among the first aloft, who
endeavoured to clear the yard of the fragments of the sail, was William
Freeborn, the captain of the maintop. With knives and hands they worked
away in spite of the lashing they got, now being almost strangled, and
now dragged off the yard.
The Captain resolved to heave the ship to. The wind had shifted, and if
they ran on even under bare poles, they would be carried on too much out
of their course. It was a delicate and difficult operation. A new
main-topsail had first to be bent. It took the united strength of the
crew to hoist it to the yard. At length the sail was got up and closely
reefed, hauled out, strengthened in every possible way to resist the
fury of the gale. It was an operation which occupied some time. The
fore-topsail had to be taken in. The helm was put down, and, as she
came slowly up to the wind, the after-sail being taken off also, she lay
to, gallantly riding over the still rising seas. Though she did not
tumble about, perhaps, quite as much as she had been doing, her
movements were far from easy. She did not roll as before, as she was
kept pressed down on one side; still every now and then she gave a pitch
as she glided down into the trough of the sea, which made every timber
and mast creak and quiver, and few on board would have been inclined to
sing:
"Here's a sou'wester coming, Billy,
Don't you hear it roar now!
Oh help them! How I pities those
Unhappy folks on shore now!"
At length William Freeborn was relieved from his post aloft, and came
down on deck. Paul Pringle, his old friend and messmate, who had been
hunting for him through the darkness, found him at last. Paul grieved
sincerely for the news he had to communicate, and, not liking the task
imposed on him, scarcely knew how to begin.
"Bill," said he with a sigh, "you and I, boy and man, have sailed
together a good score of years, and never had a fall-out about nothing
all that time, and it goes to my heart, Bill, to say any thing that you
won't like; but it must be done--that I sees--so it's no use to have no
circumbendibus. Your missus was took very bad--very bad indeed--just in
the middle of the gale, and there was no one to send for you--and so, do
you see--"
"My wife--Molly!--oh, what has happened, Paul?" exclaimed Freeborn, not
waiting for an answer; but springing below, he rushed to the sick-bay,
as the hospital is called. The faint cry of an infant reached his ears
as he opened the door. Betty Snell, one of the other nurses, was so
busily employed with something on her knees, that she did not see him
enter. The dim light of a lantern, hanging from a beam overhead, fell
on it. He saw that it was a newborn infant. He guessed what had
happened, but he did not stop to caress it, for beyond was the cot
occupied by his wife. There she lay, all still and silent. His heart
sank within him; he gazed at her with a feeling of terror and anguish
which he had never before experienced. He took her hand. It fell
heavily by her side. He gasped for breath. "Molly!" he exclaimed at
length, "speak to me, girl--what has happened?"
There was no answer. Then he knew that his honest, true-hearted wife
was snatched from him in this world for ever. The big drops of salt
spray, which still clung to his hair and bushy beard, dropped on the
kind face of her he had loved so well, but not a tear escaped his eyes.
He gladly would have wept, but he had not for so many a long year done
such a thing, and he felt too stunned and bewildered to do so now. He
had stood as a sailor alone could stand on so unstable a foothold,
gazing on those now placid and pale unchanging features for a long
time,--how long he could not tell,--when Paul Pringle, who had followed
him to the door of the sick-bay, came up, and, gently taking him by the
shoulders, said:
"Come along, Bill; there's no use mourning: we all loved her, and we all
feel for you, from the Captain downwards. That's a fact. But just do
you come and have a look at the younker. Betty Snell vows that he's the
very image of you, all except the beard and pigtail."
The latter appendage in those days was worn by most sailors, and Bill
Freeborn had reason to pride himself on his. The mention of it just
then, however, sent a pang through his heart, for Molly had the morning
before the gale dressed it for him.
Freeborn at first shook his head and would not move; but at last his
shipmate got him to turn round, and then Betty Snell held up the poor
little helpless infant to him, and the father's heart felt a touch of
tenderness of a nature it had never before experienced, and he stooped
down and bestowed a kiss on the brow of his newborn motherless child.
He did not, however, venture to take it in his arms.
"You'll look after it, Betty, and be kind to it?" said he in a husky
voice. "I'm sure you will, for her sake who lies there?"
"Yes, yes, Bill; no fear," answered Betty, who was a good-natured
creature in her way, though it was a rough way, by the bye.
She was the wife of one of the boatswain's mates. Her companion, Nancy
Bolton, who was the wife of the sergeant of marines, was much the same
sort of person; indeed, it would not have done for the style of life
they had to lead, to have had too refined characters on board.
"Bless you, Freeborn--take care of the baby, of course we will!" added
Nancy, looking up from some occupation about which she had been engaged.
"We'll both be mothers to him, and all the ship's company will act the
part of a father to him. Never you fear that. As long as the old ship
holds together, he'll not want friends; nor after it, if there's one of
us alive. Set your mind at rest now."
"Yes, that we will, old ship," exclaimed Paul Pringle, taking Freeborn's
hand and wringing it warmly. "That's to say, if the little chap wants
more looking after than you can manage. But come along now. There's no
use staying here. Bet and Nancy will look after the child better than
we can, and you must turn in. Your hammock is the best place for you
now."
The gale at length ceased; the ship was put on her proper course for the
West Indies, whither she was bound; the sea went down, the clouds
cleared away, and the glorious sun came out and shone brightly over the
blue ocean. All the officers and men assembled on the upper deck, and
then near one of the middle ports was placed a coffin, covered with the
Union-Jack. There ought to have been a chaplain, but there was none;
and so the Captain came forward with a Prayer-book, and in an
impressive, feeling way, though not without difficulty, read the
beautiful burial service to be used at sea for a departed sister; and
the two women stood near the coffin, one holding a small infant; and
there stood William Freeborn, supported by Paul Pringle, for by himself
he could scarcely stand; and then slowly and carefully the coffin was
lowered into the waves, and as they closed over it, in the impulse of
the moment, the bereaved widower would have thrown himself after it, not
knowing what he was about, had not Paul Pringle held him back. Down
sank the coffin rapidly, and was hid to sight by the blue ocean--the
grave of many a brave sailor, and of thousands of the young, and fair,
and brave, and joyous, and of the proud and rich also, but never of a
more kind-hearted honest woman than was Molly Freeborn. So all on board
the _Terrible_ declared, and assuredly they spoke the truth.