SHIPWRECK.
“Ah! many a dream was in that ship
An hour before her death;
And thoughts of home with sigh’s disturbed
The sleeper’s long-drawn breath.
· · · · ·
A hundred souls in one instant of dread
Are hurried over the deck;
And fast the miserable ship
Becomes a lifeless wreck.
Her keel hath struck a hidden rock,
Her planks are torn asunder,
And down comes her mast with a reeling shock,
And a hideous crash like thunder
Her sails are draggled in the brine,
That gladdened late the skies,
And her pennant that kissed the fair moonshine,
Down many a fathom lies.”—_Wilson._
It was a glorious summer morning, when the splendor of the sky, the
sparkling brightness of the water, the animating bustle on the docks,
and in the boats—all conspired to raise and cheer the spirits of the
spectator.
At ten o’clock Lord Montressor entered the long-boat that was to convey
him to the Queen Charlotte, where he found the captain, mate and men all
engaged in the hearty work of preparation for getting under way. A fair
wind had sprung up, and they were but waiting for the ebb tide. They had
not to wait long. At twelve precisely the tide began to ebb. The captain
came upon deck, seized his speaking-trumpet, and called out,
“All hands! Up anchor!”
In an instant every man was upon deck.
“Each officer to post! Man the capstan! Stand by to let fall the
tops’ils. Heave round the capstan! Heave roundly!”
“Ay, ay, sir! Anchor’s apeak!”
“Heave! Heave my hearties! Heave and trip the anchor!”
The men laid themselves to the bars, turned vigorously, and then stopped
to breathe.
“A-trip it is, sir!” cried the mate.
The moment the anchor was a-weigh the ship began to cast to larboard.
The captain shouted through his speaking-trumpet—
“Hoist the jib and the fore-to’mas’ stays’ils! Helm-a-starboard!
So—steady—steady.”
“Ay, ay, sir! Steady it is!” responded the helmsman.
The crew worked heartily, the brave ship righted herself, the sails
filled with the breeze, and the Queen Charlotte, stood gallantly out to
the Channel. A shout from the shore cheered her on.
But she was not a fast sailer, this honest old Queen Charlotte, any more
than her royal namesake was a “fast woman.” She was, on the contrary,
“slow and sure,” like her good old majesty, the defunct queen. She was,
in fact, an old-fashioned, short and square-bowed brig, one of the last
of her generation, and very unlike in build and behavior to the long and
narrow-decked, high-masted and rakish Baltimore clippers that were then
in such high favor. In something more than due time, then, the Queen
Charlotte left Lundy Island to leeward, got out of the Channel and into
the broad Atlantic.
The fair wind continued for several days, and yet the brig made but
moderate progress. How she would possibly get on against a head-wind
remained to be seen.
The season seemed to promise a continuance of fine weather, and
consequently a pleasant voyage, for the violent spring gales were over,
and the latter summer storms were not soon to be expected.
Yet they had not been at sea more than two weeks before the weather
changed, the sky became dark and gloomy, the wind sprang up, the waves
arose, and for several days the ship beat about in a high sea, against a
head wind, making no progress, scarcely able to hold her own. Day after
day showed the same scene—morning after morning the murky sky, heavy
with clouds, lowered down upon a turbulent sea, broken into high and
coursing waves, whose crests were tipped with frost, like foam upon the
lips of racers—night after night the impenetrable darkness above,
around, beneath, and relieved only by the phosphoric glimmer and sparkle
of the crested waves. A frisky clipper might have been lost in this
gale, but the staid old Queen Charlotte “stood the storm” for a week.
And then there came another change of weather, bringing a clear sky,
gentle breeze, and a calm sea, which continued with little variation for
two or three weeks, during which the brig made moderate headway.
Ill could Lord Montressor brook this sort of “making haste slowly.”
Often he reproached himself for taking passage in the Charlotte, instead
of waiting ten days longer to embark in the Mercury. And this regret was
in no degree lessened by an event that occurred when they were nearing
the Azores.
It was a very fine day in August, with a fair, brisk wind, and the Queen
Charlotte, being in most unaccountably gay spirits, had crowded on all
her canvas, even to the studding sails and royals, and was doing her
best at running before the wind—as if her long defunct majesty had ever
in her court array forgotten her royal dignity and tried to run! While
thus going under full sail the brig was hailed by a vessel bearing down
full upon her.
“Ship—ahoy-oy!” came reverberating over the water from the
speaking-trumpet of the purser.
“Halloo!” responded the Queen Charlotte.
“Who are you? where do you hail from? where are you bound?”
“The Queen Charlotte, Brownloe master, from Bristol to Baltimore! Who
are you?”
“The Mercury, Captain Brande, from London to Baltimore.”
Almost as she spoke she bore rapidly down upon the brig, came alongside,
and without stopping, cheered and passed!
But among the passengers that crowded the upper deck, Lord Montressor
had recognized a man, whose appearance there sent all the blood from his
heart to his brain!
This man was Victoire L’Orient.
How came he there? What was his object?
He also was going to America—to Baltimore! Why? What should carry him
thither? Was he going in pursuit of Estelle? Had he, perhaps, managed to
keep up a system of espionage around her? Had he discovered her flight
to America—to Baltimore? and would he pursue her thither and persecute
her there?
Before these questions had fairly formed themselves in the mind of Lord
Montressor, the Mercury, with her crew and passengers, had cheered
again, and passed far ahead.
The Queen Charlotte, comparatively “slow and sure,” even when under full
sail and before a fresh wind, and unflurried either by the example of
the Mercury or the impatience of her own passengers and crew, kept on
the even tenor of her way.
All that afternoon and that night she sailed before a fair wind, and at
sunrise the next morning entered the port of Fayal.
There again she spoke the Mercury, that was just passing out of the
harbor.
And yet _once more_ the Queen Charlotte saw the Mercury. Alas! but we
anticipate.
The brig remained in the port of Fayal two days to discharge a portion
of her cargo and to take in freight, as well as to obtain a supply of
fresh provisions and water, and then again set sail.
The weather continued fine, with little variation in the clear sky,
fresh wind and gentle sea for several days, during which the brig made
fair progress toward the Chesapeake.
It was the morning of the twentieth of August that the man on the
look-out cried:
“Land ho!” and the distant points of Cape Charles and Cape Henry hove in
sight. And an hour after noon the Queen Charlotte entered the Bay.
That night the wind suddenly fell. And the next day—a day ever to be
remembered on that coast—the brig lay becalmed under a burning sky, and
upon a motionless sea.
And now my mind shrinks from describing the events that made hideous
that afternoon and night; shrinks both because of the deep horror one
feels in reflecting upon those awful scenes of storm and devastation,
when sky and ocean meet in deadly conflict, and fire, air and water—all
the elements of organized nature seem resolving back into original
“chaos and old night.”
This day—the twenty-first of August, when the Queen Charlotte lay
becalmed in the Chesapeake—had, as I said, been still and hot, with an
oppressive, suffocating atmosphere. Though there was not a cloud in the
sky, a ripple on the water, nor a breath of wind from any quarter, yet
the experienced old seamen seemed grave and thoughtful, and looked to
the rigging of their ship. And the captain paced the deck, casting an
eye—now to the sky, now to the sea, and now to the rigging.
“What can be the matter with the skipper?” asked one inexperienced
passenger of another.
“He’s on the look-out for squalls,” answered the other, carelessly, not
believing what they said.
Abaft, two Baltimore youths, homeward bound, were leaning over the
taffrail, looking despondently into the motionless water.
“Was ever such a sea and such a sky as this? Not a ripple, not a breath,
and as hot as Hades! Heaven send that the wind would rise!” complained
one.
“Yes! it is a right down deuced bore to lay becalmed here, for days,
perhaps, almost in gunshot of port,” grumbled the other.
“Now, d’ye see them two d——d land lubbers with their elbows on the
taffrail?” observed one bronzed and grizzled old “salt” to his shipmate.
“They want to hurry the wind up! Avast there, my fine fellows! don’t you
be impatient! The wind will come out from the west, and speak to you
presently!”
As noon approached an ominous change crept over the face of the heavens
and the waters.
Not a cloud was to be seen, yet the whole heavens visibly darkened,
assuming a dull, hazy, coppery hue.
Not a billow ruffled the surface of the waters, yet the whole vast sea
perceptibly swelled.
Not a breath of wind stirred, yet at intervals a low voice wailed across
the waters as if nature mourned the coming destruction.
The captain still walked the deck, telescope in hand, making
observations, and occasionally giving orders.
“What do you think of the weather, captain? Is there a storm brewing?”
asked Lord Montressor, joining him.
The skipper lowered his glass, and turning upon the questioner a sly
look that might have been read—Do you really think I am going to tell
you now?—replied:
“By the soul of Nelson! I cannot at this moment inform you, my lord. It
may be only a fresh wind that will take us large into port; and then
again it may be the confoundest hurricane that has ever been seen on
this coast!—Avast there! Mate, see that the lightning conductors are
rigged out!” he said, suddenly breaking off to give the order.
“Ay, ay, sir,” replied that officer, touching his hat, and going below
to obey the command.
“At least,” said Lord Montressor, resuming the conversation, “you have
sufficient time to take every necessary precaution for the safety of the
vessel.”
“Humph—humph—why certainly it is not exactly upon us yet, whatever it
is! and I and the ‘Charlotte’ have weathered a storm before to-day. Why,
sir! I could tell you of a time, when we doubled Cape Horn——,” said the
skipper, launching into a tale of a tempest that was presently
interrupted—the tale—not the tempest—by the reappearance of the mate on
deck, to report the lightning conductors rigged out.
“As you said, my lord, there is time to make ready for what may be
coming, thank heaven! This may be only a fresh wind that will carry us
gallantly into port; therefore I shall not take in sail just yet; though
it is best to be ready at short notice to do so. Mate!”
“Ay, ay, sir!”
“Call all hands on deck!”
“Ay, ay, sir!”
“Let them stand by to take in the royals and to’gallant stun’s’ils.”
“Ay, ay, sir!”
As the meridian passed, the sun took on a dark blood-like color, and the
awful stillness of the elements seemed more foreboding.
Slowly—slowly the Spirit of the Storm advanced and took shape.
A black cloud, seemingly no larger than an eagle with spread wings,
appeared on the Western horizon, directly under the sun. The wind awoke
with a sigh, and breathed across the waters, curling the surface into
little ripples, and moving the sails of the brig, and then died away.
“In royals!” shouted the captain.
The order was executed.
The cloud climbed faster, higher, increasing in size and darkness. Again
the wind arose and moaned across the waters, rolling the waves against
the tide and fluttering the sails of the ship, and then died away as
before.
“Take in the to’gallant stu’n-s’ils! And you at the wheel, mind your
helm!” thundered the captain.
The cloud had nearly reached the zenith. Once more the wind sprung up,
and roared across the now angry waters, driving the sea into high waves,
and filling all the sails of the brig that now bounded before the blast.
“Clew down the topsails; haul up the courses! Hard down!” shouted the
captain.
The storm came on apace, the whole sky was overcast and darkened. The
wind lashed the sea into fury and drove the brig rocking and reeling
forward, on her course.
The passengers swarmed upon the deck, and crowded around the skipper.
“Captain, captain, is there any danger?” asked one.
“Captain, captain!” exclaimed several others, as the skipper, regardless
of their interruptions, hurried about giving his orders. “Captain,
captain!——”
“For heaven’s sake, gentlemen, go below! You are in my way! You hinder
me in the working of the ship! You risk your own lives as well as the
safety of the vessel,” said the skipper, impatiently, hastening away.
“But—for the Lord’s sake, what are you going to do?” asked the first
speaker, laying hold of the captain’s coat-skirt to detain him.
“We are trying to get into Hampton Roads: there we shall be safe. Once
more, for heaven’s sake, gentlemen, be advised, and go below!” exclaimed
the captain, breaking away.
A vivid flash of lightning, kindling into blue flame every scrap of
metal about the ship, accompanied by an awful peal of thunder, and
followed by a sudden deluge of rain, so enforced the order, that most of
the passengers were glad to make a hasty retreat.
The storm hurried onward; the whole heavens lowered down upon the sea,
and all was black as the blackest midnight, save when a dazzling flash
of lightning kindled the whole scene into a momentary conflagration;
showing the whole tremendous sea, rising and falling in mountains and
valleys, and clouds and waves mingling together in wildest chaos, so
that, which was the heavens, and which was the earth, it was almost
impossible to know. And through all this horrible confusion, the brave
ship—heaving, plunging, reeling,—struggled; now lifted upon the top of
some mountain wave, high among the clouds; then pitched headlong down
into the dreadful yawning, chasm of the sea.
The captain never for an instant left the deck. His presence there
enheartened the crew, who worked gallantly. But their almost superhuman
efforts failed to get the ship into Hampton Roads. She was driven
furiously past their entrance. Through all that awful night the captain
never left his post. At intervals some passenger, more venturous than
the others, would make the desperate attempt to come upon deck; but even
if he were not, by the heaving of the ship, hurled headlong down the
companion-ladder, he was soon glad to retreat. The storm raged on with
unabating violence. The captain never lost his presence of mind, nor the
crew their courage. The former gave his orders, decisively, clearly,
emphatically—the latter obeyed with alacrity. Every sail had been in
succession taken in, and the ship was now driving along under bare
poles. As she had done, many times before, the good ship weathered the
storm. Yet was the night not unmarked by disaster to her brave crew; a
heavy sea, taking her amidships, swept off three of her gallant seamen;
but in the dense darkness, or blinding glare, amid the deafening noise
of the tempest, this loss was not known—it was not discovered until
morning.
It was long after midnight, when the fury of the storm had in some
degree abated; the ship was scudding along before the wind, and the
captain and the mate, exhausted by their late tremendous labors, were
resting on the deck, when the distant report of a single cannon came
booming over the waters.
“A ship in distress; but, great heaven! what earthly power can aid her
in such a night as this?” said the captain.
The mate made no reply, but listened anxiously for a repetition of the
signal.
In about three minutes, the firing was repeated.
“The Lord help her,” said the mate reverently—“what can be done for her,
truly! We are making rapidly toward her if it were broad day, we might
help her. Or if she could exist till day, we might save the crew. What
think you, captain?”
“Good Heaven, that depends upon circumstances. If in beating about in
this storm, she has sprung a leak, she must go down in a few minutes.”
“But if she has been cast upon a sand-bank, or driven ashore?”
“Even then it is doubtful whether we could aid her. If she has been cast
upon Smith’s Sand-bar, as I fear is the case, we could not approach her
without sharing her fate.”
“But the boats?”
“Would not reach her in this sea.”
“But the gale may go down before she breaks up,” suggested the pitying
and hopeful mate.
“Well, Heaven grant it; for if it should turn out so, we may be of
assistance,” replied the captain.
Every five minutes the signal gun was fired. The captain, mate and crew,
listened in impotent sympathy, or spoke together in hushed and solemn
voices; for well they knew that, but for the blessing of Providence upon
their almost superhuman exertions, this case of shipwreck might have
been their own.
Meanwhile the Queen Charlotte flew before the wind. At every firing of
the signal gun, she seemed nearer the sound.
“We are approaching that other ship! We must look out, and not run afoul
of her,” said the captain, leaving his position, and going forward to
give orders.
Once again the signal gun was fired, and then it was heard no more. When
ten or fifteen minutes had elapsed, and the listening crew found no
repetition of the sound—
“God help her,” said the captain, “she is lost!”
The crew echoed his groan.
Day dawned, and the sun arose over a wild, wild scene. Black and ragged
clouds, the fragments of the broken storm, drove across the sky. The
wind was still very strong, and the waves ran very high.
The Queen Charlotte scudded along under a close-reefed main topsail and
reefed foresail. She kept a sharp look out for some sign of the fate of
the ship she had heard firing the signal guns in the night. The mate
took his post forward, and with telescope in hand, scanned the expanse
of sea ahead. And thus it was scarcely a quarter of an hour after
sunrise, that that officer suddenly dropped his glass and called out:
“A wreck on the sand-bank ahead!”
The captain hurried forward, seized the glass from the hand of the mate,
leveled it and took sight.
“By my life, it is the poor Mercury! and if we do not look sharp we
shall run foul of her! Mind what you are about there at the wheel. Hard
up. Hard up—so! Steady—steady!” cried the captain.
The ship answered her helm, and presently came in sight of the wreck.
It was a terrible spectacle.
There before them lay the sand-bank and the broken ship!
The ill-fated Mercury had been pitched headforemost with such tremendous
force upon the bank, that her prow was buried deep in the sands, and her
stern lifted, revealing one-third of the length of her keel. Her masts
had been snapped short off, and with all their sails and shrouds had
fallen forward upon the sand. And there she lay stranded, broken,
helpless—exposed to every assault of wind and wave! At intervals a heavy
sea broke over her. A nearer approach showed some half-dozen haggard
wretches, the remnant of her unfortunate crew, assembled aft, holding on
for dear life to the taffrail, yet scarcely able to keep their hold,
with their hair and garments streaming in the wind. They were seen to
wave signals of entreaty to the advancing ship.
But a horrible sea raged between the brig and the sand-bank! To have
approached much nearer the wreck, would have been inevitably to share
its fate! To have put out a boat would have been madness!—no boat could
have lived a moment in such a sea.
Yet the Queen Charlotte could not, would not, pass her by. The only
thing to do then, was to wear and heave to, to watch and seize an
opportunity of rendering aid, if perchance the winds and waves should
subside in time to send out boats to her.
But it was a terrible thing to lay there inactive, and behold sea after
sea advance and break over that bound and disabled vessel!—at every
advance shaking her hull almost in pieces—at every retreat carrying off
some portion of her rigging or cargo. And it was more terrible still to
behold those half-dozen fellow-creatures, clinging in desperation to
their frail support!
At last a huge wave arose and rearing itself, like a moving cliff
crested with foam, advanced upon the doomed wreck!
At this appalling sight, all on board the brig held their breath for
very awe.
The mountain wave reached and broke over the sand-bank. And the ship was
swamped!
A simultaneous cry of horror arose from the brig!
The next moment fragments of the shattered ship strewed the sea, and
from amid the boiling hell of waters arose three struggling wretches.
One held on to a broken spar that kept him afloat.
Two others, for a single instant, strove for the possession of a plank
that both had seized, but which was not sufficient to sustain more than
one; then the stronger of the two, whom Lord Montressor thought he
recognized as Victoire L’Orient, freeing his hand, struck off the
weaker, who immediately sank, but in the impetuosity of this cruel blow
he also lost his own hold upon the plank, and disappeared in the
whirlpool of waters.
The third man—the sole survivor of the wreck, clinging desperately to
the fragment of broken spar, and each moment growing more incapable of
retaining his hold, was dashed hither and thither, at the mercy of the
waves.
Lord Montressor, who had been standing, leaning over the bulwarks,
chafing with impatience at his own inactivity, could now endure this
sight no longer. It was not in his brave and generous nature thus to
stand and behold a fellow-creature helpless amid such deadly peril, and
not wish to risk life if needful for his rescue. Lord Montressor was a
man of athletic and powerful frame, as well as of heroic spirit. He had
been trained in all those gymnastic exercises calculated to develope
extraordinary muscular strength and skill. Calling upon a seaman to
assist him, he hastily stripped off his upper garments, fastened a
strong rope securely around his waist, and, against the vehement
expostulations of all who were near him, threw himself into the raging
sea.
The captain, crew and passengers watched him in intense anxiety.
Buffeting the billows, he made toward the struggling wretch. Wind and
tide were in his favor, though three times was he violently thrown back.
Yet would he not give the signal to be drawn in. He seemed resolved to
save the shipwrecked man or share his fate. At length it was due as much
to an apparent accident, as to his own strength and skill, that he was
enabled to effect his purpose—a friendly wave lifting him upon its
breast, cast him forward in reach of the spar; simultaneously he threw
his arms out and seized the man; it was time! the strength of the poor
wretch was exhausted,—he was about to drop off! Wave after wave dashed
over them, as if the sea had resolved to sever them, but Lord Montressor
held on bravely to his prize. He gave the signal; the men on board the
brig began to haul in the rope, and in a few moments more the
shipwrecked man and his gallant preserver were safe upon the deck of the
Queen Charlotte!
Lord Montressor left his charge in the hands of the sailors, and to
escape the congratulations of his companions, as well as to change his
wet clothes, he went below.
Amid all the horror with which he reflected upon the scenes of the
shipwreck, one question forced itself upon his mind. Victoire L’Orient
had been a passenger on board the ill-fated Mercury—was he lost or
saved?—was he the man who had been seen to strike his fellow from the
floating plank and perish in the cruel act? had he, in fact, been among
the number of the passengers who had been swept off from the stern
gallery? Or had he, perhaps, previously taken passage in some boat, that
might, at some earlier hour of the disaster, have left the wreck in the
desperate hope of reaching the shore? and had he perchance so reached
the shore?—in a word, was he lost or saved? This question, as it was
inevitable it should—pressed anxiously upon his mind.
And yet, reader, had Lord Montressor believed the man whom he saved to
be Victoire L’Orient, he would just as certainly have risked his life
for his preservation.
Meanwhile, the beaten and battered victim of the wreck was taken into
the captain’s cabin, supplied with dry clothing, refreshed with bread
and wine, and forced to lie down upon a berth to recover his exhausted
strength. The captain, who like all old sailors, was a tolerably good
physician, would not permit his guest to be questioned until he had some
rest.
“And, indeed,” said the old skipper, “he is Lord Montressor’s own prize,
and shall be examined first of all by his lordship!”
And in truth the stranger seemed to be of a similar opinion; for after
he had been refreshed by a short rest, his first request was that he
might be able to see and thank his brave preserver.
Word to this effect was transmitted to Lord Montressor, who lost no time
in obeying the summons. He entered the cabin, and took his seat by the
side of the berth upon which the shipwrecked passenger lay.
The stranger seemed to be a man of about twenty-two years of age, of
symmetrical form and handsome face, having a Grecian profile; fair,
clear complexion; golden-brown hair, and dark, hazel eyes.
“I am glad to find you so well recovered, my friend,” said Lord
Montressor, looking with kind interest upon his rescued waif.
“I thank you, my lord—I beg pardon! but I understood my gallant
preserver to be the Viscount Montressor,” said the young man, fixing his
dark, expressive eyes with a look of inquiry upon the face of his
lordship.
“That is my name, sir.”
“And mine is Julius Levering. I am a Baltimore man, my Lord, and am not
unacquainted with the fame of Lord Montressor,” said the youth.
Lord Montressor gravely waived this compliment, and said—
“I hope that you have suffered no injury from the floating fragments of
the wreck, sir?”
“I thank you; none, my lord,” said Julius Levering, passing his hand
thoughtfully across his brow; then withdrawing it, he added, “In truth,
I know not _how_, in adequate terms, to express my eternal gratitude to
your lordship for the preservation of my life.”
“Thank Providence, my dear sir, and not me. My act was too instinctive
to merit recollection,” returned Lord Montressor.
“But, my dear lord, you risked your own valuable life to save that of a
stranger!”
“As I should have also risked it to save an enemy. The act was merely
impulsive—inevitable, I may say! Pray let us drop that part of the
subject. Now tell me, if you please, were there any other persons saved
from the wreck, do you know?”
“Great heaven! I do not, sir! We struck the sand-bank just after
midnight. At daybreak, fourteen of our number left the ship in an open
boat, that seemed to have no chance of living in such a sea; they
embarked in the frantic expectation of being able to reach the Maryland
shore. Whether the boat ever made the land, or whether, as is most
likely, she went down amid the waves, I have no means of knowing! I only
know, that except myself, those who preferred to remain and take their
chances with the ship, fared no better than she did, whatever her fate
may have been. Before that last great sea took us—and even before your
ship hove in sight of us—we had lost several of our companions, blown
off or washed off from their frail hold. Among those who were swept off
right before my eyes, was a poor old fragile French woman—one Madame
L’Orient. Good heaven! shall I ever get rid of that vision!”