THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.
At length the ship came within the latitude of the Guinea coast.
For some days there had been alternate winds and calms, and the weather
was so fitful and so fickle that no one could tell in one hour what
would happen in the next. All this was at last terminated by a dead,
dense, oppressive calm like those of the Indian Ocean, in which exertion
was almost impossible and breathing difficult. The sky, however, instead
of being clear and bright, as in former calms, was now overspread with
menacing clouds; the sea looked black, and spread out before them on
every side like an illimitable surface of polished ebony. There was
something appalling in the depth and intensity of this calm with such
accompaniments. All felt this influence. Although there was every
temptation to inaction and sleep yet no one yielded to it. The men
looked suspiciously and expectantly at every quarter of the heavens. The
Captain said nothing, but cautiously had all his preparations made for
a storm. Every half hour he anxiously consulted the barometer, and then
cast uneasy glances at the sea and sky.
But the calm which had set in at midnight, and had become confirmed
at dawn, extended itself through the long day. The ship drifted idly,
keeping no course, her yards creaking lazily as she slowly rose and fell
at the movement of the ocean-undulations. Hour after hour passed, and
the day ended, and night came once more.
The Captain did not turn in that night. In anxious expectation he waited
and watched on deck, while all around there was the very blackness
of darkness. Brandon began to see from the Captain’s manner that he
expected something far more violent than any thing which the ship
had yet encountered, but, thinking that his presence would be of no
consequence, he retired at the usual hour.
The deep, dense calm continued until nearly midnight. The watchers on
deck still waited in the same anxious expectation, thinking that the
night would bring on the change which they expected.
Almost half an hour before midnight a faint light was seen in the thick
mass of clouds overhead--it was not lightning, but a whitish streak, as
though produced by some movement in the clouds. All looked up in mute
expectation.
Suddenly a faint puff of wind came from the west, blowing gently for a
few moments, then stopping, and then coming on in a stronger blast.
Afar off, at what seemed like an immeasurable distance, a low, dull roar
arose, a heavy moaning sound, like the menace of the mighty Atlantic,
which was now advancing in wrath upon them.
In the midst of this the whole scene burst forth into dazzling light at
the flash of a vast mass of lightning, which seemed to blaze from every
part of the heavens on every side simultaneously. It threw forth all
things--ship, sea, and sky--into the dazzled eyes of the watchers. They
saw the ebon sky, the black and lustrous sea, the motionless ship. They
saw also, far off to the west, a long line of white which appeared to
extend along the whole horizon.
But the scene darted out of sight instantly, and instantly there fell
the volleying discharge of a tremendous peal of thunder, at whose
reverberations the air and sea and ship all vibrated.
Now the sky lightened again, and suddenly, as the ship lay there, a
vast ball of fire issued from the black clouds immediately overhead,
descending like the lightning straight downward, till all at once
it struck the main truck. With a roar louder than that of the recent
thunder it exploded; fast sheets of fire flashed out into the air, and a
stream of light passed down the entire mast, shattering it as a tree is
shattered when the lightning strikes it. The whole ship was shaken to
its centre. The deck all around the mast was shattered to splinters, and
along its extent and around its base a burst of vivid flame started into
light.
Wild confusion followed. At once all the sailors were ordered up, and
began to extinguish the fires, and to cut away the shattered mast. The
blows of the axes resounded through the ship. The rigging was severed;
the mast, already shattered, needed but a few blows to loosen its last
fibres.
But suddenly, and furiously, and irresistibly it seemed as though the
whole tempest which they had so long expected was at last let loose upon
them. There was a low moan, and, while they were yet trying to get rid
of the mast, a tremendous squall struck the ship. It yielded and turned
far over to that awful blow. The men started back from their work. The
next instant a flash of lightning came, and toward the west, close
over them, rose a long, white wall of foam. It was the van-guard of the
storm, seen shortly before from afar, which was now upon them, ready to
fall on their devoted heads.
Not a word was spoken. No order came from the Captain. The men awaited
some word. There came none. Then the waters, which thus rose up like a
heap before them, struck the ship with all the accumulated fury of that
resistless onset, and hurled their utmost weight upon her as she lay
before them.
The ship, already reeling far over at the stroke of the storm, now, at
this new onset, yielded utterly, and rolled far over on her beam-ends.
The awful billows dashed over and over her, sweeping her in their
fury from end to end. The men clung helplessly to whatever rigging
lay nearest, seeking only in that first moment of dread to prevent
themselves from being washed away, and waiting for some order from the
Captain, and wondering while they waited.
At the first peal of thunder Brandon had started up. He had lain down in
his clothes, in order to be prepared for any emergency. He called Cato.
The Hindu was at hand. “Cato, keep close to me whatever happens, for you
will be needed.” “Yes, Sahib.” He then hurried to Beatrice’s room and
knocked. It was opened at once. She came forth with her pale, serene
face, and looked at him.
“I did not lie down,” said she. “I knew that there would be something
frightful. But I am not afraid. At any rate,” she added, “I know I will
not be deserted.”
Brandon said nothing, but held out to her an India-rubber
life-preserver. “What is this for?” “For you. I wish you to put it on.
It may not be needed, but it is best to have it on.” “And what will you
do?” “I--oh! I can swim, you know. But you don’t know how to fasten it.
Will you allow me to do so?” She raised her arms. He passed the belt
around her waist, encircling her almost in his arms while doing so,
and his hand, which had boldly grasped the head of the “dweller in the
wreck,” now trembled as he fastened the belt around that delicate and
slender waist.
But scarcely had this been completed when the squall struck the ship,
and the waves followed till the vessel was thrown far over on her side;
and Brandon seizing Beatrice in one arm, clung with the other to the
edge of the skylight, and thus kept himself upright.
He rested now for a moment. “I must go on deck,” he said. “I do not wish
you to leave me,” was her answer. Nothing more was said. Brandon at once
lifted her with one arm as though she were a child and clambered along,
grasping such fixtures as afforded any thing to which he could cling;
and thus, with hands and feet, groped his way to the door of the cabin,
which was on the windward side. There were two doors, and between them
was a seat.
“This,” said he, “is the safest place for you. Can you hold on for a
short time? If I take you on deck you will be exposed to the waves.”
“I will do whatever you say,” she replied; and clinging to the arm of
the almost perpendicular seat, she was able to sustain herself there
amidst the tossing and swaying of the ship.
Brandon then clambered out on deck. The ship lay far over. The waves
came leaping upon her in successive surges. All around the sea was
glistening with phosphorescent lustre, and when at times the lightning
flashed forth it lighted up the scene, and showed the ocean stirred
up to fiercest commotion. It seemed as though cataracts of water were
rushing over the doomed ship, which now lay helpless, and at the mercy
of the billows. The force of the wind was tremendous, exceeding any
thing that Brandon had ever witnessed before.
What most surprised him now was the inaction of the ship’s company. Why
was not something being done? Where was the Captain?
He called out his name; there was no response. He called after the mate;
there was no answer. Instantly he conjectured that in the first fierce
onset of the storm both Captain and mate had been swept away. How many
more of that gallant company of brave fellows had perished he knew not.
The hour was a perilous and a critical one. He himself determined to
take the lead.
Through the midst of the storm, with its tumult and its fury, there
came a voice as full and clear as a trumpet-peal, which roused all the
sailors, and inspired them once more with hope. “Cut away the masts!”
The men obeyed, without caring who gave the order. It was the command
which each man had been expecting, and which he knew was the thing that
should be done. At once they sprang to their work. The main-mast had
already been cut loose. Some went to the fore-mast, others to the
mizzen. The vast waves rolled on; the sailors guarded as best they could
against the rush of each wave, and then sprang in the intervals to their
work. It was perilous in the highest degree, but each man felt that
his own life and the lives of all the others depended upon the
accomplishment of this work, and this nerved the arm of each to the
task.
At last it was done. The last strand of rigging had been cut away. The
ship, disencumbered, slowly righted, and at last rode upright.
But her situation was still dangerous. She lay in the trough of the sea,
and the gigantic waves, as they rolled up, still beat upon her with all
their concentrated energies. Helpless, and now altogether at the mercy
of the waves, the only hope left those on board lay in the strength of
the ship herself.
None of the officers were left. As the ship righted Brandon thought that
some of them might make their appearance, but none came. The Captain,
the mate, and the second mate, all had gone. Perhaps all of them, as
they stood on the quarter-deck, had been swept away simultaneously.
Nothing could now be done but to wait. Morning at last came to the
anxious watchers. It brought no hope. Far and wide the sea raged
with all its waves. The wind blew with undiminished and irresistible
violence. The ship, still in the trough of the sea, heaved and plunged
in the overwhelming waves, which howled madly around and leaped over her
like wolves eager for their prey. The wind was too fierce to permit even
an attempt to rig a jury-mast.
The ship was also deeply laden, and this contributed to her peril. Had
her cargo been smaller she would have been more buoyant; but her full
cargo, added to her dangerous position as she lay at the mercy of the
waves, made all hope of escape dark indeed.
Another night succeeded. It was a night of equal horror. The men stood
watching anxiously for some sign of abatement in the storm, but none
came. Sea and sky frowned over them darkly, and all the powers which
they controlled were let loose unrestrained.
Another day and night came and went. Had not the _Falcon_ been a ship of
unusual strength she would have yielded before this to the storm. As it
was, she began to show signs of giving way to the tremendous hammering
to which she had been exposed, and her heavy Australian cargo bore her
down. On the morning of the third day Brandon saw that she was deeper in
the water, and suspected a leak. He ordered the pumps to be sounded. It
was as he feared. There were four feet of water in the hold.
The men went to work at the pumps and worked by relays. Amidst the rush
of the waves over the ship it was difficult to work advantageously, but
they toiled on. Still, in spite of their efforts, the leak seemed to
have increased, for the water did not lessen. With their utmost exertion
they could do little more than hold their own.
It was plain that this sort of thing could not last. Already three
nights and three days of incessant toil and anxiety, in which no one had
slept, had produced their natural effects. The men had become faint and
weary. But the brave fellows never murmured; they did every thing which
Brandon ordered, and worked uncomplainingly.
Thus, through the third day, they labored on, and into the fourth night.
That night the storm seemed to have reached its climax, if, indeed, any
climax could be found to a storm which at the very outset had burst upon
them with such appalling suddenness and fury, and had sustained itself
all along with such unremitting energy. But on that night it was worse
for those on board, since the ship which had resisted so long began to
exhibit signs of yielding, her planks and timbers so severely assailed
began to give way, and through the gaping seams the ocean waters
permeated, till the ocean, like some beleaguering army, failing in
direct assault, began to succeed by opening secret mines to the very
heart of the besieged ship.
On the morning of the fourth day all hands were exhausted from
night-long work, and there were ten feet of water in the hold.
It now became evident that the ship was doomed. Brandon at once began to
take measures for the safety of the men.
On that memorable day of the calm previous to the outbreak of the storm,
the Captain had told Brandon that they were about five hundred miles to
the westward of the coast of Senegambia. He could not form any idea
of the distance which the ship had drifted during the progress of the
storm, but justly considered that whatever progress she had made had
been toward the land. Their prospects in that direction, if they could
only reach it, were not hopeless. Sierra Leone and Liberia were there;
and if they struck the coast any where about they might make their way
to either of those places.
But the question was how to get there. There was only one way, and that
was by taking to the boats. This was a desperate undertaking, but it was
the only way of escape now left.
There were three boats on board--viz., the long-boat, the cutter, and
the gig. These were the only hope now left them. By venturing in these
there would be a chance of escape.
On the morning of the fourth day, when it was found that the water was
increasing, Brandon called the men together and stated this to them. He
then told them that it would be necessary to divide themselves so that a
sufficient number should go in each boat. He offered to give up to them
the two larger boats, and take the gig for himself, his servant, and the
young lady.
To this the men assented with great readiness. Some of them urged him
to go in the larger boat, and even offered to exchange with him; but
Brandon declined.
They then prepared for their desperate venture. All the provisions and
water that could be needed were put on board of each boat. Firearms were
not forgotten. Arrangements were made for a long and arduous voyage. The
men still worked at the pumps; and though the water gained on them, yet
time was gained for completing these important preparations.
About mid-day all was ready. Fifteen feet of water were in the hold. The
ship could not last much longer. There was no time to lose.
But how could the boats be put out? How could they live in such a sea?
This was the question to be decided.
The ship lay as before in the trough of the sea. On the windward side
the waves came rushing up, beating upon and sweeping over her. On the
leeward the water was calmer, but the waves tossed and raged angrily
even there.
Only twenty were left out of the ship’s company. The rest were all
missing. Of these, fourteen were to go in the long-boat, and six in the
cutter. Brandon, Beatrice, and Cato were to take the gig.
The sailors put the gig out first. The light boat floated buoyantly on
the waters. Cato leaped into her, and she was fastened by a long line
to the ship. The nimble Hindu, trained for a lifetime to encounter
the giant surges of the Malabar coast, managed the little boat with
marvelous dexterity--avoiding the sweep of the waves which dashed
around, and keeping sufficiently under the lee to escape the rougher
waves, yet not so much so as to be hurled against the vessel.
Then the sailors put out the long-boat. This was a difficult
undertaking, but it was successfully accomplished, and the men were all
on board at last. Instantly they prepared to row away.
At that moment a wilder wave came pouring over the ship. It was as
though the ocean, enraged at the escape of these men, had made a final
effort to grasp its prey. Before the boat with its living freight had
got rid of the vessel, the sweep of this gigantic wave, which had passed
completely over the ship, struck it where it lay. Brandon turned away
his eyes involuntarily.
There was a wild shriek--the next moment the black outline of the
long-boat, bottom upward, was seen amidst the foaming billows.
The men who waited to launch the cutter were at first paralyzed by this
tragedy, but there was no time to lose. Death threatened them behind
as well as before; behind, death was certain; before, there was still a
chance. They launched the cutter in desperation. The six men succeeded
in getting into her, and in rowing out at some distance. As wave after
wave rose and fell she disappeared from view, and then reappeared, till
at last Brandon thought that she at least was safe.
Then he raised his hand and made a peculiar signal to Cato.
The Hindu understood it. Brandon had given him his directions before;
now was the time. The roll of the waves [illegible] up was for the
present less dangerous.
Beatrice, who during the whole storm had been calm, and had quietly
done whatever Brandon told her, was now waiting at the cabin-door in
obedience to his directions.
As soon as Brandon had made the signal he hurried to the cabin-door and
assisted Beatrice to the quarter-deck. Cato rowed his boat close up to
the ship, and was waiting for a chance to come within reach. The waves
were still more moderate. It was the opportunity for which Cato had been
watching so long. He held his oars poised, and, as a sudden swell of a
wave rose near the ship, he forced his boat so that it came close beside
it, rising high on the crest of the swell.
As the wave rose, Brandon also had watched his opportunity as well
as the action of Cato. It was the moment too for which he had been
watching. In an instant, and without a word, he caught Beatrice in his
arms, raised her high in the air, poised himself for a moment on the
edge of the quarter-deck, and sprang forward into the boat. His foot
rested firmly on the seat where it struck. He set Beatrice down, and
with a knife severed the line which connected the boat with the ship.
Then seizing an oar he began to row with all his strength. Cato had the
bow oar. The next wave came, and its sweep, communicating itself to the
water, rolled on, dashing against the ship and moving under it, rising
up high, lifting the boat with it, and bearing it along. But the boat
was now under command, and the two rowers held it so that while it was
able to avoid the dash of the water, it could yet gain from it all the
momentum that could be given.
Brandon handled the oar with a dexterity equal to that of the Hindu, and
under such management, which was at once strong and skillful, the boat
skimmed lightly over the crests of the rolling waves, and passed out
into the sea beyond. There the great surges came sweeping on, rising
high behind the boat, each wave seeming about to crush the little bark
in its resistless grasp, but notwithstanding the threat the boat seemed
always able by some good luck to avoid the impending danger, for as each
wave came forward the boat would rise up till it was on a level with
the crest, and the flood of waters would sweep on underneath, bearing it
onward.
After nearly half an hour’s anxious and careful rowing Brandon looked
all about to find the cutter. It was nowhere to be seen. Again and again
he looked for it, seeking in all directions. But he discovered no sign
of it on the raging waters, and at last he could no longer doubt that
the cutter also, like long-boat, had perished in the sea.
All day long they rowed before the wind and wave--not strongly, but
lightly, so as to husband their strength. Night came, when Brandon and
Cato took turns at the oars--not over-exerting themselves, but seeking
chiefly to keep the boat’s head in proper direction, and to evade the
rush of the waves. This last was their constant danger, and it required
the utmost skill and the most incessant watchfulness to do so.
[Illustration: “WITHOUT A WORD HE CAUGHT BEATRICE IN HIS ARMS.” ETC.]
All this time Beatrice sat in the stern, with a heavy oil-cloth coat
around her, which Brandon directed her to put on, saying nothing, but
seeing every thing with her watchful, vigilant eyes.
“Are you afraid?” said Brandon once, just after they had evaded an
enormous wave.
“No!” was the reply, in a calm, sweet voice; “I trust in you.”
“I hope your trust may not be vain,” replied Brandon.
“You have saved my life so often,” said Beatrice, “that my trust in you
has now become a habit.”
She smiled faintly as she spoke. There was something in her tone which
sank deep into his soul.
The night passed and morning came.
For the last half of the night the wind had been much less boisterous,
and toward morning the gale had very greatly subsided. Brandon’s
foresight had secured a mast and sail on board the gig, and now, as soon
as it could be erected with safety, he put it up, and the little boat
dashed bravely over the waters. The waves had lessened greatly as the
day wore on; they no longer rose in such giant masses, but showed merely
the more common proportions. Brandon and Cato now had an opportunity to
get some rest from their exhaustive labors. Beatrice at last yielded
to Brandon’s earnest request, and, finding that the immediate peril had
passed, and that his toil for the present was over, she obtained some
sleep and rest for herself.
For all that day, and all that night, and all the next day, the little
boat sped over the waters, heading due east, so as to reach land
wherever they might find it, in the hope that the land might not be very
far away from the civilized settlements of the coast. The provisions and
water which had been put in the boat formed an ample supply, which would
last for a long time. Brandon shared with Cato in the management of the
boat, not allowing the big man to have more of the labor than himself.
During these days Brandon and Beatrice were of course thrown into a
closer intimacy. At such a time the nature of man or woman becomes most
apparent, and here Beatrice showed a noble calm and a simple trust which
to Brandon was most touching. He knew that she must feel most keenly
the fatigue and the privations of such a life; but her unvarying
cheerfulness was the same as it had been on shipboard. He, too,
exhibited that same constancy and resolution which he had always
evinced, and by his consideration for Cato showed his natural kindness
of heart.
“How sorry I am that I can do nothing!” Beatrice would say. “You are
killing yourself, and I have to sit idle and gain my safety at your
expense.”
“The fact that you are yet safe,” Brandon would reply, “is enough for
me. As long as I see you sitting there I can work.”
“But can I do nothing? It is hard for me to sit idle while you wear out
your life.”
“You can sing,” said Brandon.
“What?”
“Langhetti’s song,” he said, and turned his face away.
She sang at once. Her tones rose in marvelous modulations; the words
were not much, but the music with which she clothed them seemed again to
utter forth that longing which Brandon had heard before.
Now, as they passed over the seas, Beatrice sang, and Brandon did not
wish that this life should end. Through the days, as they sailed on,
her voice arose expressive of every changeful feeling, now speaking of
grief, now swelling in sweet strains of hope.
Day thus succeeded to day until the fourth night came, when the wind
died out and a calm spread over the waters.
Brandon, who waked at about two in the morning so as to let Cato sleep,
saw that the wind had ceased, and that another one of those treacherous
calms had come. He at once put out the oars, and, directing Cato to
sleep till he waked him, began to pull.
Beatrice remonstrated. “Do not,” said she, in an imploring tone. “You
have already done too much. Why should you kill yourself?”
“The wind has stopped,” answered Brandon. “The calm is treacherous, and
no time ought to be lost.”
“But wait till you have rested.”
“I have been resting for days.”
“Why do you not rest during the night and work in the daytime?”
“Because the daytime is so frightfully hot that work will be difficult.
Night is the time to work now.”
Brandon kept at his oars, and Beatrice saw that remonstrances were
useless. He rowed steadily until the break of day: then, as day was
dawning, he rested for a while, and looked earnestly toward the east.
A low, dark cloud lay along the eastern horizon, well-defined against
the sky, which now was growing brighter and brighter every hour. Was
it cloud, or was it something else? This was the question that rose in
Brandon’s mind.
The sky grew brighter, the scene far and wide opened up before the
gathering light until at last the sun began to appear. Then there was no
longer any doubt. It was LAND.
This he told to Beatrice; and the Hindu, waking at the same time, looked
earnestly toward that shore which they had been striving so long and
so earnestly to reach. It was land, but what land? No doubt it was some
part of the coast of Senegambia, but what one? Along that extensive
coast there were many places where landing might be certain death, or
something worse than death. Savage tribes might dwell there--either
those which were demoralized by dealings with slave-traders, or those
which were flourishing in native barbarism. Yet only one course was now
advisable; namely, to go on till they reached the shore.
It appeared to be about fifty miles away. So Brandon judged, and so it
proved. The land which they had seen was the summit of lofty hills which
were visible from a great distance. They rowed on all that day. The
water was calm and glassy. The sun poured down its most fervid beams,
the air was sultry and oppressive. Beatrice entreated Brandon now to
desist from rowing and wait till the cool of the night, but he was
afraid that a storm might come up suddenly.
“No,” he said, “our only hope now is to get near the land, so that if a
storm does come up we may have some place of shelter within reach.”
After a day of exhaustive labor the land was at last reached.
High hills, covered with palm-trees, rose before them. There was no
harbor within sight, no river outlet, but a long, uninterrupted extent
of high, wooded shores. Here in the evening they rested on their oars,
and looked earnestly at the shore.
Brandon conjectured that they were somewhat to the north of Sierra
Leone, and did not think that they could be to the south. At any rate,
a southeasterly course was the surest one for them, for they would reach
either Sierra Leone or Liberia. The distance which they might have to go
was, however, totally uncertain to him.
So they turned the boat’s head southeast, and moved in a line parallel
with the general line of the shore. That shore varied in its features
as they passed along: sometimes depressed into low, wide savannas: at
others, rising into a rolling country, with hills of moderate height,
behind which appeared the summits of lofty mountains, empurpled by
distance.
It was evening when they first saw the land, and then they went on
without pausing. It was arranged that they should row alternately, as
moderately as possible, so as to husband their strength. Cato rowed for
the first part of that night, then Brandon rowed till morning. On the
following day Cato took the oars again.
It was now just a week since the wreck, and for the last two days there
had not been a breath of wind in the air, nor the faintest ripple on
that burning water. To use even the slightest exertion in such torrid
heat was almost impossible. Even to sit still under that blighting sun,
with the reflected glare from the dead, dark sea around, was painful.
Beatrice redoubled her entreaties to Brandon that he should rest. She
wished to have her mantle spread over their heads as a kind of canopy,
or fix the sail in some way and float idly through the hottest part of
the day. But Brandon insisted that he felt no evil effects as yet; and
promised when he did feel such to do as she said.
At last they discovered that their water was almost out, and it was
necessary to get a fresh supply. It was the afternoon of the seventh
day. Brandon had been rowing ever since midday. Beatrice had wound her
mantle about his head in the style of an Eastern turban so as to protect
him from the sun’s rays. Looking out for some place along the shore
where they might obtain water, they saw an opening in the line of coast
where two hills arose to a height of several hundred feet. Toward this
Brandon rowed.
Stimulated by the prospect of setting foot on shore Brandon rowed
somewhat more vigorously than usual; and in about an hour the boat
entered a beautiful little cove shut in between two hills, which formed
the outlet of a river. Far up its winding course could be traced by the
trees along its borders. The hills rose on each side with a steep slope,
and were covered with palms. The front of the harbor was shut in from
the sea by a beautiful little wooded island. Here Brandon rowed the boat
into this cove; and its prow grated against the pebbles of the beach.
Beatrice had uttered many exclamations of delight at the beauty of this
scene. At length, surprised at Brandon’s silence, she cried,
“Why do you not say something? Surely this is a Paradise after the sea!”
She looked up with an enthusiastic smile.
He had risen to his feet. A strange, vacant expression was in his eyes.
He made a step forward as if to land. His unsteady foot trembled. He
reeled, and stretched out his arms like some one groping in the dark.
Beatrice shrieked and sprang forward. Too late: for the next moment he
fell headlong into the water.