LAST WORDS.
At last, but with greater precaution than before, the port cutter was
launched, and got safely down. Six men were in her, but as she rose and
fell with the fury of the waves, and every moment appeared likely to
swamp, all felt the propriety of the Captain’s words, that in such a
sea there was but little chance for the boat. The command of the boat
belonged to Mr. Greenhill, as second engineer, and without loss of time
he was anxious that all who had determined to make one more desperate
struggle for life should hasten from the poor doomed ship. She was fast
settling down to the water’s edge; there was a fearful swirl of water
around her stern, and the cutter was in danger of being sucked down
into the whirlpool of the wreck. It was a leap for life in the case of
each one who jumped from the vessel, for the cutter seemed no more than
a piece of cork upon the tumultuous billows, and no wonder that many
paused and drew back in horror from a leap to what seemed nothing short
of instant death.
It was while the ship was fast filling with water, and death every
moment drew nearer, that some last words were spoken that will never
be forgotten by the survivors, or by those to whom, in some instances,
they were sent. What were Mr. Draper’s last words? He had been
exhorting and praying, without intermission, for more than twelve
hours before the ship went down. Two of the survivors have a distinct
remembrance of him as they last saw him, about an hour before the
boat left. He was then in the saloon, and men and women were still
gathering around him, and saying, “O! Mr. Draper, pray for me!” The
last words these two survivors heard him utter were these: “Well, my
friends, our Captain tells us there is no hope, but the Great Captain
above tells us there is hope that we may all get safe to heaven.”
Another saw him a few minutes before the boat pushed off, and his
testimony is that Mr. Draper was then heard exclaiming, “Prepare to
meet your God.” The devoted minister was calm and self-possessed,
although the corpses of women and children were floating over the
deck. His wife was with him: hand in hand they would go down together
into the deep, and together enter into the Father’s rest, in a very
few moments now. Patience a little longer. Mrs. Draper was a sharer in
her husband’s faith, calmness, and heroism; a noble co-operator with
him in all sweet deeds of self-sacrifice. It moves one to tears to
hear of her thoughtful care for others in that last dread moment. A
short time before the boat had left the vessel she handed her rug to
some of the sailors to help to keep them warm. “But what will you do
without it?” “It will only be for a few minutes longer,” is said to
have been her reply. There was, in this last act of hers, the simple,
quiet expression of what her life had been for many years--a life of
inobtrusive effort for the good of others. In the hour of awful peril,
when it would have only been womanly and natural for her to have
claimed her husband’s care and solicitude, we do not hear of her, for
a single moment, interrupting him in his sacred task. She herself,
doubtless, did what she could to help him in the work of imparting
spiritual instruction to those who were every moment expecting death.
When Mr. Draper was last seen, and that was a few minutes before the
boat was cut away from the sinking ship, he was heard speaking with
deep emotion, but with the clear strong voice which naturally belonged
to the cheerful-hearted man--and that he was right through life--saying
these words; “Those of you who are not converted, now is the time;
not a moment to be lost, for in a few minutes we shall all be in the
presence of our Judge.” And again the word sounded, “Prepare to meet
your God.” These were the last words that he was heard to speak by any
who escaped, but doubtless, during the few minutes of life that yet
remained, he continued to comfort and exhort; and not, perhaps, until
the cold waters closed around him, did he give himself leisure to pray
for himself, perhaps saying, “Father, into thy hands I commend my
spirit.”
Peace be to his sweet and precious memory! Although no monument marks
the spot in the vast cemetery of the deep where his ashes repose, the
place of his sepulture is well known to Him by whose mysterious hand he
was buried, and in the appointed hour the sea shall give up its dead,
and he shall be found in his place at the end of the days. Death to
him had not come untimely. Thousands will bewail his loss, because it
is theirs, not his. For him to die was exceeding gain. He had less of
earth only to have more of heaven. Through the tempest and the flood
he found an earlier passage to immortality than his love of labour in
the Master’s vineyard allowed him to anticipate; but it is all well,
because ordained by Him whose way is in the sea, whose path is in the
great waters, and whose footsteps are not known.
There were other last words spoken while the little boat was being
held to the ship’s side with all the energy of despair. Mr. Munro,
a passenger, had made up his mind to try the faint chance of escape
which entering the cutter afforded. All felt that escape was next to
impossible, and Mr. Munro among the rest. Before leaving the vessel,
however, he went down to the cabin where were some friends of his
from Ballarat, Mr. and Mrs. Hickman and their young family. It was
a terrible task even to make the proposition that he had come to
make known: it was that there was room in the boat for one! It was
impossible that the poor children could escape; not one of them could
be expected to take the fearful leap required; nor could Mrs. Hickman;
but her husband,--he could escape, perhaps, if he would, and if the
boat did live out the fearful sea, he might be saved. Mr. Munro urged
his friend to avail himself of the chance.
But no! Mr. Hickman had no need to look at his wife and four little
ones, around whom the water was rapidly rising higher and higher, ere
he gave the answer. The water was then a considerable depth in the
saloon on the lee side, as the fond husband and tender father replied
to his friend’s entreaty thus:--“No! I promised my wife and children
to stay by them, and I will do so!” Brave determination, one never to
be regretted by him who made it, never to be forgotten while tales of
heroism have any power left in them to move human hearts to enthusiasm
and tears. His choice, though a melancholy, was the right one, and his
friend acted kindly in not further attempting to divert him from it.
“Help me,” said Mr. Hickman, “to move the children to the other side,
out of the water.”
Mr. Munro performed this last act of kindness for his friends: they
then shook hands. The last words of that fond father were, “Good bye,
Jack!”
His friend then left him for ever. But will he ever lose,--alas! alas!
will any one who reads the story ever lose sight of the vision of
that loving father and mother, with their four children, standing in a
row to the windward side of the saloon, and thus momentarily expecting
death!
Peace, poor weeping mother and devoted father! Peace, ye dear helpless
children! There is One on high whose voice of love is mightier than the
voice of many waters, and we humbly hope that those parents, with many
others in a similar position of peril, passed through the sharpness of
death into His presence, who would smile upon them a welcome, the first
glance of which would for ever banish the remembrance of pain, as they
cried, “Behold us, and the children thou hast given us!”
But there were more last words yet. Upon seeing Mr. Munro return alone,
the men in the boat shouted to him, “There is still room: fetch a
lady!” Hearing this, he sprang across a portion of the deck in quest of
a lady whom he knew; but not seeing her, and knowing that the moments
were flying fast, he said to a young girl, “Will you go?” She appeared
willing to do so, and Mr. Munro immediately caught her in his arms,
and hurried with her to the bulwarks; but when she looked over and saw
the distance she had to leap, she said, in an agony of despair, “Oh, I
cannot do that!”
The boat seemed every moment as if it would go down amid the terrific
roll of the sea, and she drew back in affright from the awful gulf that
appeared yawning to receive her. Mr. Munro was obliged to drop his
hapless burden, and to leave the young creature on the deck, while he
himself leaped from the bulwarks into the rolling boat below.
There was one young man on board, in whose spiritual welfare a
clergyman in the suburbs of London had taken deep interest before he
embarked on his fatal voyage. The young man had remained undecided for
Christ, notwithstanding all entreaties and appeals; but ere he went
on board the _London_ his friend the clergyman had implored him to
offer up daily a prayer which he had given him. Neither, perhaps, could
have possibly dreamed of the circumstances of peril under which that
prayer would come to be used. There came now some last words from that
young man. Amid the raging of the storm, he shouted out to one who was
in the boat--“If ever you get safe to land, tell Mr. ---- (mentioning
the clergyman’s name) that the prayer he gave me I have used every day
since; and that now I can say of Christ, ‘My Beloved is mine, and I am
His.’” These were _his_ last words; but how much happier--brief though
they were--have they made many a Christian heart, telling, as we humbly
hope they do, that the speaker had escaped the second death, and that
the haven of eternal rest was in sight.
There was a young girl on board whose last words were not spoken, but
written. Was she the one of whom we read as standing bareheaded in
the wild storm, with holy resignation depicted in every feature? She
hurriedly wrote a few words on a slip of paper, and said to one who was
about to leap into the boat, “Give this to my mother.” Her last wish
was sacredly obeyed, and there came to a mourning mother this serene
message from one who had gone down in a stormy sea--“Dear mother, you
must not grieve for me: I am going to Jesus.”
Miss Brooker, of Pimlico, spoke her last words, and they were those
of quiet resignation to the will of God. We hear of her, during those
days and nights of fearful suspense, doing what she could to soothe
a fellow-passenger whose mind at times seemed on the very verge of
delirium, the absence of which among the passengers generally, while
it is matter of devoutest gratitude, is also matter of greatest
wonder,--unless explained by the presence of Him who walketh upon
the wings of the wind, and who, in answer to prayer, was shedding
abroad in many hearts a tranquillity so deep and hallowed as to be
beyond the reach of the wildest tempest. As the end drew rapidly
near, Miss Brooker clasped her hands, and was heard to say, as if to
herself,--but, oh! there was One by that heard all that was said during
that awful last hour,--“Well, I have done all that I could; I can do no
more!”
Nothing now, except trust, and hope for the life beyond this troubled
one. Nothing now, but to make the most of those exhortations which,
with trumpet-clearness, rise every now and then above the howling of
the gale--“There is hope that we may ALL get safe to heaven. Those of
you who are not converted, now is the time: not a moment to be lost,
for in a few minutes we shall all be in the presence of our Judge.”
There were more last words still, and they were those of Mr. G. V.
Brooke. Only a few days before,--on the 23rd of December,--he had
sustained the character of Richard the Third. The walls were not
placarded with the announcement, “The last appearance of Mr. G. V.
Brooke upon any stage,” but they might have been so; and how would the
hundreds who listened to his farewell address that night have felt,
could they have caught the double meaning which the opening sentences
of that address contained, at least as we read it now?
The actor was in painful ill-health, and his subsequent heroism on
board the foundering _London_ derives additional interest from the
fact. His last words at Belfast were these:--“_Ladies and Gentlemen,
with this night finishes my professional career in Belfast for a long,
very long time to come._ I fervently trust, by the favour of the One
Providence, that I may at some distant time be enabled to return
to a town which I, in a measure, look on as my home, where I may
professionally or unprofessionally, mingle with my friends in Belfast
again. I now take an affectionate farewell of you all, wishing from my
heart continued prosperity to this magnificent city.”
These were his last words on any stage. A few days later, and he was
bearing his part in no mimic tragedy,--in a conflict which, in its
way, was far more appalling than the battle of Bosworth Field in which
Richard fell. As we watch the closing scene of the poor actor’s life,
one cannot have a heart and remain unmoved or silent in the presence of
the man who, in weak health and with painful hoarseness, did the work
of many men combined during those despairing days. Did the hundreds who
listened to him in Belfast catch any prophetic hint in the mimic agony
with which he delivered the death speech of Richard?
“I have set my life upon a cast,
And I will stand the hazard of the die!”
The time had come, when, in reality, there was no earthly means of
escape, and, seeing that all his exertions were useless, he rested
upon one of the half-doors of the companion, and, bareheaded to the
storm, gave himself up to reflection. His last words to man were to the
steward, “If you succeed in saving yourself, give my farewell to the
people of Melbourne;” but who shall say what words were addressed to
Him who was alone able to deliver, during those four hours in which he
was observed to continue in a musing attitude.
Strangely enough, there were last words spoken, which, upon being
repeated by the survivor to whom they were addressed, will doubtless
carry a value which, had the speaker known, would much have soothed
him during his closing hours of life. A son was on board the _London_,
who, with death staring him in the face, thought tenderly of the old
man his father, whose declining years would have been rendered all the
happier for possessing money that must now, as the speaker thought,
sink with him, and be lost. Among the second cabin passengers were two,
Mr. Munro and Mr. Eastwood, who had been acquainted previous to the
voyage. As the little boat was being filled with all it could hold,
Eastwood, addressing his fellow-passenger, said, “Well, Jack, I think
we are going to go.” “I think we are, Eastwood.” “Well, we cannot help
it,” the other went on. “There’s only one thing I regret about it: of
a draft for 500_l._ on the Bank of Victoria, Ballarat, I only received
20_l._, which I gave to the Captain, in the office of Money Wigram and
Co. I should have liked my poor father to have got the balance.” These
were the last words of a son, who soon after perished in the waves,
but his friend escaped, remembering exactly the words which filial
tenderness had inspired.
There were some last words spoken which we cannot record, words of
the sufferers to each other, and words addressed to Him whose ear is
never heavy to the cry of distress. Husbands and wives, parents and
children, friends and acquaintances,--what words of farewell passed
amongst these! What last words of prayer mingled even with the sighs of
death! With what tender compassion and sympathy have those been thought
of whose _heroic actions_ on board the doomed ship were the last words
that will be sacredly cherished in the loving memory of those who knew
them. The picture of that brave young officer, Mr. Angell, standing to
his post to the last at the donkey-engine, which was used in working
the pumps, calmly keeping there while the billows thundered their
spray around him, and going down into the dark whirling water with his
hands still on the engine;--this is a picture which no artist, however
gifted, can paint strong and beautiful enough for us. It was his last
sermon--and how eloquent was it--to all the young officers of our Navy
upon a sense of duty, making him who possesses it superior to all
thoughts of danger.
There was something, too, inexpressibly touching in the incident of
that aged couple who had three children with them, who had been wrecked
already twice in their attempting to get to Melbourne, now being on
board the sinking ship, and being swept overboard before the final
hour came. Among the passengers, also, we read of two stout old people
who had become favourites on board, and who had been sent for by an
only son. The son will expect them at Melbourne: alas! how many will
be expected there who will never arrive thither. One’s heart quivers
in anticipation of the sorrow into which multitudes will be plunged.
When the poor aged couple knew that there was no chance of escape, they
simply took each other by the hand, and went down into the cabin to die
together.
But come there no last words from the gallant Captain, who, since
Sunday, has had no sleep, and who has not even changed his clothes?
Where is he while farewells are being exchanged, while the little boat
is being filled with all it can hold, and while his beautiful vessel,
which once seemed to walk the waters like a thing of life, is so fast
filling, that her bulwarks nearly touch the water?
We catch glimpses of him several times while the boat is being lowered,
and while it is being filled with sixteen of the crew and three
passengers, and at all times we see him at the post of duty, and doing
his best. About an hour, perhaps, before the getting away of the boat
from the ship, Mr. Jones, the chief engineer, was between decks near
the engine-room. The ship was then labouring in the trough of the sea,
and was in a most disabled condition. He ran up between decks, and met
Captain Martin for the last time, who was going in the direction of the
saloon.
“Well, Mr. Jones, how do you feel?” was his question.
“Not well, Sir,” was the reply: “I took it that he referred to my
condition of mind and not to the accident I had met with. I saw no
more of him after that. I saw nothing but the ship going down after
that. When I left the ship the passengers had given up all hope, but
there was a remarkable composure amongst them, and no loud sounds to be
heard. I heard voices engaged in preaching and praying.”
Mr. Jones was the last man who leaped into the boat: he leaped and got
into her as she rose with the sea, and the sea rose so high that he had
scarcely any distance to jump from the gunwale. Before, however, the
first engineer leaped into the boat it had already been gradually and
carefully filled, as we have seen, with members of the crew and with
three passengers. Mr. Greenhill, the second engineer, was supposed,
from his position, to be officer of the cutter, and he took command of
her. “Get into the boat,” the Captain had said among his last words;
“there is not much chance for the boat; there is none for the ship.
Your duty is done; mine is to remain here. Get in and take command of
the few it will hold.” His command had been obeyed, and now the only
chance for the nineteen in the boat was to get as quickly away from the
ship as possible, for the ship was being washed over to the boat, and
she was in great danger of being sucked down, as we have said, with the
sinking vessel. Before pushing off, the men in the boat shouted to the
Captain to join them.
“No,” he replied: “I will go down with the passengers. Your course is
E.N.E. to Brest, and”--throwing them a compass--“I wish you God speed,
and safe to land.”
These were the last words the survivors heard fall from the lips of
John Bohun Martin; but at that moment there came a fearful last word
from the deck of the sinking vessel. A lady, with horror on every
feature, shrieked out most piteously, “A thousand guineas if you will
take me in.”
But if she had offered the whole world there could have been no
response to her cry. The boat, which had been hastily cut away, was
already some yards distant, and to return would have been certain
death to all, who, as it was, had not in their own minds the slightest
hope of escaping. About five minutes afterwards, and when they had got
eighty or ninety yards, they looked towards the ship, and saw that
she was going down stern foremost. The wind at this time was raging
so violently that the men in the boat could not hear each other when
eagerly shouting. It was with a kind of dumb wonderment that they saw
what transpired. As the ship sunk it was seen that all on deck were
driven forward, not by water, but by a tremendous and overpowering rush
of air from below, which, as it escaped through the deck as well as the
hatches, impelled all on deck forward with violence, and their dreadful
struggle must have been, therefore, soon over!
In a single moment the men in the boat seemed to take in at a glance
all that transpired on board. They saw the stem of the vessel rise so
high, that her keel was completely out of water as far as the foremast.
The boatswain, the butcher, the baker, and the purser’s mate, it is
said, had resolved to attempt their escape in the remaining boat
over the cuddy, which was already provisioned and launched; but no
sooner were these men ready to put off, than the sinking vessel sank
beneath them, making, in her descent, a very whirlpool of angry and
confounding waters, and the escaping ones in the cutter saw their
comrades swallowed up quickly and disappear with the lost ship. They
saw young Angell going down while standing at his old post of duty: for
a moment they saw two men with life-belts struggling amid mountains of
water: they rose with the waves, and then descended into the deep, deep
grave which the sea formed for them, and then not a trace of men or of
ship was to be seen! The gale thundered so furiously, that if there
was a cry from the sinking ship, it was not heard. Once more to the
bottom of the Bay of Biscay had gone a noble ship and valuable cargo;
but O! saddest of all, more than two hundred forms, that a few days
before had been seen sitting in mirth and friendliness around many an
English fireside, had gone down too. And once more the billows rolled
on, curling their monstrous heads, as if in contempt of the beings who
would seek to master them when once they rose in their terrible might
and majesty.
[Illustration]