WRECKED, RESCUED, AND RESUSCITATED--MRS. NIVEN RECEIVES A SURPRISE, ALSO
THE GIFT OF A CHILD.
On the same dark tempestuous night of which I write, a little ship was
wrecked on the east coast of England.
She had sailed from the antipodes, had weathered many a gale, had
crossed the great ocean in safety, had sighted the lights and the cliffs
of "home," and was dashed to pieces at last on the rocks within two
hours' sail of the port to which she was bound.
Hundreds of ships, great and small, were wrecked on the coasts of
Britain during that memorable gale. The little ship to which I refer
was one of the many in regard to which the newspapers said, "she was
dashed to pieces, and all hands perished."
But in this particular case all hands had not perished: two lives had
been spared, unknown to journalists and coastguardsmen.
It was the dead of night when the vessel struck. The spot was lonely,
at least a mile distant from human habitations. No anxious eyes on
shore saw her quiver as each successive billow lifted her up and hurled
her cruelly down; no sorrowing ear heard the shriek of despair that rose
above the yelling storm, when, in little more than ten minutes, the
vessel broke up, and left the crew and passengers to perish within sight
of their native land.
There was one man among the number who did not shriek, who did not
despair. He was not a hero of romance whose soul raised him above the
fear of sudden death--no, he was only a true-hearted British tar, whose
frame was very strong, whose nerves were tightly strung and used to
danger. He had made up his mind to save his life if he could; if he
should fail--what then? He never thought of "what then," because, in
regard to terrestrial matters, he had not been accustomed to cast his
thoughts so far in advance of present exigencies.
Just before the ship broke up, this man was standing on the lee bulwark,
holding by the shrouds of the mainmast, the lower part of which was
still standing. A lady and gentleman clung to each other, and to the
rigging close beside him. They were husband and wife. Both were
comparatively young, and up to that night had been full of hope and high
spirits. The husband with his right arm encircled his wife, and grasped
the rigging; with his left, he pressed their little girl to his breast
over which flowed the fair hair of the little one, drenched and
dishevelled.
The father was a brave man and strong, but his face was very pale, for
he felt that courage and strength could not avail to save both wife and
child in such a raging sea. An occasional upward glance of his eye
seemed to indicate that he sought comfort from God in his extremity.
"You'll never manage 'em both, sir; let me have the child," said the
strong seaman, suddenly grasping the little girl, and attempting to
unlock her arms which were tightly clasped round her father's neck.
The father hesitated, but a terrific wave was rushing towards the doomed
ship. Without even the comfort of a hurried kiss he resigned the child.
The young mother stretched out her arms towards her, uttering a piteous
cry. At that moment the ship rose on the billow's crest as if it were
no heavier than a flake of the driving foam--a crash followed--it was
gone, and the crew were left struggling in the sea.
The struggle was short with most of them. Previous exposure and anxiety
had already quite exhausted all but the strongest among the men, and
even these were unable to withstand the influence of the ice-cold water
more than a few seconds. Some were struck by portions of the wreck and
killed at once. Others sank without an effort to save themselves. A
few swam with unnatural vigour for a yard or two, and then went down
with a gurgling cry; but in a very few minutes the work of death was
complete. All were gone except the strong seaman, who clasped the
little child in his left arm and buffeted the billows with his right.
Once and again were they overwhelmed; but as often did they rise above
the foam to continue the battle. It was a terrible fight. A piece of
wreck struck the man on his back and well-nigh broke it; then a wave
arched high above them, fell with a crash, and drove them nearly to the
bottom, so that the child was rendered insensible, and the strong man
was nearly choked before he rose again to the surface to gasp the
precious air. At last a wave broke behind them, caught them on its
crest, and hurled them on a beach of sand. To cling to this while the
water retired was the fiercest part of the conflict--the turning-point
in the battle. The wave swept back and left the man on his hands and
knees. He rose and staggered forward a few paces ere the next wave
rushed upon him, compelling him to fall again on hands and knees and
drive his bleeding fingers deep down into the shingle. When the water
once more retired, he rose and stumbled on till he reached a point above
high-water mark, where he fell down in a state of utter exhaustion, but
still clasping the little one tightly to his breast.
For some time he lay there in a state of half-consciousness until his
strength began to revive; then he arose, thanking God in an audible
voice as he did so, and carried the child to a spot which was sheltered
in some degree by a mass of cliff from the blinding spray and furious
gale. Here he laid her with her face downwards on a grassy place, and
proceeded to warm his benumbed frame.
Vitality was strong in the sailor. It needed only a few seconds'
working of the human machine to call it into full play. He squeezed the
water out of his jacket and trousers, and then slapped his arms across
his chest with extreme violence, stamping his feet the while, so that he
was speedily in a sufficiently restored condition to devote his
attention with effect to the child, which still lay motionless on the
grass.
He wrung the water out of her clothes, and chafed her feet, hands, and
limbs, rapidly yet tenderly, but without success. His anxiety while
thus employed was very great; for he did not know the proper method to
adopt in the circumstances, and he felt that if the child did not revive
within a few minutes, all chance of her recovery would be gone. The
energy of his action and the anxiety of his mind had warmed his own
frame into a glow. It suddenly occurred to him that he might make use
of this superabundant heat. Opening the little frock in front, he
placed the child's breast against his own, and held it there, while with
his right hand he continued to chafe her limbs.
In a few minutes he felt a flutter of the heart, then a gentle sigh
escaped from the blue lips; the eyelids quivered, and finally the child
revived.
"D'ye feel gettin' better, Emmie?" said the man, in a low, soft voice.
A faint "yes" was all the reply.
The seaman continued his efforts to instil warmth into the little frame.
Presently the same question was repeated, and the child looking up,
said--
"Is that 'oo, Gaff?"
"Ay, dear, 'tis me."
"Where am I--where's mamma?" inquired Emmie, looking round in some
degree of alarm.
"Hush, dear; don't speak just now. I've just brought 'ee ashore fro'
the wreck, an' am goin' to tak 'ee home. Try to sleep, dear."
Gaff wrapped his jacket round the child, and hurried away in search of
the highroad. He knew the place well. He had been wrecked on a reef
within two miles of his native hamlet, and within three of the town of
Wreckumoft. He soon found the road, and broke from a fast walk into a
run. The child lay quietly in his arms, either being too much exhausted
to speak, or having fallen asleep.