We had every one of us soon need of all the courage and resignation we
possessed. The wind, which had been steady all the day, began towards
the afternoon to chop about. First it flew round to the north-east, and
blew pretty hard, and we none of us liked the look of the weather.
Still we hoped that it might not grow worse. We took a reef in the
mainsail, and brought the boat close up to the wind.
Before long, however, it came on to blow still harder, and the sea got
up very much, and the spray came flying over us, and now and then a sea
broke on board, and we had to keep a couple of hands baling to prevent
the boat from filling. Night was coming on: we close-reefed the
mainsail, and took a reef in the foresail, and continued our course
close-hauled. By degrees the wind shifted round to the
north-north-east, and though close-hauled as we lay, we were fully four
points off our course, and if it held on that way, it seemed a chance
even if we should fetch the coast of Cornwall. Night was coming on, but
there was no improvement in the weather.
Having taken a cheerless supper, for our spirits had sunk very low, we
sat still in our places without speaking. The rain came down on us and
wetted us through and chilled us to the bones, and the weather grew
thicker and thicker. Sometimes we could scarcely see a yard ahead, and
we ran a great risk of being run down by a vessel, or of running into
one. Still we could do nothing further to help ourselves.
Away we flew into the pitchy darkness, the seas hissing and roaring
around us, the boat tumbling and tossing about, now in the trough of a
sea, now on the summit, surrounded by dense masses of foam, which seemed
at times completely to wrap us up--the wind howling, and the rain coming
down in torrents, sufficient of itself to swamp the boat.
Either La Motte or Andrews or I sat at the helm, and very nice steering
it required to keep the boat from swamping. We lighted the binnacle
lamp to enable us to keep as near as we could to our proper course. We
had also our lantern ready to show as a signal in case we were able to
make out any vessel approaching us.
I had been in many perils, as I have described, but none of them seemed
greater than those I went through on that night. Often I thought that
the boat could not possibly swim another minute. Often she was almost
gunwale under before we could luff up in time to ease her. Now a huge
black sea came roaring up, which I thought must come down and swamp us;
but it broke just before it reached the boat and merely sent the foam
flying over our heads. Thus hour after hour passed slowly away. Some
of the men began to grumble, and to blame themselves for their folly in
leaving the privateer.
Andrews declared that it would have been better if we had cut out a
vessel, as at all events we should have been on board a craft fit to
combat the gale. La Motte, with more justice, remarked, that it was a
pity they had not consented to follow his suggestion, and to run for
Guernsey while we could have done so.
"But why not run there now?" asked some one.
"Because the whole island is surrounded by rocks, and it would be next
to a miracle if we escaped running on them," he answered. "Our only
course now is to stand on. Perhaps the wind will once more shift, and
we may be able, after all, to keep our course for England."
Never have I felt the hours draw on so slowly as they did during that
dreadful night. Still no new hour brought any change for the better. I
thought the morning never would come. As for sleep, that was out of the
question, nor did any of us feel an inclination for food. I believe
that not one of the party ever expected to see the sun rise again to
cheer our hearts.
Yet, in spite of our apprehensions, the little boat behaved beautifully.
Each sea, as it came roaring up, she surmounted like a wild fowl, and
though down she plunged into the trough, it was but to rise again in
triumph to the summit.
At length the rain ceased, but it blew as hard as ever. I was looking
eastward, when a pale, thin line appeared in the sky, just above the
horizon. It grew broader and broader, and brighter and brighter, and we
know it was dawn. Those who had thought that they should never again
see the sun rise, now felt that they ought not to have desponded.
First, more cold, silvery lines appeared in the sky, and then yellow
lines, which warmed into orange, and pink, and red; and a small portion
of the sun himself broke forth between the clouds, and sent a bright
beam of glittering gold across the dancing waves, but quickly again he
was hidden above the leaden canopy which hung over us.
Few of us had ever passed a more trying night, and we all felt grateful
for the mercy which had been shown us, and, as if by common agreement,
we all with one accord offered up our thanks to Heaven, and prayed that
we might yet further be preserved through the dangers which surrounded
us. Wild and careless as sailors too often are, there are times when
they exhibit a true and unaffected piety, and when they are not ashamed
of exhibiting their feelings to their fellow-men. This was one of those
occasions.
We were all aware that we had passed through a night of great peril, and
we knew that we had, in all probability, many more dangers to go
through, in which all our knowledge, and strength, and bravery could
avail us nothing. Our weakness and helplessness was thus forcibly
brought home to us--our own utter insufficiency to help ourselves. It
is this feeling, which every seaman must at times have to experience,
which has so beneficial an effect on him in turning his heart to God, in
making him, in spite of himself, acknowledge the superintending care of
the Creator.
As daylight came on, we looked round the horizon, more especially to the
southward, but not a sail was in sight. We felt sure that, at all
events, we were not pursued. Had the wind continued from the southward,
we might have fallen in with some homeward-bound ship, but it was not
likely that we should now meet with one. Having assured ourselves that
no change was likely to take place immediately in our prospects, we
served out our frugal breakfast.
La Motte and I agreed that it would be wiser at once to put ourselves on
short allowance, for we could not tell how long we might be kept out.
To this all the rest cheerfully assented. I had for some time been
watching the sky to the eastward. When the sun rose, the wind went
down, but I did not like a wide break in the clouds which suddenly
appeared. The rent I had observed grew larger and larger, till the
whole eastern sky was bright and clear. I felt too sure that it
betokened an easterly gale. I pointed out what I had observed to La
Motte. He was of my opinion.
We were not mistaken. Down it came before long, strong and bitterly
cold, tearing up the surface of the sea, and sending the foam flying
like vast snowdrifts before it. We were almost frozen with the cold and
wet. We wrapped ourselves up as best we could in our blankets and
greatcoats, but even with this aid we were well-nigh perished. We had
no means of lighting a fire and warming up anything by which we might
restore circulation. The gale increased. Away the boat flew before it,
out to sea, away from land, away from all help.
Bitter was our disappointment. How could we hope to get back? how
obtain relief? Our condition was bad indeed. Some of the men had been
expressing a wish to endeavour to reach Guernsey. They now, with
reproaches on themselves, acknowledged their folly in not having, when
at the proper time, accepted La Motte's offer to take them there.
Fiercer and fiercer blew the easterly gale, every cloud disappeared, but
yet the sky was not bright, nor did the rays of the sun give any warmth.
A gauze-like veil overspread the sky, while we were surrounded by a
thin mist of spray, which together completely prevented the sun's beams
from reaching us.
Our utmost exertions were required to keep the boat before the sea, and
to bale out the water which continually washed into her. Those of us
who were not thus actively employed sat with our greatcoats and blankets
huddled up round us, the pictures of misery. Want of sleep and warm
food made us feel the cold still more severely, and, in spite of our
wraps, we were chilled to the very bones. Our teeth chattered and our
limbs shook as if we had been afflicted with the ague. We could no
longer keep up our spirits by conversation. What possible grounds had
we for hope. All we could expect was to run on till the boat was
swamped, or till one after the other of us dropped off and died from
cold, starvation, and exhaustion.
La Motte struggled on bravely to prevent himself from giving in, while
at the same time he exerted himself to keep up the spirits of the rest.
His example inspired me to arouse myself, and I endeavoured to aid him
in encouraging our companions.
"Hurrah, my lads!" he suddenly shouted. "As long as there's life
there's hope--remember that. Death's door is not open yet. Don't be
knocking to get in before you are invited. What are we afraid of? We
have a tight boat under us, and provisions enough to last us for several
days to come. We had got a long way to the nor'ard before this easterly
gale sprung up, and we can't be so very far off the Land's End or the
Scilly Islands. This sort of gale never lasts long. It will blow
itself out in a day or two, and then we may haul up and stand in for the
land. Many men have been in a far worse state than that we are in, and
have got well out of it. Why should we fancy that we are going to be
lost? Cheer up, I say. Can any of you sing? Andrews, you can. Come,
out with a song, lad. You shake your head. Come, I'll help you." And,
with a voice which sounded full and clear amid the hissing roar of the
gale, La Motte struck up a cheering, merry song, well calculated to
arouse even the most apathetic from the lethargy into which they were
sinking.
Andrews, inspired by the strains, followed his example, as did several
other of the men, and away we flew over the waves, singing cheerfully,
with, as it were, the jaws of death gaping wide on either side to catch
us.
Now La Motte sang a more solemn strain; it was a psalm. All of us
joined heartily in it. We prayed that God would protect us amid the
dangers which surrounded us, and then we expressed our full confidence
in His mercy and goodness. That did us more good than the lighter
songs. It was certainly more in accordance with our feelings; yet,
perhaps, La Motte took the best means for arousing the people from the
lethargy which was overpowering them.
It has often struck me that people, when they are singing psalms, are
too apt to forget that they are praying, or praising God, or returning
thanks for mercies received. They seem to forget the meaning of the
words, and to think only of the music. They do not sing sufficiently
with their hearts. That was not the case with us in that storm-driven
boat. The music was, I daresay, very imperfect, but never did men enter
more heartily into the spirit of the psalm than did we on that occasion.
Andrews and another man belonged to Cornwall, and had in their youth
been accustomed to sing psalms in the congregations of their people, as
had two or three of the other men, though for many a long year of their
sea life the custom had been sadly neglected. Now, when they felt
conscious that they might never have an opportunity of again singing
while alive, they joined with their whole heart and soul in the work.
Thus the day passed away.
The night was approaching. We had reason to dread it as much as we had
the previous one, except that the sky being clear, there was more light
to enable us to avoid any danger in our course. We took a frugal supper
and a cup of cold water, all we dared consume of our scanty stores.
Drowsiness now began to overcome most of us. I felt myself capable of
keeping awake better than any of the rest, for I saw that even La Motte
was giving way. I therefore urged him to let me take the helm while he
lay down. To this he consented. Andrews and I wrapped him up in a
blanket, and in an instant he was fast asleep showing how much
self-command he must have exercised to keep awake at his post. In the
meantime, while two men continued baling and one kept a look-out ahead,
the rest stretched their limbs as well as they could along the thwarts
of the boat and went to sleep. My fear was that they might not be able
again to arouse themselves. Strange, indeed, were my feelings as I sat
in the stern of the boat while she flew hissing along over the foaming
waves and plunging into the dark unknown. I looked up into the clear
sky, glittering with innumerable stars, and my mind wandered from the
present world to the wonders of eternity, which the scene I gazed on
seemed to picture forth. I forcibly felt the insufficiency of this
world to satisfy to the full the aspirations of man's soul; and the
reality of the life to come, and all that that life will have to show,
impressed itself more vividly on my mind than it had ever before done.
The glories of the eternal future put to flight all fears for the
present perishable body.
Still, I did not neglect my duty to my companions. I did my best to
keep my mates of the watch awake. I watched the seas as they came
rolling up on either side, so that I might keep the boat steadily before
the wind. Thus the first watch passed by. I had not the heart to call
La Motte. I told the other three men to arouse up their companions, and
I resolved to keep awake for a couple of hours more. An hour after this
it might have been, as I turned my head over my right shoulder, I caught
sight of a huge towering mass close aboard, as it seemed.
It was a large ship. On she came. I felt sure that our last moments
had arrived. There was no use shouting. The other men looked up.
Terror kept them dumb. Had we indeed strained our voices till they
cracked, no one would have heard us on board the ship. The dark pyramid
of canvas seemed to reach up to the very clouds as she flew along,
careering before the gale.
In another moment I thought we should have been run down, and struggling
under her vast keel, but my eye had deceived me. She dashed on; but
instead of her stem striking us, her broadside appeared on our starboard
hand. She was a line-of-battle ship of the largest class. Then,
indeed, we found our voices and shouted, and perhaps the sentries or
look-outs might have heard us; but away she rushed, like some monstrous
phantom of a dream, and, mighty as she was, she quickly disappeared in
the darkness ahead. Our companions, who had been awoke by our shouting,
lifted up their heads, but as the ship passed by, lay them down again,
probably under the belief that what they had seen was merely the effect
of their imagination.
La Motte remained awake. "What is the hour?" he asked. I told him. He
therefore insisted on my taking his place, though I saw that he had some
difficulty in unbending his limbs from the position they had assumed
while he was sleeping. In an instant I was asleep. It was daylight
when I was once more aroused to take the helm. I found that there was a
sail in sight, just rising above the horizon in the north-east, but we
could not tell in what direction she was standing.
The morning passed as had the former one. Our attention was kept awake
by watching the progress of the strange sail. Her topsails rose above
the horizon, then her courses appeared, and it became very clear that
she was sailing on a parallel course with us. At the distance we were
from her, we could not have been distinguished from the white crest of a
rising wave, so that we knew it was useless to hope for any assistance
from her. Trying, indeed, it was to watch her gliding by us.
Sometimes, when she rose on the top of a sea, and rolled from side to
side as she ran before the wind, we could see her copper glancing
brightly in the sunbeams, and could almost count her ports; yet we
ourselves, we knew, could scarcely have been seen, even had any on board
been looking out for us. On she went, her crew rejoicing in the fair
breeze which was carrying them on to their destined port, while we were
grieving at being driven away from ours.
"`It's an ill wind that blows no one good,' remember that, mates," said
La Motte. "We may get the fair breeze before long."
Scarcely had the stranger disappeared in the western horizon when
another sail rose in the east out of the water. We watched her even
with greater eagerness than before. We fancied that we could not again
be doomed to disappointment.
"She is more, I think, to the southward than the other ship," said
Andrews. "She'll pass not far to the nor'ard of us, and can't help
seeing us."
I watched the new-comer attentively, but could not agree with Andrews.
She appeared to me to be following exactly in the track of the former
vessel. I earnestly hoped that I might be wrong in my opinion. The
ship came on, rapidly overtaking us. We ought to have found cause for
satisfaction when we thus had evidence that we could not be driving fast
to the eastward, and that when we came to haul up we should still find
ourselves at no great distance from the Cornish coast.
We waited, anxiously watching the ship; but all differences of opinion
were soon settled when she appeared abeam, fully as far off as the
former one. As our hopes had risen to a high pitch, so they now fell
proportionately low. I began to fear that despondency would seize on
all hands. The ship came up on our quarter; then she got abeam of us.
We could see her as clearly as we had seen the former one. Some of our
people shouted and waved their hats and caps. No answering signal was
made. Again they shouted and shrieked out till they were hoarse. Their
cries and their signals were equally vain. Those on board could
probably scarcely have seen the boat even had they been looking for her,
and of course our shouts would not have reached one-tenth part of the
distance. The ship glided quickly on. She passed us altogether, and,
like her predecessor, disappeared in the western horizon. As she was
leaving us, some of the men lost all command of their feelings and broke
forth into imprecations loud and deep, and abused the ship and all on
board her, as if they were to blame for not having seen us. I saw that
in their present state of mind there would be no use finding fault with
them, so I tried to cheer them up.
"Never mind, mates," said I. "We should not have been much better off
if we had got on board those ships. They are outward-bound, and must
have carried us wherever they are going, and perhaps we might have had
to go half-way round the world before we could get home again. Let us
wait till we sight a ship bound up Channel, and then if we miss her we
may have reason to complain."
The remarks I made seemed to have some effect, for I heard no more
complaints for some time. The day wore on and no other vessel passed
us. A change in the weather began to take place as the evening drew on.
The wind lessened considerably during the afternoon, and as night
approached it dropped into a perfect calm. Still there was a good deal
of sea, and we had more difficulty than ever in keeping the boat from
being swamped. We got the oars out, but we found that we had lost so
much strength that we could scarcely use them. However, we managed to
pull the boat's head round, and once more endeavoured to keep a course
towards the north-east.
Yet exert ourselves as we might, we found that we could only just keep
the boat's head to the sea, and that we were utterly unable to move her
through the water. Gradually the sea went down, and at last most of the
men declared that they neither would nor could pull any longer, and that
we should gain nothing by it, as very likely the wind would shift again
to its old quarter, and drive us back once more all the distance we had
thus made good.
La Motte and I endeavoured to cheer them up, but all our attempts were
vain. We saw ourselves that they were too likely to be right, and
indeed we could not help sharing in their despondency. I scarcely know
how the night passed. It did pass, however, and so did another day. It
was a perfect calm; we did not move. All our oars were laid in, and the
men threw themselves along the thwarts, and declared that they should
sleep there till some vessel should pass near enough to take us on
board.
Our stock of food had diminished very much, and I feared, on examining
it, that we should scarcely have enough to carry us to the English
coast, even should a breeze spring up from the southward to help us
along. No one now took much count of time. I fell asleep during the
night, and so did La Motte, and I believe that no look-out was kept. We
might have been run over without our making an attempt to save our
lives.
Another day broke at last. There was a light wind, but it was from the
south-east. We hoisted our sail, though we had scarcely sufficient
strength to get it up. However, we made but little progress. I had
fallen asleep, when I was aroused by the voices of my companions
shouting as loudly as their strength would allow. The tones sounded
strangely hollow and weak. I was scarcely aware that my own voice was
much like theirs.
I looked up to see what had produced these shouts. A large ship was
bearing down towards us from the eastward. We had our whole sail set,
and as the sun shone on it, I hoped that we might now possibly be seen.
I was not so sanguine as some of the men had suddenly become on seeing
the ship. I knew that too often a very slack look-out is kept on board
many ships, and even then only just ahead to see that no vessel is in
the way or likely to get there. The topsails and more than half the
courses of the stranger had already appeared above the horizon. We rose
them rapidly. By the time that we could see her hull, I judged from the
cut of her sails that she was certainly not an English ship.
"She is very like a French vessel," observed La Motte after watching her
earnestly for some time. "Still, she does not look like a ship of war,
that is one comfort." It was very certain, at all events, that she was
standing directly for us, and that there was no chance of our missing
her.
"Now, mates, just make up your minds what we shall do," said La Motte;
"shall we go on board her whatever she is, or wherever she is going, or
shall we remain in the boat and still endeavour to make the English
coast?"
"Let us get clear of the boat!" exclaimed all the men; "we may be
knocking about here for some days to come, till we are all starved."
"But we may obtain provisions from the ship sufficient to last us for a
week, or more, perhaps," observed La Motte; "she is evidently
outward-bound, and many a long day may pass before we get back to
England."
"Better that than being swamped or dying by inches," was the answer.
Finally, we discovered that all the men, including Andrews, had made up
their minds to be quit of the boat at all events. La Motte told me that
he knew how anxious I was to return home, and that he was ready, if I
wished it, to remain with me in the boat, and to endeavour to make the
shore.
Sincerely I thanked him for this mark of his friendship and kindness, I
debated in my mind whether I ought to accept his offer. In my anxiety
to reach home, I would have risked everything; still I thought that I
ought not to expose the life of another person for my sake. How I might
have decided, I scarcely know. I suspect that I should have accepted
his offer, but the matter was pretty well settled for us.
Clouds had been gathering for some time in the sky, and while we were
speaking, thin flakes of snow began to fall, and continued increasing in
density, so that we could scarcely see the approaching ship. We could
not ascertain whether we had been seen by those on board before the
snow-storm came on, and, if not, there was too great a probability that
she would pass us. At all events, she was now completely hidden from
our view.
We calculated that if she kept on the exact course she was on when last
seen, we should be rather to the southward of her. We therefore got out
our oars, and endeavoured to pull up to her. Every one, however, was so
weak, that it was with difficulty we could urge the boat through the
water. Our last morsel of food had been consumed that morning; indeed,
for the two previous days we had taken barely enough to support life.
We looked about--we could not see the ship--we shouted at the top of our
voices--all was silent--we pulled on--again we shouted, or rather
shrieked out. A hail came from the eastward. It sounded loud and clear
compared to the hollow tones of our voices. Presently the dark hull and
wide-spreading sails of a ship broke on our sight through the veil of
falling snow, and directly afterwards we dropped alongside her.
She hailed us in German. I understood a little of the language, but La
Motte spoke it perfectly. Great indeed was our satisfaction to find
from this that she belonged to a friendly power. She appeared to have a
great number of passengers on board, for they crowded the sides and
gangway to look at us, and very miserable objects, I daresay, we
appeared.
Thinking probably that we were afraid of them, they told us that the
ship was the _Nieuwland_, belonging to Bremen, bound for Baltimore, in
the United States, and that the people we saw were Hanoverian emigrants.
When we told them in return that we were Englishmen escaping from a
French privateer which had captured us, they warmly pressed us to come
on board. When, however, we tried to get up to climb up the sides, we
found that we could scarcely stand on our legs, much less help ourselves
on deck. Three or four of our companions were so weak and ill that they
could not rise even from the bottom of the boat, and it was sad to see
them, as they lay on their backs, stretching out their hands for help to
those who were looking down on them over the ship's side.
Certainly we all must have presented a perfect picture of woe and
misery--half-frozen and famished--pale, haggard, shivering, with our
beards unshaven, and our hair hanging lank and wet over our faces, our
lips blue, our eyes bloodshot, our clothes dripping with moisture. Our
condition was bad enough to excite the compassion of any one.
The master and seamen of the ship and the emigrants evidently felt for
us, by the exclamations we heard them utter. They quickly fitted
slings, which were lowered to hoist us up, and the seamen came into the
boat to help us. One after the other we were conveyed on board, and at
once carried below. Not one of us could have stood, had it been to save
our lives.
I felt grateful for the looks of pity which were cast on us as we were
lifted along the deck, while many of the emigrants volunteered to give
up their berths. I remember how delightful I felt it to find myself
stripped of my damp clothing, lying between dry blankets, with a bottle
of hot water at my feet and another on my chest, while kind-hearted
people were rubbing my limbs to restore circulation. It was some time,
however, before anything like the proper amount of heat came back to my
chilled frame. Then some warm drink was given me, and I fell into a
deep slumber.
I believe that I slept nearly twenty-four hours on a stretch without
once waking. At last, when I opened my eyes, daylight was streaming
down on me through the open hatchway. The doctor came and felt my
pulse. He spoke a little English, and told me to keep up my spirits,
and that I should do very well. Then some broth was brought me by one
of the emigrants, and after I had taken it I felt very much better. I
inquired after my companions.
"They are not all in as good case as you are," said the doctor. "Two
poor fellows have died, and a third, I fear, will not be long with us."
"Which of them have gone?" I asked. "I trust the officer, La Motte, is
doing well."
"He is weak, and suffers much, but still I have hopes that he may
recover," was the answer.
I was very sad on hearing this, yet I felt what cause I had to be
thankful that I had escaped with my life, and was not likely to suffer
in my health, as was the case with some of my companions.
With returning strength, however, came more forcibly on me the
consciousness of the postponement once more of all my hopes of
happiness. I had risked everything; I had gone through the most trying
hardships to reach home, and now I found myself being carried away far
from that home, without any immediate prospect of reaching it. I turned
round in my berth and burst into tears.
The kind-hearted German who was attending on me inquired, in his broken
English, what was the matter. I felt that it would be a relief to me,
and would gratify him, if I were to tell him my history. He was much
interested in it, and warmly sympathised with me. He did not consider
my tears unmanly. I do not think they were, either. I was weak and
ill, too. Perhaps otherwise, as is the English custom, I should have
kept my feelings and my history to myself. Yet I think that English
habit of hiding our thoughts and feelings, shows a want of confidence in
the sympathy and kind feeling of our fellow-men which is altogether
wrong. Nothing could surpass the kindness and sympathy of my German
friends, especially of Karl Smitz, the young man who attended on me.
We had a fair breeze and fine weather, so that in three days I was able
to get out of my berth. My first visit was to La Motte. He was unable
to move. With fear and trembling I looked at him, for he seemed to me
sadly changed from what he had been when we left the lugger: I had not
seen myself, and I was not aware how haggard and ill I even then
appeared.
He told me that he only felt weak and bruised, and that he had hopes he
should soon be well. I found that three of our late companions had been
committed to the deep, and that a fourth was in a dying state. This
made me feel still more anxious about La Motte. From our old
friendship, now cemented by the hardships we had gone through together,
I could not help regarding him with the affection of a brother. I sat
by the side of his berth till the doctor came and told me I must go on
deck, as fresh air was now the only medicine I required.
The captain welcomed me on deck when I appeared in the kindest way, and
said that he was glad to find even one of his guests on the fair road to
recovery. He, it appeared, had heard my story, and he came up to me and
told me that he had no doubt I was anxious to get to England, and that
if we fell in with any homeward-bound ship, he would put me on board
her. I told this to La Motte when I went below, and he said that if he
had strength even to move he would accompany me.
Two days after this I was sitting on a gun-carriage enjoying the fresh
breeze, when there was a movement on deck among the crew and passengers,
and I saw four men coming up the main hatchway, bearing between them
what I saw at once was a human form, wrapped up in a fold of canvas. It
was placed on a plank near a port at the opposite side of the ship. A
union-jack was thrown over it, and I guessed from that circumstance that
the dead man was another of my companions. I called to Karl Smitz, who
was passing.
"Ah! they did not know that you were on deck, or they would have told
you before the poor fellow was brought up," he observed. "Yes, he was
another of those we saved out of the boat. We are now going to bury him
as we would wish to be buried ourselves."
Soon after this the captain came into the waist with a Lutheran
prayer-book, from which, with an impressive voice, he read some prayers.
Then both the seamen and emigrants--men, women, and children--stood
round and burst forth into a hymn most sweet and melodious; first it was
sad in the extreme, and then it rose by degrees to tones of joy, as it
pictured the spirit of the departed borne by angels into Abraham's
bosom; while another prayer was being uttered, the body of my shipmate
was launched into the deep. Thus four of us had been taken and six
remained.
I was long very anxious for La Motte; he, however, slowly recovered, and
in about a fortnight was able to come on deck. By that time Andrews and
the other men had recovered, and were able to do duty. We are all of us
anxious to be of use, for no honest seaman, or any other true man for
that matter, likes to eat the bread of idleness. The ship was rather
weak-handed, and the captain was very glad of our services.
La Motte and I consulted together, and we agreed that we ought to make
him some recompense for the trouble and expense he had been at, and all
the care he had taken of us. The other men agreed to what we proposed.
We accordingly, when he was on deck one day, went up to him and told him
how grateful we felt for his kindness, and begged him to accept our
boat. He smiled at our warmth.
"No, indeed, my good men, I can accept nothing from you," he answered;
"I have only done what is the duty of every seaman to do when he finds
his fellow-men tossed about on the ocean in distress. What was your lot
may be mine another day; and I should expect others to do for me what I
have done for you."
"Well, sir," said La Motte, "we feel the truth of what you say.
Unhappily, some seamen do not act as you have done; and there are
wretches who will pass a ship in distress, and never attempt to relieve
her. However, what I am going to say is this; our clothes are in a very
bad condition, and if you will supply us, we will consider them as
payment for the boat."
This proposal pleased our kind captain, and he forthwith gave us a suit
of clothes, and a warm cap, a pair of shoes, and a couple of shirts, out
of his slop-chest. We were thus all of us able to put on a decent and
comfortable appearance. I am very certain no good action ever goes
unrewarded in one way or another, though, perhaps, through our
blindness, we do not always find it out.
A few days after this a terrific gale sprung up. All hands were roused
up in the middle watch to reef topsails. We Englishmen, hearing the cry
and roar of the tempest which had suddenly struck the ship, sprang on
deck. The crew were aloft in vain struggling with the bulging topsails.
At that moment the fore-topsail, with a report like thunder, blew out
of the bolt-ropes, carrying with it two men off the lee yard-arm. The
poor fellows were sent far away to leeward into the boiling sea.
Any attempt to help them was utterly hopeless; we heard their despairing
shrieks, and for an instant saw their agonised countenances as the ship
swept by them, and all trace of them was lost. We hurried on to the
main-topsail-yard just in time to save the people there from sharing the
fate of their messmates. The courses were furled, the main-topsail
closely reefed, and the ship flew onward on her course.