There stood, scarcely altered, it appeared to me, a man I had believed
long since swallowed up by the hungry waves, Captain Tooke, once the
master of the _Fate_, the brig in which I had been wrecked off the
Scilly Islands. If it was not him,--saved by some wonderful means,--I
felt sure that it was a brother or near relative; for if he was not my
old captain, no two people could be more alike. The sea had gone down
completely, so that we without difficulty boarded the brig. Her master
thanked the Bremen captain very warmly for the assistance he had brought
him, and welcomed us.
"You are brave lad? for coming on board such a wreck of a craft as mine
is," said he, looking at us, and putting out his hand to La Motte.
"However, if we are mercifully favoured by fine weather, we will get her
all ataunto before long."
We told him that if the ship was sound in hull, we had no fears about
the matter; we should soon get her to rights.
"That's the spirit I liked to see," he answered, and then turning to the
Bremen captain, he continued, "Tell me, my friend, how much am I to pay
you for these spars? Ask your own price. They are invaluable to me."
"Nothing," was the answer. "I had several to spare, and none have been
lost during the voyage. Well, if you press the point, you may pay the
value over to these men when you reach your own country. They have lost
their all from being taken prisoners, and will require something to take
them to their homes."
"That I will, with all my heart," answered the captain of the brig.
While he was speaking, I kept looking at him. Though his features were
the same, his way of expressing himself was so different to that of
Captain Tooke, that I felt I must be mistaken.
Farewells were said between the two captains, and once more the Bremen
captain shook hands with us all round. The emigrants cheered as the
ship bore up round us, and away she went to the west, while we lay as
near the wind as our dismasted state would allow us.
I was anxious to settle the question as to the identity of the captain,
so I asked one of the men what his name was. He somewhat startled me by
answering "Tooke." He, however, could tell me nothing about his past
history; so I went up to the captain himself, and asked him if he had
not been on board the _Fate_ when she was wrecked?
"Yes," he replied; "I was the sole survivor of all on board that
unfortunate craft."
"No, sir, you were not," I answered, and I told him how a number of us
had got away in the boat, and how all, with the exception of old Cole,
Iffley, and I, had been lost, and how the old mate had died, and we were
the only ones left. He told me that when the mast went overboard, he
had clung to it, and that the tide had carried it out into mid-channel.
When morning broke, he found himself close to a vessel hove-to. The
wind then began to fall, and the sea to go down, and in a short time
they sent a boat and picked him up. He by that time was very much
exhausted, and could scarcely have held out another quarter of an hour.
He himself had been all his life utterly careless about religion; but
while he was hanging on to the mast amid the raging ocean, he had been
led to think of the future, towards which he felt that he was probably
hastening, and he could not help discerning the finger of God in thus
bringing him directly up to the only vessel within many miles of him.
When he got on board, however, he was struck by the utter want of
respect shown by the master and all the crew for anything like religion.
He and they were scoffers and blasphemers and professed infidels. He
said that he was so horrified and shocked at all he heard, that he
trembled lest he might have become like them.
From that time forward he prayed that he might be enlightened and
reformed, and he felt truly a new heart put into him. He had never
since gone back. He had met with many misfortunes and hardships. He
had been frequently shipwrecked; had lost all his property; had been
taken prisoner by the enemy; had been compelled to serve as mate instead
of master; and had scarcely ever been able to visit his family on shore.
Still he went on, trusting in God's mercy, and feeling sure that
whatever happened to him was for the best.
"And, sir," said I, when he had finished his account of himself, "I
heartily agree with you. I have often fainted and often doubted, but I
have always come back to the same opinion, that what is, is best--that
is, that whatever God does is best for us."
This conversation, by the bye, did not take place at once. We first set
to work to get the ship to rights. We got sheers up, and, the weather
being calm, we without difficulty got the new mast stepped, and another
bowsprit rigged. The mast was only a jury-mast, but we set it up well
with stays, and it carried sail fairly.
While we were working away, I observed the countenance of one of the men
who was doing duty as mate, he being the most experienced of the three
survivors of the crew.
"I am certain that you must be an old shipmate of mine," said I as we
were hauling away together. "Is not your name Flood, and were you not
on board the _Kite_ schooner when we were attacked by pirates?"
"The very same, lad," said he. "And you--I remember you, too, very well
now--you are Will Weatherhelm."
"The same; and is it not extraordinary that thus, in the middle of the
Atlantic, I should meet with two men whom I have not heard of for years,
and one of whom I thought was dead?"
"Not more extraordinary than that those two men should have become
thoroughly changed characters," he answered. "I was a careless
reprobate, Weatherhelm, when you knew me, and now I have learned to
think and to pray, and to strive to do well."
It certainly was surprising to me to hear John Flood speak as he did,
for, unhappily, in those days there were not many seamen who could say
the same for themselves. But, poor fellows, their opportunities were
few of hearing anything about religion, and I believe men will be judged
according to the advantages they may have possessed. Let those take
heed, therefore, who have them, that they do not throw them away.
Flood gave me an account of the way the brig--the _Fair Rosamond_ was
her name--met with her accident. It was indeed providential that she
and all on board had not perished. She had sailed from Port Royal, in
Jamaica, bound for Liverpool, with several other vessels, under convoy
of a frigate. The first part of the voyage was favourable, but the
_Fair Rosamond_ was very deeply laden with sugar and rum and other West
India produce, and being then out of trim, she proved herself a very
dull sailer.
To avoid the risk of capture, the convoy had steered a more northerly
course than is usual, and had not kept east till nearly in the latitude
of Newfoundland.
"We were constantly lagging behind, and the frigate had to come and whip
us up so often that we completely lost our character in the fleet,"
continued Flood. "We did our best to keep up with the rest of the
convoy, by setting every stitch of canvas we could carry; but nothing
would do, and we should have had to heave part of the cargo overboard to
have enabled her to keep up with the rest. At length we were overtaken
by a gale of wind, and we had to heave-to. We thought that the rest of
the fleet were doing the same near us. It was night. When morning
broke not a sail was to be seen. We were more likely to fall into the
hands of the enemy, but still we could take our own time, and we thought
that we were less likely to meet with an accident than when, blow high
or low, we had to press her with canvas. However, we were mistaken. We
had been driven a long way to the nor'ard of the Gulf Stream, and the
weather was cold and bad, when one night, just as I had come on deck to
keep the middle watch, and had gone to the wheel, I looked up and
thought I saw a great white glittering cloud right ahead of us. I sang
out, and the first mate, who was officer of the watch, crying, `Hard
a-lee!' ran forward. I put down the helm, but scarcely had I done so
before I saw what I knew to be a huge iceberg rising up directly ahead
of us. I fully believed that our last moments were come. It appeared
to me as if the ship was running into a cavern in the side of some vast
mountain of marble. I held my breath. If my hair ever stood on end, I
believe that it did on that occasion. My eyeballs seemed starting from
their sockets. I felt the blood leave my cheeks and rush round my
heart, as if it would burst. A terrific crash came. There were
despairing shrieks and cries. I thought the brig was lost. The
bowsprit was carried away; the foremast came toppling down, and at the
same time a sea struck the ship, and swept over the decks. I held on by
the wheel. The captain rushed on deck just as the sea had passed over
us. I felt the brig rebound as it were from the iceberg, and I found
that we were drifting away from it. The two men who were below came on
deck at the same time the captain did. We shouted to our companions.
We looked about aboard and around us, on either side where the wreck of
the foremast was still hanging on to the channels, but no voice
replied--not a glimpse of them could be seen. We four were left alone
on that stormy ice-surrounded sea, with a shattered, almost unmanageable
ship. We did not fear. Our captain was a host in himself. We could
not get the wreck of the mast on board, so we had to cut it away.
Happily the wind came round from the nor'ard, and by rigging a stay from
the head of the mainmast to the stump of the bowsprit, we were able to
set a sail and to get the brig's head round. We had been knocking about
ten days when you fell in with us. Two vessels passed us, and must have
seen our condition, but they did not alter their course. All who sail
the ocean are not good Samaritans, like your friend the Bremen captain."
Such was the brief account Flood gave me of their disaster. I have
always designated the good man of whom he spoke as the Bremen captain,
for I could not pronounce his name, and did not write it down. I hope
we shall meet in heaven.
I must hurry on with my adventures. Once more I indulged in the hope of
being speedily restored to my wife and home. The weather was fine, and,
considering her crippled state, the brig made fair way. In some
respects we were better off than on board the Bremen ship, for we had
ample and good provisions and plenty of room, and as our supply of
clothes was small, Captain Tooke distributed among us those belonging to
the poor fellows who had been lost.
I had one night turned in, after keeping the first watch, under the
belief that all was going well. I was roused up with the so often heard
cry, "All hands shorten sail!" I hurried on deck to find the brig
plunging into a heavy sea, which was straining every timber in her. A
fierce north-easter was blowing. To attempt to face it was impossible,
and it was not without difficulty that we got the brig's head round from
it. Away we went before the wind, and away from England and my home.
By the captain's computation we were only three hundred miles or so to
the northward of the Bermudas. The brig had for some time been in a
leaky state, and we had frequently to turn to at the pumps, but, with
fine weather, we had had no fear of keeping her clear. Now, however,
the case was altered, and Captain Tooke resolved to run for the
Bermudas.
It is no easy matter to hit a small spot in the middle of the ocean,
after dark and blowing weather, when no observation has lately been
taken. We had to keep a bright look-out not to miss the islands. I
felt especially anxious about the matter. Should we run past them, we
might, after all, be compelled to put into an American port to repair
the ship, and my return home might be still further postponed.
The morning came; the day wore on. No land was in sight. My heart sank
within me. Over and over again I went to the main-topmast-head to look
out for the group of rocks I so anxiously desired to see.
At length, just on the starboard bow, I caught sight of a blue mound
rising out of the water. I hurried below to tell the captain. In a
couple of hours we were safely at anchor within Saint George's harbour.
I was in hopes that the brig would be quickly repaired, and that we
should be allowed to proceed on our voyage. However, as it turned out,
an agent of the owner's resided there. He ordered the brig to be
surveyed. The surveyor was connected with the chief shipbuilder of the
place. He pronounced her unfit to proceed on her voyage without a
thorough repair. The cargo was consequently discharged, and the crew
were paid off. Captain Tooke regretted this exceedingly, but could not
help it. He said that he should have been perfectly ready to take the
brig home, with a new mast and a little caulking in her upper works,
which could be got at simply by heeling her over. However, he had to
submit.
He not only paid us our wages, but the wages which were due to the poor
fellows who were lost, and also the value of the spars which had been
given to him by the Bremen captain. Thus I found myself possessed of
more money than I had had in my pocket since I had been pressed. The
question was now, how I could most speedily reach England. I took
counsel with La Motte. He observed, that the longest way round is often
the shortest way there; and that, perhaps, by going to some port in the
United States, we might more quickly get to Europe, as there was no
vessel in harbour bound there at that time.
Just as we had arrived at this determination, a homeward-bound West
Indiaman, which had parted from her convoy, put into the harbour. She
had lost several men by yellow fever, and her captain, who came on
shore, was very glad to ship us the moment we offered. He took all the
men who had been paid off from the _Fair Rosamond_.
Once more we were under weigh for Old England. The _Jane_ was a fine
ship, belonging to London. She was in good repair, and well found, and
with the fresh hands taken on board, well manned. We had no reason to
dread gales of wind or disasters of any sort. The wind came fair, and
we had a fine run till we were not far off the chops of the Channel,
when it fell a dead calm. There we lay for a couple of days, well-nigh
rolling our masts out, when a light breeze sprung up from the eastward.
Though it was against us, anything was better than a calm. Oh, how I
longed to be at home! Again almost in sight of England, I could not
help every moment conjuring up pictures of the scenes that home might
present. Sometimes they were bright and happy, but then they would
become so sad and painful that I grew sick at heart by their
contemplation. "At all events," I said to myself, "all my doubts will
soon be at an end. I shall know what has occurred."
Such thoughts were passing through my mind, when the look-out from the
masthead reported several sail in sight, coming down before the wind.
The report caused considerable excitement on board. They might be
friends, but they might be enemies; and if so, there was too great a
probability of our finding ourselves entering a French port as
prisoners, instead of returning home as we had expected. Our captain
resolved to stand on close-hauled, till he could ascertain whether they
looked suspicious, and if so, to keep away to the northward. As they
drew nearer, we did not doubt from the breadth of canvas they showed
that they were men-of-war. In a short time we got near enough to them
to exchange signals, when we made out that they were British ships. The
headmost one, a frigate, signalled to us to heave-to, an order our
captain very unwillingly obeyed.
"Perhaps she only wants to send some message home, but I doubt it.
Lads, look out for yourselves," said he.
I knew too well to what his remark referred. We, as ordered, hove to,
and a lieutenant and midshipman with a boat's crew strongly armed came
aboard us.
"Turn the hands up, captain," said the lieutenant briskly. The order
was obeyed, and we all had to appear on deck. "You are strongly manned,
captain," observed the officer, running his eye over us. "You can
easily manage to get into port with half the number of hands you now
have."
"Could not work my ship without all the hands I have," answered the
captain gruffly.
"There is nothing like trying," observed the lieutenant. "Let me see
your papers. Ah, I observe you entered some of these men when part of
your voyage was accomplished. You can do very well without them, at all
events. They none of them have protection. No, I see that clearly.
Come, lads, get your bags up; I can take no excuses. Our ships must
have men; I know nothing more about the matter. Be smart now."
I endeavoured in vain to expostulate. I entreated the officer to allow
me to proceed in the ship. He replied that it was his duty to take me.
He could not stop to argue about duty. I must go. I knew that he was
right; but, oh, how grievous was this new trial to bear! I thought that
I should have been beside myself.
La Motte was doing duty as mate of the ship, and he escaped. All I
could do was to tell him where to find my wife, and to entreat him to
lose no time in visiting her, and in assuring her of my safety. He
promised faithfully to fulfil my wishes, and with a heavy, almost
breaking heart, I stepped into the man-of-war's boat.
I felt inclined to curse the country which could allow of such a system.
Happily, I did not. I knew that it arose from the ignorance of those
in authority as to how to get seamen for the king's ships, and not from
cruelty or heartlessness. It may seem surprising to those who live in
happier times that no better plan could be thought of.
I found myself conveyed on board the _Nymph_, a thirty-six
twelve-pounder gun frigate, commanded by Captain Edward Pellew. When
questioned, I did not deny that I had before served on board a
man-of-war, and having given an account of my adventures, I was rated at
once as an able seaman. I went about my duty, and did it to the best of
my power, but it was mechanically, without any spirit or heartiness.
Month after month passed away. I felt as if I was in a trance. I could
not think. I tried to forge, the past; I dared not meditate on the
future. How I lived through that time I scarcely know. I never laughed
or smiled, I scarcely spoke to any one; even the active duties of the
ship did not arouse me.