Chapter Thirty Nine
I returned on deck followed by the master. “The barometer is rising,” said I aloud, to the first lieutenant; “so I presume the gale will break about twelve o’clock.”
“I am glad to hear of it, sir; for we have quite enough of it,” replied the first-lieutenant.
“Do you see the Dryad?”
“No, sir; it’s quite thick again to leeward: we have not seen her these ten minutes.”
Thank God for that, thought I, for they will never see her again. “What soundings had you last?”
“Fourteen fathoms, sir.”
“I expect we shall cross the tail of the bank in much less,” replied I; “but, when once clear, we shall have sea-room.”
As the captain is an oracle in times of danger, the seamen caught every word which was uttered from my mouth; and what they gathered from what I had said, satisfied them that they were in no immediate danger. Nevertheless, the master walked the deck as if he was stupefied with the impending crisis. No wonder, poor fellow; with a wife and family depending upon him for support, it is not to be expected that a man can look upon immediate dissolution without painful feelings. A sailor should never marry: or if he does, for the benefit of the service, his marriage should prove an unhappy one, and then he would become more reckless than before. As for my own thoughts, they may be given in a few words—they were upon the vanity of human wishes. Whatever I had done with the one object I had in view—whatever might have been my success had I lived—whether I might have been wedded to Minnie some future day, or what may have resulted, good, bad, or indifferent, as to future, all was to be, in a few hours, cut short by the will of Heaven. In the next world there was neither marriage nor giving in marriage—in the next world, name, titles, wealth, everything worldly was as nought—and all I had to do was to die like a man, and do my duty to the last, trusting to a merciful God to forgive me my sins and offences; and with this philosophy I stood prepared for the event.
About noon it again cleared up to leeward, but the Dryad was no longer to be seen: this was reported to me. As it was nearly three hours since we last had a sight of her, I knew her fate too well—she had plenty of time to go on shore, and to be broken up by the heavy seas. I did however point my glass in the direction, and coolly observed, “she has rounded the tail of the bank, I presume, and has bore up. It was the best thing she could do.” I then asked the master if he had wound his chronometers, and went down into the cabin. I had not, however, been examining the chart more than a minute, when the officer of the watch came down, and reported that we had shoaled to twelve fathoms.
“Very good, Mr Hawkins; we shall be in shallower water yet. Let me know if there is any change in the soundings.”
As soon as the cabin door was again shut, I worked up the tide to see when it would change against us; I found that it had changed one hour at least. Then it will be sooner over, thought I, throwing down the pencil.
“Mr Cross, the boatswain, wishes to speak to you, sir,” said the sentry, opening the cabin door.
“Tell him to come in,” replied I. “Well, Cross, what’s the matter?”
“I was speaking to the first lieutenant about getting up a runner, sir—the fore-stay is a good deal chafed; that is, if you think it’s of any use.”
“How do you mean, of any use, Cross?”
“Why, sir, although no one would suppose it from you—but if the face of the master (and he is not a faint-hearted man neither) is to be taken as a barometer, we shall all be in ‘kingdom come’ before long. I’ve cruised in these seas so often, that I pretty well guess where we are, Captain Keene.”
“Well, Cross, it’s no use denying that we are in a mess, and nothing but the wind going down or changing can get us out of it.”
“Just as I thought sir; well, it can’t be helped, so it’s no use fretting about it. I think myself that the gale is breaking, and that we shall have fine weather by to-morrow morning.”
“That will be rather too late, Cross; for I think we shall be done for in three or four hours, if not sooner.”
“Eleven fathoms, sir,” said the officer of the watch, coming in hastily.
“Very well, Mr Hawkins; let her go through the water,” replied I.
As soon as the cabin door was again shut, I said, “You see, Cross, the tide is now against us, and this will not last long.”
“No, sir; we shall strike in five fathoms with this heavy sea.”
“I know we shall; but I do not wish to dishearten the men before it is necessary, and then we must do our best.”
“You won’t be offended, I am sure, by my asking, Captain Keene, what you think of doing?”
“Not at all, Cross; it is my intention to explain it to the ship’s company before I do it. I may as well take your opinion upon it now. As soon as we are in six fathoms, I intend to cut away the masts and anchor.”
“That’s our only chance, sir, and if it is well done, and the gale abates, it may save some of us; but how do you intend to anchor?”
“I shall back the best bower with the sheet, and let go the small bower at the same time that I do the sheet, so as to ride an even strain.”
“You can’t do better, sir; but that will require time for preparation, to be well done. Do you think that we shall have time, if you wait till we are in six fathoms?”
“I don’t know but you are right, Cross, and I think it would be better to commence our preparations at once.”
“Ten fathoms, sir,” reported the officer of the watch.
“Very well, I will be on deck directly.”
“Well, sir, we must now go to our duty; and as we may chance not to talk to one another again, sir,” said Cross, “I can only say God bless you, and I hope that, if we do not meet again in this world, we shall in heaven, or as near to it as possible. Good-bye, sir.”
“Good-bye, Cross,” replied I, shaking him by the hand; “we’ll do our duty, at all events. So now for my last dying speech.”
Cross quitted the cabin, and I followed him. As soon as I was on deck, I desired the first lieutenant to turn the hands up, and send them aft. When they were all assembled, with Cross at their head, I stood on one of the carronades and said: “My lads, I have sent for you, because I consider that, although the gale is evidently breaking, we are shoaling our water so fast, that we are in danger of going on shore before the gale does break. Now, what I intend to do, as our best chance, is to cut away the masts, and anchor as soon as we are in six fathoms water; perhaps we may then ride it out. At all events, we must do our best, and put our trust in Providence. But, my lads, you must be aware, that in times of difficulty it is important that we should be all cool and collected, that you must adhere to your discipline, and obey your officers to the last; if you do not, everything will go wrong instead of right. You have proved yourselves an excellent set of men, and I’m sure you will continue so to do. It is possible we may not have to cut away our masts, or to anchor; still, we must make every preparation in case it is necessary, and I have, therefore, sent for you, to explain my intentions, and to request that you will all assist me to the best of your abilities; and I feel convinced that you will, and will do your duty like British seamen. That’s all I have to say, my lads. Pipe down, Mr Cross.”
The ship’s company went forward in silence. They perceived the full extent of the danger. The first lieutenant and boatswain employed a portion in backing the best bower anchor with the sheet; the others roued up the cables from the tiers, and coiled them on the main-deck, clear for running. All hands were busily employed, and employment made them forget their fears. The work was done silently, but orderly and steadily. In the meantime we had shoaled to eight fathoms, and it was now nearly three o’clock; but as it was summer time, the days were long. Indeed, when the weather was fine, there was little or no night, and the weather was warm, which was all in our favour.
When everything was reported ready, I went round to examine and ascertain if the cables would run clear. Satisfied that all was right, I then picked out the men, and appointed those who were most trustworthy to the stations of importance; and, having so done, I then returned to the quarter-deck, and called up the carpenter and some of the topmen to be ready with the axes to cut away the masts and lashings of the booms and boats. Just as these orders were completed, the gale blew fiercer than ever. We were now in seven fathoms water, and pressed heavy by the gale.
I stood at the break of the gangway, the first lieutenant and master by my side, and Cross a little forward, watching my eye. The men in the chains continued to give the soundings in a clear steady voice, “By the mark seven,” “Quarter less seven,” “And a half six.” At last, the man in the chains next to me, a fine old forecastle man, gave the sounding “By the mark six,” and he gave it with a louder voice than before, with a sort of defiance, as much as to say, “The time is come, let the elements do their worst.”
The time was come. “Silence, fore and aft. Every man down under the half-deck, except those stationed. Cut away the boom lashings, and clear the boats.” This was soon done, and reported. “Now then, my lads, be steady. Cut away the lanyards in the chains.”
One after another the lanyards and backstays were severed; the masts groaned and creaked, and then the fore-mast and main-mast were over the side almost at the same time; the mizen followed, as the frigate broached to and righted, leaving the ship’s deck a mass of wreck and confusion; but no one was hurt, from the precautions which had been taken, the mast having been cut away before we rounded to, to anchor, as otherwise, they would have fallen aft and not gone clear of the ship.
“Stand by the best bower. Stand clear of the cable. Let go the anchor.”
As soon as the best bower cable was nearly out, the sheet anchor and small bower were let go at the same moment, and the result was to be ascertained.
Chapter Forty
The frigate was head to wind, rising and pitching with the heavy sea, but not yet feeling the strain of the cables: the masts lay rolling and beating alongside.
The ship’s company had most of them returned on deck, to view their impending fate, and the carpenters, who had already received their orders, were battening down the hatchways on the main-deck. In a minute the frigate rode to her anchors, and as soon as the strain was on the cables, she dipped, and a tremendous sea broke over her bows, deluging us fore and aft, nearly filling the main-deck, and washing the carpenters away from their half-completed work. A second and a third followed, rolling aft, so as to almost bury the vessel, sweeping away the men who clung to the cordage and guns, and carrying many of them overboard.
I had quitted the gangway, where there was no hold, and had repaired to the main bitts, behind the stump of the main-mast. Even in this position I should not have been able to hold on, if it had not been for Bob Cross, who was near me, and who passed a rope round my body as I was sweeping away; but the booms and boats which had been cut adrift, in case of the ship driving on shore broadside, were driven aft with the last tremendous sea, and many men on the quarter-deck were crushed and mangled.
After the third sea had swept over us, there was a pause, and Cross said to me, “We had better go down on the main-deck, Captain Keene, and get the half-ports open if possible.” We did so, and with great difficulty, found the people to help us; for, as it may be imagined, the confusion was now very great; but the carpenters were again collected, and the half-ports got out, and then the battening down was completed; for, although she continued to ship seas fore and aft, they were not so heavy as the three first, which had so nearly swamped her.
I again went on deck, followed by Cross, who would not leave me. Most of the men had lashed themselves to the guns and belaying pins, but I looked in vain for the first lieutenant and master; they were standing at the gangway at the time of the first sea breaking over us, and it is to be presumed that they were washed overboard, for I never saw them again.
We had hardly been on deck, and taken our old position at the bitts, when the heavy seas again poured over us; but the booms having been cleared, and the ports on the main-deck open, they did not sweep us with the same force as before.
“She cannot stand this long, Bob,” said I, as we clung to the bitts.
“No, sir, the cables must part with such a heavy strain; or if they do not, we shall drag our anchors till we strike on the sands.”
“And then we shall go to pieces?”
“Yes, sir; but do not forget to get to the wreck of the masts, if you possibly can. The best chance will be there.”
“Bad’s the best, Cross; however, that was my intention.”
The reader will be surprised at my having no conversation with any other party but Cross; but the fact was, that although it was only occasionally that a heavy sea poured over us, we were blinded by the continual spray in which the frigate was enveloped, and which prevented us not only from seeing our own position, but even a few feet from us; and, as if any one who had not a firm hold when the seas poured over the deck, was almost certain to be washed overboard, every man clung to where he was; indeed, there were not fifty men on deck; for those who had not been washed overboard by the first seas, had hastened to get under the half-deck; and many had been washed overboard in the attempt.
The most painful part was to hear the moaning and cries for help of the poor fellows who lay jammed under the heavy spars and boats which had been washed aft, and to whom it was impossible to afford any relief without the assistance of a large body of men. But all I have described since the anchors were let go occurred in a few minutes.
On a sudden, the frigate heeled over to starboard, and at the same time a sea broke over her chesstree, which nearly drowned us where we were clinging. As soon as the pouring off of the water enabled us to recover our speech, “She has parted, Cross, and all is over with us,” said I.
“Yes, sir; as soon as she strikes, she will break up in ten minutes. We must not stay here, as she will part amidships.”
I felt the truth of the observation, and, waiting until a heavy sea had passed over us, contrived to gain the after ladder, and descend. As soon as we were on the main deck, we crawled to the cabin, and seated ourselves by the after-gun, Cross having made a hold on to a ring-bolt for us with his silk neck-handkerchief.
There were many men in the cabin, silently waiting their doom. They knew that all was over, that nothing could be done, yet they still contrived to touch their hats respectfully to me as I passed.
“My lads,” said I, as soon as I had secured my hold, “the cables have parted, and the ship will strike, and go to pieces in a very short time; recollect that the masts to leeward are your best chance.”
Those who were near me said, “Thank you, Captain Keene;” but the words were scarcely out of their mouths, when a shock passed through the whole vessel, and communicated itself to our very hearts. The ship had struck on the sand, and the beams and timbers had not ceased trembling and groaning, when a sea struck her larboard broadside, throwing her over on her beam-ends, so that the starboard side of the main-deck and the guns were under water.
It would be impossible after this to detail what occurred in a clear and correct manner, as the noise and confusion were so terrible. At every sea hurled against the sides of the vessel the resistance to them became less. What with the crashing of the beams, the breaking up of the timbers, and the guns to windward, as their fastenings gave way, tumbling with a tremendous crash to leeward, and passing through the ship’s sides, the occasional screams mixed with the other noise, the pouring, dashing, and washing of the waters, the scene was appalling. At last, one louder crash than any of the former announced that the vessel had yielded to the terrific force of the waves, and had parted amidships. After this there was little defence against them, even where we were clinging, for the waters poured in, as if maddened by their success, through the passage formed by the separation of the vessel, and came bounding on, as if changing their direction on purpose to overwhelm us. As the two parts of the vessel were thrown higher up, the shocks were more severe, and indeed, the waves appeared to have more power than before, in consequence of their being so increased in weight from the quantity of sand which was mixed up with them. Another crash! the sides of the after-part of the vessel had given way, and the heavy guns, disengaged, flew to leeward, and we found ourselves without shelter from the raging waters.
The part of the wreck on which Cross and I were sitting was so completely on its beam-ends that the deck was within a trifle of being perpendicular. To walk was impossible: all that we could do was to slide down into the water to leeward; but little was to be gained by that, as there was no egress. We therefore remained for more than an hour in the same position, wearied with clinging, and the continual suffocation we received from the waves, as they deluged us. We perceived that the wreck was gradually settling down deeper and deeper in the sand; it was more steady in consequence, but at the same time the waves had more power over the upper part; and so it proved; for one enormous sea came in, blowing up the quarter deck over our heads, tearing away the planking and timbers, and hurling them to leeward. This, at all events, set us free, although it exposed us more than before; we could now see about us, that is, we could see to leeward, and Cross pointed out to me the mainmast tossing about in the boiling water, with the main-top now buried, and now rising out clear. I nodded my head in assent. He made a sign to say that he would go first after the next wave had passed over us.
I found myself alone, and as soon as I had cleared my eyes of the salt-water, I perceived Cross in the surge to leeward, making for the floating mast. He gained it, and waved his hand. I immediately followed him, and, after a short buffet, gained a place by his side, just behind the main-top, which afforded us considerable shelter from the seas. Indeed, as the main-mast was in a manner anchored by the lee rigging to the wreck of the vessel, the latter served as a breakwater, and the sea was, therefore, comparatively smooth, and I found my position infinitely more agreeable than when I was clinging on the wreck. I could now breathe freely, as it was seldom I was wholly under water; neither was it necessary, as before, to cling for your life.
On looking round me, I found that about twenty men were hanging on to the mast. Many of them appeared quite exhausted, and had not strength left to obtain a more favourable berth. The position taken by Cross and myself was very secure, being between the main-top and the catharpings, and the water was so warm that we did not feel the occasional immersion; five other men were close to us, but not a word was said,—indeed, hardly a recognition exchanged. At that time we thought only of immediate preservation, and had little feeling for anybody else.
Chapter Forty One
The night was now coming on; the rolling waves changed from the yellow tinge given by the sand to green, and then to purple: at last all was black except the white foaming breakers.
Exhausted with fatigue, it had not been dark more than two hours, when I felt an irresistible desire to sleep, and I have no doubt that I did slumber in this position, half in and half out of the water, for some time; for when I was roused up by losing my balance, I looked above and perceived that the sky was clear, and the stars shining brightly. I then looked around me, and it was evident that the water was not so agitated as it had been; the wind too had subsided; its roaring had ceased, although it still whistled strong.
“Cross!” said I.
“Here I am, Captain Keene, close under your lee.”
“The gale is broke; we shall have fair weather before the morning.”
“Yes, sir; I have thought so some time.”
“Thank God for His mercy; we must trust that He will not leave us here to perish miserably.”
“No, I hope not,” replied Cross; “let us trust in Him, but I confess I see but little chance.”
“So have many others, yet they have been saved, Cross.”
“Very true, sir,” replied he: “I wish it was daylight.”
We had, however, three or four hours to wait; but during that time the wind gradually subsided, and then went down to a light and fitful breeze. At dawn of day the mast rose and fell with the swell of the sea, which still heaved after the late commotion, but without any run in any particular direction, for it was now calm. I had been sitting on the mast with my back against the futtock-shrouds; I now rose up with difficulty, for I was sorely bruised, and stood upon the mast clear from the water, to look around me. About thirty yards from us was the wreck of the foremast with many men clinging to it. The mizen-mast had broken adrift. The fore part of the frigate was several feet above water, and the bowsprit steeved in the air; of the after part there were but three or four broken timbers to be seen clear of the water, so deep had it been buried in the sand.
Cross had risen on his feet, and was standing by me, when we were hailed from the wreck of the fore-mast, “Main-mast, ahoy!”
“Halloo!” replied Cross.
“Have you got the captain on board?”
“Yes,” replied Bob; “all alive and hearty;” a faint huzzah which was the return, affected me sensibly. That my men should think of me when in such a position was soothing to my feelings; but as I looked at them on the other mast and those around me, and calculated that there could not be more than forty men left out of such a noble ship’s company, I could have wept. But it was time for action: “Cross,” said I, “now that it is calm, I think we shall be better on the fore part of the frigate than here, half in and half out of water. The forecastle is still remaining, and the weather bulwarks will shelter the men; besides if any vessels should come in sight, we should more easily be able to make signals and to attract their attention.”
“Very true, sir,” replied Cross; “and as there are many men here who cannot hold on much longer, we must try if we cannot haul them on board. Do you feel strong enough to swim to the wreck?”
“Yes, quite, Cross.”
“Then we’ll start together, sir, and see how matters are.”
I dropped into the sea, followed by Cross; and as the distance from us was not forty yards, we soon gained the wreck of the fore part of the frigate; the lee gunnel was just above the water; we clambered over it, and found the deck still whole; the weather portion as white as snow, and quite dry: we gained the weather bulwarks, and looked in the offing in case there should be any vessel, but we could see nothing.
“Now, sir, we had better hail, and tell all those who can swim to come to us.”
We did so, and six men from the main-mast and nine from the fore-mast soon joined us.
“Now, my lads,” said I, “we must look after those who cannot get here, and try to save them. Get all the ends of ropes from the belaying pins, bend them on one to another, and then we will return and make the men fast, and you shall haul them on board.”
This was soon done; Cross and I took the end in our hands, and swam back to the main-mast. One of the top-men, with a broken, arm was the first that was made fast, and, when the signal was given, hauled through the water to the wreck; six or seven more followed in succession. Two men swam back every time with the rope and accompanied those who were hauled on board, that they might not sink. There were many more hanging to different parts of the main-mast, but on examination they were found to be quite dead. We sent on board all that showed any symptoms of life, and then we swam to the fore-mast, and assisted those who were hanging to it. In about two hours our task was completed, and we mustered twenty-six men on the wreck.
We were glad to shelter ourselves under the bulwark, where we all lay huddled up together; before noon, most of the poor fellows had forgotten their sufferings in a sound sleep. Cross, I, and the man with the broken arm, were the only three awake; the latter was in too much pain to find repose, and, moreover, suffered from extreme thirst.
A breeze now sprang up from the southward, which cheered our spirits, as without wind there was little chance of receiving any assistance. Night again came on, and the men still slept. Cross and I laid down, and were glad to follow their example: the night was cold, and when we lay down we did not yet feel much from hunger or thirst; but when the morning dawned we woke in suffering, not from hunger, but from thirst. Everybody cried out for water. I told the men that talking would only make them feel it more, and advised them to put their shirt sleeves in their mouths, and suck them; and then I climbed upon the bulwarks to see if there was anything in sight. I knew that the greatest chance was that the cutter would be looking after us; but, at the same time, it was not yet likely that she would come so near to the sands.
I had been an hour on the gunnel, when Cross came up to me. “It’s banking up, sir to the southward: I hope we are not going to have any more bad weather.”
“I have no fear of a gale, although we may have thick weather,” replied I; “that would be almost as bad for us, as we should perish on the wreck before we are discovered.”
“I am going to lower myself down into the galley, Captain Keene, to see if I can find anything.”
“I fear you will not be successful,” replied I, “for the coppers and ranges are all carried away.”
“I know that, sir; but I have been thinking of the cook’s closet we had built up above the bowsprit. I know that he used to stow away many things there, and perhaps there may be something. I believe the shortest way will be to go to leeward, and swim round to it.”
Cross then left me, and I continued to look out. About an hour afterwards he returned, and told me that he had easily opened it with his knife, and had found eight or nine pounds of raw potatoes, and a bucketful of slush. “We are not hungry enough to eat this now, sir; but there is enough to keep the life in us all for three or four days at least; that is, if we could get water, and I expect we shall feel the want of that dreadfully in a short time. I would give a great deal if I could only find a drop to give that poor fellow Anderson, with his broken arm; it is terribly swelled, and he must suffer very much.”
“Did you find anything in the closet to put water into, Cross; in case we should get any?”
“Yes; there’s two or three kids, and some small breakers, Captain Keene.”
“Well, then, you had better get them ready; for those clouds rise so fast, that we may have rain before morning, and if so, we must not lose the chance.”
“Why, it does look like rain, sir,” replied Cross. “I’ll take one or two of the men with me, to assist in getting them up.”
I watched the horizon till night again set in. We were all very faint and distressed for water, and the cool of the evening somewhat relieved us; the breeze, too, was fresh. The men had remained quietly in the shade as I had advised them; but, although patient, they evidently suffered much. Once more we all attempted to forget ourselves in repose. I was soundly asleep, when I was woke up by Cross.
“Captain Keene, it is raining, and it will soon rain much harder; now, if you will order the men, they will soon collect water enough.”
“Call them up immediately, Cross; we must not lose this providential succour. It may save all our lives.”
The men were soon on the alert: the rain came down in a steady shower; and as soon as they were wet through, they took off their shirts, and dabbling them into the water as it ran down to leeward, squeezed it out into their mouths, until their wants were satisfied, and then, under the direction of Cross, commenced filling the three breakers and four tubs which had been brought up. They had time to fill them, and to spare, for the rain continued till the morning. The tubs and breakers were securely slung under the fore-bitts for future use, and they then continued to drink till they could drink no more.