It is usual to keep passengers below as much as possible in such circumstances, but the position of the schooner, with her bow high on a bank, and her stern deep in the water, rendered a different course needful on this occasion.
With difficulty the passengers were got up to the bow, where they clustered and clung about the windlass and other points of vantage. Then it was that the true nature of their calamity was revealed, for no land was visible, nothing was to be seen around them but a hell of raging foam, which, in the almost total darkness of the night, leaped and glimmered as if with phosphoric light. Beyond this circle of, as it were, wild lambent flame, all was black, like a wall of ebony, from out of which continually there rushed into view coiling, curling, hoary-headed monsters, in the shape of roaring billows, which burst upon and over them, deluging the decks, and causing the timbers of the ship to writhe as if in pain.
“We’ve got on the tail o’ the sands,” muttered a sailor to some one as he passed, axe in hand, to cut away the wreckage of the masts, which were pounding and tugging alongside.
On the sands! Yes, but no sands were visible, for they had struck on an outlying bank, far from shore, over which the ocean swept like the besom of destruction.
It was nearly low water at the time of the disaster. As the tide fell the wreck ceased to heave. Then it became possible for the seamen to move about without clinging to shrouds and stanchions for very life.
“Fetch a rocket, Jim,” said the captain to one of the men.
Jim obeyed, and soon a whizzing line of light was seen athwart the black sky.
“They’ll never see it,” muttered the first mate, as he got ready another rocket. “Weather’s too thick.”
Several rockets were fired, and then, to make more sure of attracting the lifeboat men, a tar-barrel, fastened to the end of a spar, was thrust out ahead and set on fire. By the grand lurid flare of this giant torch the surrounding desolation was made more apparent, and at the fearful sight hearts which had hitherto held up began to sink in despair.
The mate’s fears seemed to be well grounded, for no answering signal was seen to rise from the land, towards which every eye was anxiously strained. One hour passed, then another, and another, but still no help came. Then the tide began to rise, and with it, of course, the danger to increase. All this time rockets had been sent up at intervals, and tar-barrels had been kept burning.
“We had better make the women and children fast, sir,” suggested the mate, as a heavy mass of spray burst over the bulwarks and drenched them.
“Do so,” replied the captain, gathering up a coil of rope to assist in the work.
“Is this necessary?” asked the widow, as the captain approached her.
“I fear it is,” he replied. “The tide is rising fast. In a short time the waves will be breaking over us again, and you will run a chance of bein’ swept away if we don’t make you fast. But don’t despair, they must have seen our signals by this time, an’ we shall soon have the lifeboat out.”
“God grant it,” murmured the widow, fervently, as she strained poor little trembling Lizzie to her breast.
But as the moments flew by and no succour came, some gave way altogether and moaned piteously, while others appeared to be bereft of all capacity of thought or action. Many began to pray in frantic incoherence, and several gave vent to their feelings in curses. Only a few maintained absolute self-possession and silence. Among these were the widow and one or two of the other women.
They were in this condition when one of the crew who had been noted as a first-rate singer of sea songs, and the “life of the fo’c’s’l,” had occasion to pass the spot where the passengers were huddled under the lee of the starboard bulwarks.
“Is there never a one of ye,” he asked, almost sternly, “who can pray like a Christian without screechin’? You don’t suppose the Almighty’s deaf, do you?”
This unexpected speech quieted the noisy ones, and one of the women, turning to a man beside her, said, “You pray for us, Joe.”
Joe was one of those who had remained, from the first, perfectly still, except when required to move, or when those near him needed assistance. He was a grave elderly man, whose quiet demeanour, dress, and general appearance, suggested the idea of a city missionary—an idea which was strengthened when, in obedience to the woman’s request, he promptly prayed, in measured sentences, yet with intense earnestness, for deliverance—first from sin and then from impending death—in the name of Jesus. His petition was very short, and it was barely finished when a wave of unusual size struck the vessel with tremendous violence, burst over the side and almost swept every one into the sea. Indeed, it was evident that some of the weaker of the party would have perished then if they had not been secured to the vessel with ropes.
It seemed like a stern refusal of the prayer, and was regarded as such by some of the despairing ones, when a sudden cheer was heard and a light resembling a great star was seen to burst from the darkness to windward.
“The lifeboat!” shouted the captain, and they cheered with as much hearty joy as if they were already safe.
A few minutes more and the familiar blue and white boat of mercy leaped out of darkness into the midst of the foaming waters like a living creature.
It was the boat from the neighbouring port of Brentley. Either the storm-drift had not been so thick in that direction as in the neighbourhood of Greyton, or the Brentley men had kept a better look-out. She had run down to the wreck under sail. On reaching it—a short distant to windward—the sail was lowered, the anchor dropped, the cable payed out, and the boat eased down until it was under the lee of the wreck. But the first joy at her appearance quickly died out of the hearts of some, who were ignorant of the powers of lifeboats and lifeboat men, when the little craft was seen at one moment tossed on the leaping foam till on a level with the ship’s bulwarks, at the next moment far down in the swirling waters under the mizzen chains; now sheering off as if about to forsake them altogether; anon rushing at their sides with a violence that threatened swift destruction to the boat; never for one instant still; always tugging and plunging like a mad thing. “How can we ever get into that?” was the thought that naturally sprang into the minds of some with chilling power.
Those, however, who understood the situation better, had more legitimate ground for anxiety, for they knew that the lifeboat, if loaded to its utmost capacity, could not carry more than half the souls that had to be saved. On becoming aware of this the men soon began to reveal their true characters. The unselfish and gentle made way for the women and children. The coarse and brutal, casting shame and every manly feeling aside, struggled to the front with oaths and curses, some of them even using that false familiar motto, “Every man for himself, and God for us all!”
But these received a check at the gangway, for there stood the captain, revolver in hand. He spoke but one word—“back,” and the cravens slunk away. The mild man who had offered prayer sat on the ship’s bulwarks calmly looking on. He understood the limited capacity of the boat, and had made up his mind to die.
“Now, madam, make haste,” cried the mate, pushing his way towards the widow.
“Come, father,” she said, holding out her hand; but the old man did not move.
“There are more women and little ones,” he said, “than the boat can hold. Good-bye, darling. We shall meet again—up yonder. Go.”
“Never!” exclaimed the widow, springing to his side. “I will die with you, father! But here, boatman, save, oh, save my child!”
No one attended to her. At such terrible moments men cannot afford to wait on indecision. Other women were ready and only too glad to go. With a sense almost of relief at the thought that separation was now impossible, the widow strained the child to her bosom and clung to her old father.
At that moment the report of a pistol was heard, and a man fell dead upon the deck. At the last