"That was a nasty sea that stove the skylight in, Jacob."
"There's been no nasty seas over here," said Jacob; "why, you must have been asleep."
"I tell you the cabin's flooded," said the mate.
"Very well," said the other, "if you disbelieve me, look for yourself. As to sleeping, my God, don't you talk, for you're hardly awake yet."
The mate made a survey, found no damage, and remarked in soliloquy:
"That's funny. Where can the water have come from?"
"Not funny at all," said Jacob, with some irritation; "get away and lend them poor lads a hand. She might have foundered for all you cared."
This was grave language to use to a superior officer, but the justice of it was evidenced by the submissive composure in which it was received. It was evidently soaking into the mate's thick skull that the water had not come from the skylight, and this idea was borne out by his not mentioning the matter to the lads when he went to their assistance. In spite of their weary and almost exhausted condition, they had to have their joke, so said to the officer:
"You're very wet, Tom; where have you been?"
"Been be darned!" said Thomas; "I've been nowhere. You shut up and attend to your work."
"That's all very fine, but 'nowhere' was what the monkey said when he was accused of stealing nuts," retorted the humourist.
The dialogue was cut short by the helmsman shouting out: "Two lights on the port bow."
One turned out to be a distress signal, and the other a red light. The dawn was breaking into the sky, and in less than half an hour daylight had forced its way through the dull grey mist, and brought the vessels in sight of each other. They were close to: one was a fishing smack, and the other a brig, labouring heavily in the trough of the sea, and flying a flag on the main rigging, just as the Blake had been doing the previous day. All hands were on deck, including the captain, and every eye was fixed on the sinking vessel. One of the sailors went on to the foreyard to ascertain more distinctly what was going on. As soon as he got aloft he bellowed something which could not be made out owing to the uproar, and finding that he could not make his voice heard, he made his way to the deck, and amid much excitement conveyed the belief that the brig was the Silverspray.
Sailors of that time were very quick and accurate in discerning the identity of a vessel by the cut of her sails, the length of her masts and yards, and the way they were stayed; even if she were hull down they could tell by this alone. Several of the disabled vessel's sails were in ribbons. They had evidently been blown out of the gaskets. She was drifting under the close-reefed main topsail, and the fore one was in shreds. The fore and main topgallant braces were broken, and the yards were swinging about to the toss of the ship. The remains of a boat hung to the stern davits. The long boat was flattened on the hatches, and the crew hustled together on the quarterdeck gesticulating to the other vessel (a smack) to make haste. At last all seemed to be ready, and the smack was headed before the maddened seas, and flew on the crest of a wave, which seemed to carry her on to destruction. Now she was almost lost sight of in the trough, then she was seen to dance on the summit of a roller, until the supreme moment came to bring her under the lee of the ill-fated brig. There was then witnessed a most sensational piece of bravery and superb seamanship. She was rounded to with the fore staysail sheet to windward; the small boat was launched out of the lee gangway; lines with life-buoys attached were drifted towards the boat, and in less than half an hour the crew was taken off and put aboard the Yarmouth fisherman. Succour came none too soon, as in less than an hour the brig's mainmast went by the board. She cocked her stern up and went down head first. The smack reached close across the stern of the Blake, and the shipwrecked crew exchanged salutes with her. Her speaking-trumpet was used in trying to communicate that she was making a lot of water and to report having spoken her. This was also signalled by the commercial code in case they should not have heard. Good-bye was said by dipping the ensign, and as the rescuer vanished into the dark, an unspeakable sadness crept over the Blake's crew.
They knew their peril was great, and the physical agony they were suffering was well-nigh unbearable. They predicted that neither would diminish. But for the inherent manliness and heroism that have always been a striking characteristic of the British sailor, these men would have been quite justified in asking the skipper of the smack to take them aboard. They were worn out with incessant labour, and the dividing line between sinking and being kept afloat was very narrow. A little more straining, or an ugly sea breaking on to a weak spot would quickly seal their fate. They knew all this, but scorned the thought of bringing on themselves the charge of cowardice. It soon became apparent that the little craft of only 280 tons dead-weight would have to be put before the wind if she was to be saved. The crew had to stand up in water to their waists nearly all the time they were pumping, and sometimes they were knocked down by the seas that came aboard. They could stand it no longer, so a conference was held. The captain said: "Well, my lads, there are two courses open to us: sink or run for it. She has two bold ends and will scud for ever. The only thing is we will be running out of the track of ships into the northern regions where the cold will be intense, and there will be but little daylight. Besides, our provisions may run short. Now I have put the position to you both ways: I am willing to do what you decide."
"Then we decide to run," said the men, "and trust to Providence for the rest."
The helm was put hard up, the main and foreyards laid square, and she commenced to scud dead before the wind towards the mystery of the north. For the first four hours it was doubtful whether the jolly boat, which was in davits across the stern, would last long. Each diabolic lump of water that came galloping along threatened not only the boat but the vessel with sudden destruction. It was very thrilling to witness the tiny brig flying before the ecstasy of the hurricane and fluttering away like a seabird from the mountains that towered far above and were only permitted to kiss her stern with their spray. The crew were forbidden to look behind while at the helm lest their nerves should be affected and cause erratic steering. There was really more danger in this than in any lack of seakindliness on the part of the vessel. Each time she ran away from a treacherous-looking breaker, the captain would pat the topgallant bulwarks and speak words of touching tenderness as though he was communing with a little child. The further they ran north, the bigger the seas became. One of them came prancing along, tossed up the stern so that part of the jibboom was put under and her attitude became uncommonly like running head first under the sea. Another quickly followed, and the poor captain's faith was momentarily shaken. He called out "My God, this is awful!" and certainly this was the only phrase that could describe the horror of the situation. But there was nothing for it but to keep scudding. Had any attempt been made to heave to, she would have been smashed to atoms and no more would have been heard of her. It was only by great care in steering and having the proper amount of sail set that she was kept above water. An error in judgement or the neglect of a single point in the handling would have sealed her fate. By the 20th of the month she had got so far north there was little or no daylight; the biting cold was frightful, and there was no prospect of betterness. The long winter nights were spent in pumping, steering and keeping a look out (though it was assumed she was long since out of the track of vessels and no land was near), and the only lights to be seen were the flash of the curling spray dancing on the top of tempestuous billows.
It was during the forenoon of February 21, just after a snow cloud had rushed past, the crew were both surprised and cheered to observe a barque a little on the starboard bow, heading north under two close-reefed topsails. She was low in the water, and making heavy weather of it. The crew were seen in the mizen rigging, frantically waving. A tattered flag was flying beside them, but its nationality could not be discerned. It was impossible to render the assistance that was so eagerly sought for, but even if it had been possible it was too late, for a sea was seen to break right over her stern, and in a few minutes there was another added to the long list of North Atlantic tragedies. Amongst the wreckage passed was a boat full of water, and oars floating on each side of her. Whether this belonged to the latest victim of the remorseless waves or not, no one could tell, though some of the crew thought it might. This melancholy incident was not likely to improve the spirits of the little band