CHAPTER VIII.
IN PERIL OF THE SEA.
The Galatea was a good sailing vessel, loaded with goods, and was bound for Constantinople. She was a trading vessel, with a few passengers who paid a moderate sum for their berths, and were provided with very fair accommodation on board.
Jack certainly proved himself a good sailor. As soon as the first misery of sea-sickness was over, he made himself very useful to the crew generally, and to Dick Colley in particular.
"He is worth his biscuit, captain," Colley said one day. "A sharp lad, eh?"
"Yes, and a handy one too. It's well for you that you have had that boy to help you, with your lame leg; and you are trying to make him one of your sort, I see."
"One of my sort! No. I hope a long sight better than my sort, captain. I am but a beginner, learning the alphabet late in life; but, please God, I'll stumble on following Him, and I hope I may get others to follow Him too."
"You needn't look for me in that following, Colley; but you are welcome to the boy. It is all very fine to preach about God's love and care for us when the sea is stirred by a pleasant breeze, just enough to give us a capful of wind, and we are making our proper knots an hour straight for port; but when the waves are roaring, and the timbers of the ship groaning and creaking, and we know not but that we may go to the bottom any minute—don't tell me it is God's love then, when poor fellows are fighting the waves for life, knowing that if they are drowned they leave wife and child poor and desolate. No, no, Colley; that motion won't hold water."
"Begging your pardon, captain," said Colley, "it's better to trust in the Lord's love in a storm, than curse, and swear, and shriek as you and I have seen some of our mates take on, in mortal terror. You can't deny that."
"I deny nothing," was the reply. "I am content to let things take their course, and religion with the rest. Let them pray who like; it's no odds to me."
Jack had been near during this conversation; and as the captain turned on his heel and took up his position again at the helm, Colley called Jack.
"Were you within ear-shot just now, boy?"
"Yes," Jack said. "I heard what you and the captain were saying. My mother talks as you talk; and as to little Miss Joy, she is always singing hymns, and loves taking Uncle Bobo's hand and trotting to church with him. I wish you could see little Miss Joy; you would love her as much as I do."
"P'r'aps I may see her one day. She is a pretty little thing, you say?"
"Pretty!" Jack said; "she is a great deal more than pretty. Her eyes are like the sky; and how she can laugh, to be sure! it's like silver bells ringing. Many a time, when I have been half wild with Aunt Amelia's grating tongue, I have run over to Mr. Boyd's, and Joy has put me right. She would always be on the watch for me when I came back from school, and she calls my mother 'Goody,' and she is just like a little daughter to her. Then when there were sharp words between Mr. Boyd and his old servant, Joy made peace. She would climb on Uncle Bobo's knee, and kiss him, and put her hand before his mouth, and beg him to be quiet, and not get angry with Susan, because hard words did no good."
"That's true, boy—that's true; and now I want to know what you are going to do when we are safe in port? Go home and show you are sorry, eh?"
"Not home to my aunt's house; I'd rather break stones. Look here, she just makes me feel wretched, as little Miss Joy makes me feel good."
"Ah, boy, that's the wrong end of the stick—the feeling good and wicked, as you say. No, no; 'goodness,' as you call it, don't depend on little Miss Joy, or wickedness on sharp-tempered viragos like you say your aunt is. It is the heart, boy. If that is turned to God, then we may hope to keep straight, by watching and praying; but it is a fight, boy, as I find. As I told you, I find it hard enough to curb my tongue; for it is like a ship flying afore the wind, with no rudder and no pilot. Off I go, and the words drop from my lips like mad! But I pray for help to bridle my tongue, and I cry to God for pardon every time I take His blessed name in vain. Don't you learn bad ways aboard. Most of the crew are steady young fellows. One or two of 'em are on the right track; but that man who kicked you when you came aboard, you beware of him. He is more dangerous when he is friendly than when he's your enemy. So don't listen to him; it won't do you no good."
Amongst the passengers was a sweet-faced woman, with her little boy. Jack took greatly to the child. He reminded him of Miss Joy, and he would take his hand and lead him about the ship, and show off Toby's tricks for his amusement.
The woman was on her way to Cairo to join her husband, who had a place there in an English family as courier and valet. She had been sent home by the doctors for her health, and was now on her outward-bound voyage, with her little son.
She soon found that Jack was trustworthy, and she allowed her little Peter to be with him whenever Jack had time to amuse him. Old Colley, too, would set him on his knee, and tell him stories of the sea, and the names of the sea-birds, which often followed the ship, and would sometimes pounce down on any bit of biscuit or salt meat which might be on deck.
It was a pretty sight when little Peter's golden hair rested against Colley's blue jersey, and the child would put up his hand and stroke the stubby beard of his new friend, and say—
"I shall be a sailor when I grow up. I love the sea."
Then Colley would stroke his head and say—"In calm weather it's pleasant enough, boy. You wait till you have seen a storm."
The voyage out promised well till they came to the Bay of Biscay, when contrary winds and a storm drove the Galatea to take refuge in the port of Lisbon.
The captain was anxious to make his way to Constantinople, and against the advice of Colley and the second mate sailed out from Lisbon in rough weather.
"The storm is over," he said, "and I've no time to spend with the men kicking their heels aboard, or going ashore to get into mischief."
So the orders were given, and the Galatea went curtesying over the billows, under a bright sky, with all sails set.
"We are in the track of a storm, and if I'm not mistaken," Colley said, "we shall find ourselves in a worst plight before forty-eight hours have come and gone. I never saw the moon look as she did last night without a meaning."
But for that night Colley's prophecy seemed to be unfulfilled. The wind sank, the sea became like glass, and the Galatea made but little progress. The weather was intensely hot, and the nights scarcely cooler than the days.
It was on the evening of the second day, after sailing out of the port of Lisbon, that Colley asked Jack if he saw a dark line drawn along the horizon.
"Yes," Jack said, "I see."
"That's the storm coming, and it will be upon us fast enough."
The captain, who was standing at his post with his glass, saw it also, and very soon orders were shouted to reef sails, and "every man to his post."
Before a landsman could believe it possible, the mysterious dark line had spread over the sky, and there was a hissing sound as of coming breakers. Then a swift forked flash struck across the waters, and was followed by a peal of thunder which was deafening. In another quarter of an hour the waves were roaring, and the noise of the thunder and the gathered blackness of darkness were awful.
The Galatea was well manned, and every one of the crew held gallantly to their post. The captain encouraged the frightened passengers, and tried to quiet their fears.
Jack obeyed orders, and never flinched from his duty.
Presently the angry billows broke with terrific violence over the poor Galatea, and she bowed herself in her distress till the masts and timbers creaked, and every time she went down into the deep valleys between the mountainous waves, it seemed impossible that she should right herself again.
"We are in great peril, boy," Colley said in Jack's ear, or rather he shouted the words at the pitch of his voice. "You put your trust in God, and He will hear your cry."
Ah! in moments of dire distress and fear, the soul that has before been dumb cries unto God. Poor frail mortals think they can do very well without God, when skies are blue, and all things, golden, bright, and prosperous; but in the hour of death, and in all times of tribulation, few indeed are to be found who do not cry to God for refuge and deliverance.
Jack stood face to face with death, and he knew it. All his short life seemed to rise clearly before him, and his mother's face as he knelt to repeat his little prayer at her knee in childish days. His mother! she had been left a widow, although she could not believe it; his mother! to whom he should have been a stay and comfort, deserted, because he had been a coward, and could not meet the trials of his daily life—his aunt's sharp tongue, and Mr. Skinner's side-hits.
He had run away to sea to escape these, to please himself—and this was the end. Oh! his mother! his mother! Had he not seen her watch and wait for his father's return? and had he not seen the lines of care deeping on her sweet face? And now he had added to her sorrow, and could never hear her words of forgiveness.
All this passed through Jack's mind far more quickly than I can write it here, or you can read it; and hot tears mingled with the cold, salt spray, which drenched him through and through as he stood firm by the rope which was entrusted to him.
The storm raged with unabated fury, and the darkness was only just pierced by the rising moon, itself invisible, but which cast a strange weird whiteness athwart the gloom.
The worst had not yet come. It was about midnight that cries arose above the storm, and a violent shock told that the Galatea had struck on a rock. There was no hope then—the Galatea was doomed.
The boats had been kept in readiness, and the captain's voice was heard, shouting his orders to let them down. For the Galatea had parted in midships, and was settling down into those black waters where, here and there, the white surf on the wave-crests was seen with ghastly clearness in the murky gloom.
"All women and children first," the captain ordered; and Peter's mother, clasping the child close, with the few passengers, were let down into the first boat.
"Back, you coward!" the mate shouted, as the man who had been so unfeeling to Jack, on first starting, stumbled forward and tried to jump into the boat. Alas! too late was the command to stop. The boat was swamped, and smothered cries arose from the surging depths. The other boats were lowered, and old Colley remained to the last.
"Now, captain," he said, "it's your turn. She's settling down fast." And between the roar of the storm and the more distant roll of the thunder, a swishing, gurgling noise told that the water was fast gaining ground, and the Galatea going down.
"I leave the ship last, or die with her. Forward, Colley! Do you hear?"
"After you, captain; after you."
"Colley, old fellow, you never disobeyed me before. You won't do it now."
Then a great shudder seemed to thrill through the ship, and she turned on her side, and with a mighty rush the waves seized their prey, and the Galatea went down into the stormy waters.
Jack found himself struggling in the surging waves; but a boat was near him, and a hand seized him and dragged him in.
It was old Colley's hand, and he had in his other arm little Peter, and a whine told that Toby was with his master.
It was a perilous position—the boat was tossed like a feather on those stormy billows; while above the raging of the storm could be heard cries for help from those who were clinging to broken rafts and pieces of the wreck.
"She was cracked like a walnut," Colley said; "and the captain's heart was broken—that's why he said he would die with her."