FROM "LIFE ON THE OCEAN."
Received orders this day to proceed to London with the ship; and, as the easterly gale abated, and the wind hauled round southward and westward, we got under way, stood out of Falmouth harbor, and proceeded up the British Channel. At sunset, it commenced to rain, and the weather was thick and cloudy. The different lights were seen as far as the Bill of Portland. At midnight, lost sight of the land, and it blew a gale from off the French coast: close reefed the topsails, and steered a course so as to keep in mid-channel. At daybreak, the ship was judged to be off Beachy Head; the weather being so thick, the land could not be seen. The fore and mizzen-topsails were now furled, and the ship hove to. The rain began now to fall in torrents, and the heavy, dense, black clouds rose, with fearful rapidity, from the northward, over the English coast, when suddenly the wind shifted from the south-west to the north, and blew a hurricane. The mist and fog cleared away, and, to our utter astonishment, we found ourselves on a lee shore, on the coast of France, off Boulogne heights. The gale was so violent, that no more sail could be made. The ship was so exceedingly crank, that when she luffed up on a wind, her bulwarks were under water. As she would not stay, the only alternative was, to wear; of course, with this evolution, we lost ground, and, consequently, were driven nearer, every moment, toward the awful strand of rocks. The scene was now terrific; many vessels were in sight, two of which we saw dashed on the rocks; with the tremendous roar of the breakers, and the howling of the tempest, and the heavy sea, which broke as high as the fore-yard, death appeared inevitable. There was only one hope left, and that was, that, should the tide change and take us under our lee-beam, it might possibly set us off on the Nine-fathom bank, which is situated at a distance of twelve miles north-northwest, off Boulogne harbor. On the event of reaching this bank, the safety of the ship and lives of the crew depended,--as it was determined there to try the anchors, for there was no possibility of keeping off shore more than two hours, if the gale continued.
We were now on the larboard tack, and, for the last half hour, it was perceived that the tide had turned, and was setting to the northward; this was our last and only chance, for the rocks were not more than half a mile under our lee, and as it was necessary to get the ship's head round on the starboard tack, which could only be done by wearing, it was certain that much ground would be lost by that evolution. The anchors were got ready, long ranges of cables were hauled on deck, and the ends were clinched to the mainmast below; this being done, the axes were at hand to cut away the masts.
Before the Gale.
Captain G. was an old, experienced seaman; and I never saw, before or since, more coolness, judgment, and seamanship, than were displayed by him on this trying occasion. In this perilous trial, the most intense anxiety was manifested by the crew, and then was heard the deep-toned voice of Captain G., rising above the bellowing storm, commanding silence. "Take the wheel," said he to me; and then followed the orders, in quick succession: "Lay aft, and man the braces--see every thing clear forward, to wear ship--steady--ease her--shiver away the main-topsail--put your helm up--haul in the weather fore-braces,--gather in the after-yards." The ship was now running before the wind, for a few moments, directly for the rocks; the situation and scene were truly awful, for she was not more than three hundred yards from the breakers. I turned my head aside--being at the helm--to avoid the terrific sight, and silently awaited the crisis. I was roused, at this moment, by Captain G., who shouted, "She luffs, my boys! brace the main-yard sharp up--haul in the larboard fore-braces--down with the fore-tack, lads, and haul aft the sheet;--right the helm! steady, so--haul taut the weather-braces, and belay all." These orders were given and executed in quick succession. The ship was now on the starboard tack, plunging bows under at every pitch. Casting a fitful glance over my shoulder, I saw that we were apparently to leeward of the rocks. Very soon, however, it was quite perceptible that the tide had taken her on the lee beam, and was setting her off shore.
The gloom began now to wear away, although it was doubtful whether we should be able to reach the bank, and, if successful, whether the anchors would hold on. Orders were given to lay aloft and send down the top-gallant-yards, masts, &c. The helm was relieved, and I sprung into the main rigging, the chief mate going up forward. With much difficulty, I reached the main-topmast cross-trees, and, when there, it was almost impossible to work, for the ship lay over at an angle of at least forty-five degrees, and I found myself swinging, not perpendicularly over the ship's deck, but at least thirty feet from it. It was no time, however, for gazing. The yard rope was stoppered out on the quarter of the yard, the sheets, clewlines, and buntlines, cast off, and the shift slackened, and then simultaneously from both mast-heads the cry was heard, "Sway, away!" The parrel cut, the yard was quickly topped and unrigged, and then lowered away on deck. The next duty to be performed, was sending down the top-gallant masts. After much difficulty and hard work, this was also accomplished; and, although I felt some pride in the performance of a dangerous service, yet, on this occasion, I was not a little pleased when I reached the deck in safety.
By this time, we had gained four miles off shore, and it was evident that the soundings indicated our approach to the bank. Tackles were rove and stretched along forward of the windlass, as well as deck-stoppers hooked on to the ringbolts fore and aft. "Loose the fore-topsail!" shouted Captain G., "we must reach this bank before the tide turns, or, by morning, there will not be left a timber head of this ship, nor one of us, to tell the sad tale of our disaster." The topsail was loosed and set, and the ship groaned heavily under the immense pressure of canvass; her lee rail was under water, and every moment it was expected that the topmast or the canvass would yield. The deep-sea-lead was taken forward and hove: when the line reached the after-part of the main channels, the seaman's voice rose high in the air, "By the deep, nine!" It was three o'clock. "Clew up and furl the fore-topsail!" shouted Captain G. The topsail furled of itself, for the moment the weather sheet was started, it blew away from the bolt-rope; the foresail was immediately hauled up and furled. Relieved from the great pressure of canvass, and having now nothing on her except the main-topsail and fore-topmast-staysail, she rode more upright. The main-topsail was clewed up and fortunately saved, the mizzen-staysail was set. "Stand by, to cut away the stoppers of the best bower anchor--to let it go, stock and fluke," said Captain G. "Man the fore-topmast-staysail down-haul; put your helm down! haul down the staysail." This was done, and the ship came up handsomely, head to wind, "See the cable tiers all clear--what water is there?" said Captain G. The leadsman sang out in a clear voice, "And a half-eight!" By this time, the ship had lost her way. "Are you all clear forward there?" "Ay, ay, sir!" was the reply. "Stream the buoy, and let go the anchor!" shouted Captain G. The order was executed as rapidly as it was given; the anchor was on the bottom, and already had fifty fathoms of cable run out, making the windlass smoke; and, although the cable was weather-bitted, and every effort was made with the deck-stoppers and tackles to check her, all was fruitless. Ninety fathoms of cable had run out. "Stand by, to let go the larboard anchor," said Captain G.; "Cheerily, men--let go!" In the same breath he shouted, "Hold on!" for just then there was a lull, and having run out the best bower-cable, nearly to the better end, she brought up. No time was now lost in getting service on the cable, to prevent its chafing. She was now riding to a single anchor of two thousand weight, with one hundred fathoms of a seventeen-inch hemp cable. The sea rolled heavily, and broke in upon the deck fore and aft; the lower yards were got down; the topsail-yards pointed to the wind; and as the tide had now turned, the ship rode without any strain on her cable, because it tended broad on the beam.
The next morning presented a dismal scene, for there were more than fifty sail in-shore of us, some of whom succeeded in reaching the bank, and anchored with loss of sails, topmasts, &c. Many others were dashed upon the rocks, and not a soul was left to tell the tale of their destruction. I shall not forget that, on the second day, a Dutch galliot was driven in to leeward of us; and although, by carrying on a tremendous press of canvass, she succeeded in keeping off shore until five P.M., yet, at sunset she disappeared, and was seen no more. After our arrival in London, we learned that this unfortunate vessel was driven on the rocks, and every soul on board perished.
The gale continued four days, at the expiration of which time, it broke. At midnight, the wind hauled round to the eastward, and the weather became so excessively cold, that, although we commenced heaving in the cable at five A.M., yet we did not get the anchor until nine that night. Close-reefed topsails were set on the ship and we stood over to the English coast, and anchored to the westward of Dungeness. During the whole period of this gale, which lasted four days, Captain G. never for one moment left the deck; and although well advanced in years, yet his iron constitution enabled him to overcome the calls of nature for rest; and, notwithstanding the situation of the ship, was, perhaps more critical than many of those less fortunate vessels which stranded upon the rocks, yet his coolness, and the seaman-like manner with which the ship was handled, no doubt were the means of our being saved.
THE HUNTER'S WIFE.
Thomas Cooper was a fine specimen of the North American trapper. Slightly but powerfully made, with a hardy, weather-beaten, yet handsome face; strong, indefatigable, and a crack shot--he was admirably adapted for a hunter's life. For many years he knew not what it was to have a home, but lived like the beasts he hunted--wandering from one part of the country to another, in pursuit of game. All who knew Tom were much surprised when he came, with a pretty young wife, to settle within three miles of a planter's farm. Many pitied the poor young creature, who would have to lead such a solitary life; while others said, "If she was fool enough to marry him, it was her own look-out." For nearly four months Tom remained at home, and employed his time in making the old hut he had fixed on for their residence more comfortable. He cleared and tilled a small spot of land around it, and Susan began to hope that, for her sake, he would settle down quietly as a squatter. But these visions of happiness were soon dispelled, for, as soon as this work was finished, he recommenced his old erratic mode of life, and was often absent for weeks together, leaving his wife alone, yet not unprotected, for, since his marriage, old Nero, a favorite hound, was always left at home as her guardian. He was a noble dog--a cross between the old Scottish deerhound and the bloodhound, and would hunt an Indian as well as a deer or bear, which, Tom said, "was a proof they Injins was a sort o' warmint, or why should the brute beast take to hunt 'em, nat'ral like--him that took no notice of white men?"
One clear, cold morning, about two years after their marriage, Susan was awakened by a loud crash, immediately succeeded by Nero's deep baying. She recollected that she had shut him in the house, as usual, the night before. Supposing he had winded some solitary wolf or bear prowling around the hut, and effected his escape, she took little notice of the circumstance; but a few moments after came a shrill, wild cry, which made her blood run cold. To spring from her bed, throw on her clothes, and rush from the hut, was the work of a minute. She no longer doubted what the hound was in pursuit of. Fearful thoughts shot through her brain; she called wildly on Nero, and, to her joy, he came dashing through the thick underwood. As the dog drew near, she saw that he galloped heavily, and carried in his mouth some large, dark creature. Her brain reeled; she felt a cold and sickly shudder dart through her limbs. But Susan was a hunter's daughter, and, all her life, had been accustomed to witness scenes of danger and of horror, and in this school had learned to subdue the natural timidity of her character. With a powerful effort, she recovered herself, just as Nero dropped at her feet a little Indian child, apparently between three and four years old. She bent down over him; but there was no sound or motion: she placed her hand on his little, naked chest; the heart within had ceased to beat: he was dead! The deep marks of the dog's fangs were visible on the neck; but the body was untorn. Old Nero stood, with his large, bright eyes fixed on the face of his mistress, fawning on her, as if he expected to be praised for what he had done, and seemed to wonder why she looked so terrified. But Susan spurned him from her; and the fierce animal, who would have pulled down an Indian as he would a deer, crouched humbly at the young woman's feet. Susan carried the little body gently in her arms to the hut, and laid it on her own bed. Her first impulse was to seize the loaded rifle that hung over the fire-place, and shoot the hound; and yet she felt she could not do it, for, in the lone life she led, the faithful animal seemed like a dear and valued friend, who loved and watched over her, as if aware of the precious charge intrusted to him. She thought, also, of what her husband would say, when, on his return, he should find his old companion dead. Susan had never seen Tom roused. To her he had ever shown nothing but kindness; yet she feared as well as loved him, for there was a fire in those dark eyes which told of deep, wild passions hidden in his breast, and she knew that the lives of a whole tribe of Indians would be light in the balance against that of his favorite hound.
Having securely fastened up Nero, Susan, with a heavy heart, proceeded to examine the ground around the hut. In several places she observed the impression of a small moccasined foot; but not a child's. The tracks were deeply marked, unlike the usual light, elastic tread of an Indian. From this circumstance Susan easily inferred that the woman had been carrying her child when attacked by the dog. There was nothing to show why she had come so near the hut: most probably the hopes of some petty plunder had been the inducement. Susan did not dare to wander far from home, fearing a band of Indians might be in the neighborhood. She returned sorrowfully to the hut, and employed herself in blocking up the window, or rather the hole where the window had been, for the powerful hound had, in his leap, dashed out the entire frame, and shattered it to pieces. When this was finished, Susan dug a grave, and in it laid the little Indian boy. She made it close to the hut, for she could not bear that wolves should devour those delicate limbs, and she knew that there it would be safe. The next day Tom returned. He had been very unsuccessful, and intended setting out again, in a few days, in a different direction.
"Susan," he said, when he had heard her sad story, "I wish you'd left the child where the dog killed him. The squaw's high sartain to come back a seekin' for the body, and 'tis a pity the poor crittur should be disappointed. Besides, the Indians will be high sartain to put it down to us; whereas, if so be as they'd found the body 'pon the spot, may be they'd onderstand as 'twas an accident like, for they 're unkimmon cunning warmint, though they an't got sense like Christians."
"Why do you think the poor woman came here?" said Susan. "I never knew an Indian squaw so near the hut before?"
She fancied a dark shadow flitted across her husband's brow. He made no reply; and, on repeating the question, said angrily, "How should I know? 'Tis as well to ask for a bear's reasons as an Injin's."
Tom only staid at home long enough to mend the broken window, and plant a small spot of Indian corn, and then again set out, telling Susan not to expect him home in less than a month. "If that squaw comes this way agin," he said, "as may be she will, just put out any victuals you've a-got for the poor crittur; though may be she wont come, for they Injins be onkimmon skeary." Susan wondered at his taking an interest in the woman, and often thought of that dark look she had noticed, and of Tom's unwillingness to speak on the subject. She never knew that on his last hunting expedition, when hiding some skins which he intended to fetch on his return, he had observed an Indian watching him, and had shot him, with as little mercy as he would have shown to a wolf. On Tom's return to the spot, the body was gone; and in the soft, damp soil was the mark of an Indian squaw's foot; and by its side, a little child's. He was sorry then for the deed he had done; he thought of the grief of the poor widow, and how it would be possible for her to live until she could reach her tribe, who were far, far distant, at the foot of the Rocky Mountains; and now to feel, that, through his means, too, she had lost her child, put thoughts into his mind that had never before found a place there. He thought that one God had formed the red man as well as the white--of the souls of the many Indians hurried into eternity by his unerring rifle; and they, perhaps, were more fitted for their "happy hunting grounds," than he for the white man's heaven. In this state of mind, every word his wife had said to him seemed a reproach, and he was glad again to be alone, in the forest, with his rifle and his hounds.
The afternoon of the third day after Tom's departure, as Susan was sitting at work, she heard something scratching and whining at the door. Nero, who was by her side, evinced no signs of anger, but ran to the door, showing his white teeth, as was his custom when pleased. Susan unbarred it, when, to her astonishment, the two deerhounds her husband had taken with him, walked into the hut, looking weary and soiled. At first she thought Tom might have killed a deer not far from home, and had brought her a fresh supply of venison; but no one was there. She rushed from the hut, and soon, breathless and terrified, reached the squatter's cabin. John Wilton and his three sons were just returned from the clearings, when Susan ran into their comfortable kitchen; her long, black hair, streaming on her shoulders, and her wild and bloodshot eyes, gave her the appearance of a maniac. In a few unconnected words, she explained to them the cause of her terror, and implored them to set off immediately in search of her husband. It was in vain they told her of the uselessness of going at that time--of the impossibility of following a trail in the dark. She said she would go herself: she felt sure of finding him; and, at last, they were obliged to use force to prevent her leaving the house.
The next morning at daybreak, Wilton and his two sons were mounted, and ready to set out, intending to take Nero with them; but nothing could induce him to leave his mistress: he resisted passively for some time, until one of the young men attempted to pass a rope round his neck, to drag him away: then his forbearance vanished, and he sprang upon his tormentor, threw him down, and would have strangled him, if Susan had not been present. Finding it impossible to make Nero accompany them, they left without him, but had not proceeded many miles before he and his mistress were at their side. They begged Susan to return; told her of the inconvenience she would be to them. It was no avail; she had but one answer,--"I am a hunter's daughter, and a hunter's wife." She told them that, knowing how useful Nero would be to them in their search, she had secretly taken a horse and followed them.
The party rode first to Tom Cooper's hut, and there, having dismounted, leading their horses through the forest, followed the trail, as only men long accustomed to savage life can do. At night they lay on the ground, covered with their thick, bear-skin cloaks: for Susan only, they heaped a bed of dried leaves; but she refused to occupy it, saying, it was her duty to bear the same hardships they did. Ever since their departure, she had shown no sign of sorrow. Although slight and delicately formed, she never appeared fatigued: her whole soul was absorbed in one longing desire--to find her husband's body; for, from the first, she had abandoned the hope of ever again seeing him in life. This desire supported her through everything. Early the next morning they were on the trail. About noon, as they were crossing a small brook, the hound suddenly dashed away from them, and was lost in the thicket. At first they fancied they might have crossed the track of a deer or wolf; but a long, mournful howl soon told the sad truth, for, not far from the brook, lay the faithful dog on the dead body of his master, which was pierced to the heart by an Indian arrow.
The murderer had apparently been afraid to approach on account of the dogs, for the body was left as it had fallen--not even the rifle was gone. No sign of Indians could be discovered, save one small footprint, which was instantly pronounced to be that of a squaw. Susan showed no grief at the sight of the body: she maintained the same forced calmness, and seemed comforted that it was found. Old Wilton staid with her to remove all that now remained of her darling husband, and his two sons set out on the trail, which soon led them into the open prairie, where it was easily traced through the tall, thick grass. They continued riding all that afternoon, and the next morning by daybreak were again on the track, which they followed to the banks of a wide but shallow stream. There they saw the remains of a fire. One of the brothers thrust his hand among the ashes, which were still warm. They crossed the river; and, in the soft sand on the opposite bank, saw again the print of small, moccasined footsteps. Here they were at a loss; for the rank prairie-grass had been consumed by one of those fearful fires so common in the prairies, and in its stead grew short, sweet herbage, where even an Indian's eye could observe no trace. They were on the point of abandoning the pursuit, when Richard, the younger of the two, called his brother's attention to Nero, who had, of his own accord, left his mistress to accompany them, an if he now understood what they were about. The hound was trotting to and fro, with his nose to the ground, as if endeavoring to pick out a cold scent Edward laughed at his brother, and pointed to the track of a deer that had come to drink at the river. At last he agreed to follow Nero, who was now cantering slowly across the prairie. The pace gradually increased, until, on a spot where the grass had grown more luxuriantly than elsewhere, Nero threw up his nose, gave a deep bay, and started off at so furious a pace, that, although well mounted, they had great difficulty in keeping up with him. He soon brought them to the borders of another forest, where, finding it impossible to take their horses further, they tethered them to a tree, and set off again on foot. They lost sight of the hound, but still, from time to time, heard his loud baying far away. At last they fancied it sounded nearer instead of becoming less distinct; and of this they were soon convinced. They still went on in the direction whence the sound proceeded, until they saw Nero sitting with his fore-paws against the trunk of a tree, no longer mouthing like a well-trained hound, but yelling like a fury. They looked up in the tree, but could see nothing, until, at last, Edward espied a large hollow about half way up the trunk. "I was right, you see," he said. "After all, it nothing but a bear; but we may as well shoot the brute that has given us so much trouble."
They set to work immediately with their axes to fell the tree. It began to totter, when a dark object, they could not tell what, in the dim twilight, crawled from its place of concealment to the extremity of a branch, and from thence sprung into the next tree. Snatching up their rifles, they both fired together; when, to their astonishment, instead of a bear, a young Indian squaw, with a wild yell, fell to the ground. They ran to the spot where she lay motionless, and carried her to the borders of the wood, where they had that morning dismounted. Richard lifted her on his horse, and springing himself into the saddle, carried the almost lifeless body before him. The poor creature never spoke. Several times they stopped, thinking she was dead: her pulse only told the spirit had not flown from its earthly tenement. When they reached the river which had been crossed by them before, they washed the wounds, and sprinkled water on her face. This appeared to revive her; and when Richard again lifted her in his arms to place her on his horse, he fancied he heard her mutter, in Iroquois, one word,--"revenged!" It was a strange sight, those two powerful men tending so carefully the being they had a few hours before sought to slay, and endeavoring to stanch the blood that flowed from wounds which they had made! Yet so it was. It would have appeared to them a sin to leave the Indian woman to die; yet they felt no remorse at having inflicted the wound, and doubtless would have been better pleased had it been mortal; but they would not have murdered a wounded enemy, even an Indian warrior, still less a squaw. The party continued their journey until midnight, when they stopped, to rest their jaded horses. Having wrapped the squaw in their bear-skins, they lay down themselves, with no covering save the clothes they wore. They were in no want of provisions, as, not knowing when they might return, they had taken a good supply of bread and dried venison, not wishing to loose any precious time in seeking food while on the trail. The brandy still remaining in their flasks, they preserved for the use of their captive. The evening of the following day, they reached the trapper's hut, where they were not a little surprised to find Susan. She told them that, although John Wilton had begged her to live with them, she could not bear to leave the spot where everything reminded her of one to think of whom was now her only consolation; and that, while she had Nero, she feared nothing. They needed not to tell their mournful tale--Susan already understood it but too clearly. She begged them to leave the Indian woman with her. "You have no one," said she, "to tend and watch her as I can do; besides, it is not right that I should lay such a burden on you." Although unwilling to impose on her mind the painful task of nursing her husband's murderess, they could not allow but that she was right; and seeing how earnestly she desired it, at last consented to leave the Indian woman with her.
For many weeks Susan nursed her charge, as tenderly as if it had been her sister. At first she lay almost motionless, and rarely spoke; then she grew delirious, and raved wildly. Susan fortunately could not understand what she said, but often turned shuddering away, when the Indian woman would strive to rise from her bed, and move her arms, as if drawing a bow; or yell wildly, and cower in terror beneath the clothes--reacting in her delirium the fearful scenes through which she had passed. By degrees reason returned; she gradually got better, but seemed restless and unhappy, and could not bear the sight of Nero. The first proof of returning reason she had shown, was a shriek of terror when he once accidentally followed his mistress into the room where she lay. One morning Susan missed her; she searched around the hut, but she was gone, without having taken farewell of her kind benefactress.
A few years after, Susan Cooper,--no longer "pretty Susan," for time and grief had done their work--heard, late one night, a hurried knock, which was repeated several times before she could open the door, each time more loudly than before. She called to ask who it was at that late hour of night. A few hurried words in Iroquois was the reply, and Susan congratulated herself on having spoken before unbarring the door. But, on listening again, she distinctly heard the same voice say, "Quick--quick!" and recognized it as the Indian woman's voice she had nursed. The door was instantly opened, when the squaw rushed into the hut, seized Susan by the arm, and made signs to her to come away. She was too much excited to remember then the few words of English she had picked up when living with the white woman. Expressing her meaning by gestures, with a clearness peculiar to the Indians, she dragged rather than led Susan from the hut. They had just reached the edge of the forest when the wild yells of the Indians sounded in their ears. Having gone with Susan a little way into the forest, her guide left her. For nearly four hours she lay there, half dead with cold and terror, not daring to move from her place of concealment. She saw the flames of the dwelling, where so many lonely hours had been passed, rising above the trees, and heard the shrill "whoops" of the retiring Indians. Nero, who was lying by her side, suddenly rose and gave a low growl. Silently a dark figure came gliding among the trees directly to the spot where she lay. She gave herself up for lost; but it was the Indian woman, who came to her, and dropped at her feet a bag of money, the remains of her late husband's savings. The grateful creature knew where it was kept; and while the Indians were busied examining the rifles and other objects more interesting to them, had carried it off unobserved. Waving her arm around to show that all was now quiet, she pointed in the direction of Wilton's house, and was again lost among the trees.
Day was just breaking when Susan reached the squatter's cabin. Having heard the sad story, Wilton and two of his sons started immediately for the spot. Nothing was to be seen save a heap of ashes. The party had apparently consisted of only three or four Indians; but a powerful tribe being in the neighborhood, they saw it would be too hazardous to follow them. From this time, Susan lived with the Wiltons. She was as a daughter to the old man, and a sister to his sons, who often said, "That, as far as they were concerned, the Indians had never done a kindlier action than in burning down Susan Cooper's hut."