A frowning morning succeeded, and found our companions worse than ever. I immediately served a small allowance, which revived us all; indeed I was at this time myself greatly exhausted, having kept the helm without stirring for thirty-six hours, on account of the illness of the mate. My sextant having been spoiled by the loss of its top, I was now no longer able to keep our reckoning, except by guess. I was in hopes that the gale would subside at noon, and permit us to take a more southerly course, so as to fetch the Cape, but I was unhappily disappointed. The storm only increased in severity, and the sea broke around us with redoubled fury, driving in the temporary bulwarks, which we had re-erected after the night’s disaster. I calculated that at this time we were about seventy miles from land, but the brackish colour of the water led me to suppose that we might be nearer, and, being afraid to make the coast in the night, I resolved to stand to the north till midnight, it being impossible to ride the boats by bridle or otherwise in such a sea. To this all parties gave consent, and I issued orders accordingly. I confess that I had almost no hope of seeing morning, and therefore told the skiff’s crew that if anything happened to us through the night, they must stand in for the land, and do the best they could. My gloomy forebodings were shared by all, except those—to the number of six or seven—who were by this time insensible to everything around them. After partaking of our allowance with thanksgiving, we committed ourselves to the Lord of life and death, and took leave of each other without the hope of meeting again in this world. In the early part of the night our little boats behaved admirably in their conflict with the tremendous sea, and at eleven o’clock we shifted our small sail, and stood directly in for the land. The skiff followed, but at midnight the wind and waves increased in fury, and a tremendous billow broke close astern of us, which seemed to swallow up our dear companions. We strained our aching vision to catch the re-appearance of their little mast, but in vain; with trembling anxiety we then lowered down our sail, and, after great difficulty, got a light in the lantern, but it was soon extinguished, and, after long and anxious waiting, no trace of the skiff was visible, and we gave them up as lost, believing “that the deep had covered them.” The sea was breaking so heavily over the stern, while there was no way on our boat, that we were in danger of foundering, so that we were compelled, with deep distress, again to make sail, and pursue our course. Life was now faint within me, and I felt as if “the bitterness of death was past.” A cold shiver had seized my frame, and I was inclined to resign all further effort. By the administration of a tea-spoonful of wine, however, I rallied a little, and maintained my post at the helm throughout the night.
Morning at length broke, but there was no appearance of our companions, and all hope of their restoration departed. Our morning meal was consumed in melancholy silence, and our “grief was heavier than our groaning” in our morning prayers. Four persons in our boat were in extreme exhaustion, and one of them—a passenger—named George Peat, was evidently in a dying state. The weather looked more mild, and I sought to rally their spirits: with three of them I partially succeeded, but Peat took no notice of anything, save to suck greedily his allowance of water. In the forenoon the sun broke through the clouds, and shed an agreeable warmth to which we had long been strangers, so that we took off our wet clothes, and hung them up to dry. The hope of seeing land revived the love of life within us, and, with the former exceptions, our company, in spite of the absence of our other boat, were in better spirits. At eleven o’clock >A.M. the mate relieved me from the helm, and all were intent in looking out for the land. In this we were disappointed; but the mate thought he descried something ahead like a mast or a sail. All eyes were turned in the direction with eagerness, but for a considerable time we could see nothing. At last another person saw something on the top of a heavy wave, and, as we drew nearer, a mast without a sail became distinctly visible. Could it be our brethren? was anxiously inquired by every one; and indeed it was. Poor fellows! they had tasted nothing for more than twenty-four hours. At the time when they disappeared they were overwhelmed in the belly of a tremendous broken sea, and their boat was nearly filled. Their little mast was carried away, and one of them was washed overboard, but catching hold of the boat, they had hauled him in again. By extraordinary exertions they then bailed their boat, got their mast replaced, and, pursuing our course, in their anxiety to overtake us, had actually passed us before daylight. How we ever met again was a mystery to all; but “it was the Lord’s doing, and it was marvelous in our eyes.” I shall not attempt to describe the scene of our remarkable greeting. It was not joyous, for alas, we had now become strangers to every emotion of gladness; but we grasped each other’s hands, and our full hearts found vent in silent tears. Our souls had become knit together in the fellowship of suffering, and in the midst of deaths, we celebrated their restoration as a deliverance from the grave. Of course they received immediate refreshment and a little wine was distributed to the whole company on the occasion. Our noontide worship, which was mutually conducted, arose from overflowing hearts; and although our common woes were nothing abated, we caught something of the spirit of our hymn while we sung,
Let troubles rise, and terrors frown,
And days of darkness fall,
Through Him all dangers we’ll defy,
And more than conquer all.
CHAPTER III.
THE FORLORN LANDING.
“They are at their wit’s end. Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad because they be quiet.”
So soon as our heartfelt congratulations had blended and been breathed out in prayer, hope became faintly rekindled in each yet conscious bosom of our distressed company; and with all our lingering energies of life, we made for the yet invisible shore. “The wrath of God lay hard upon us,” and, for so many days “we had been afflicted with all his waves,” that we felt as if all safety consisted only in escape from ocean’s “deeps.” And yet I was not without apprehension, that what we so fondly anticipated as the occasion of deliverance, might prove the fatal scene of our doom. The imminent danger of approaching a comparatively unknown coast, especially amid the heavy roll of Cape seas, and in such small boats as ours, demanded the exercise of every possible precaution, and suggested forebodings of no very pleasing issue. By my calculations we had been driven to the north of St. Helena Bay, which, by its bend, gave us forty miles more of sea to traverse than if we had been able to keep a more southerly course. On consulting a small fragment of chart—which one of the ladies had preserved for us, from the action of the sea, in her bosom,—I found, to our great relief, that the coast for which we were making was free of any outside shoals, and appeared favourable for our landing. We therefore made all speed to reach the shore if possible before nightfall; in this, however, we were disappointed; and a dense fog ahead hid the object of our solicitude from view, until night descended, and shrouded the surrounding landscape in darkness. The weather being moderate I resolved to prosecute our course throughout the night, and endeavour to effect our landing at daylight. The evening proved intensely cold, and we endured more acute suffering from the wind and spray, during those hours of darkness, than we had ever done before. This was probably caused by our preserving a more southerly course, and keeping the sheet hauled aft, which exposed us to the action of the sea, and sent the wind right down on us from the sail. Ere morning came a cold shiver had consequently seized every frame, and several persons in both boats were quite unable to stir.