G. V. BROOKE.
We had written thus far when there came a note from a surgeon, saying that if we would call in a street near the General Post Office, information of an interesting character awaited us. It concerned the loss of those of whose death there had been no advertisement—Mr. and Mrs. Clarke, with their son, a young man of twenty-one years. The mourning garments, the pale, sunken look of woe, the open photographic album, near to which were black-bordered notes, told at once of some one lost, and of tears shed, of which few had taken notice. Mr. Clarke had gone to Melbourne more than thirty years before, accompanied by his wife and two or three children. He had prospered there as a saddler, and as the years went by, he was enabled to bring up a large family in every comfort and respectability. There was born to him a son, however, who unhappily, through a diseased bone, had a useless arm. The sight of the youth’s sufferings was always painful to his parents, and so it came to pass that last year the aged people, as they were now, determined to come to England to obtain the best advice. Money was no object, and they reckoned that for about £1500 the three might come and go, and perhaps the son be cured. They came, enjoyed themselves immensely, heard preachers of whom they had often heard but never seen; went about here and there; and, best of all, under an operation performed by Sir W. Ferguson, the son’s arm was cured, and made whole as the other. Mr. Clarke would have taken back with him a brave little boy, around whose neck we saw the arm of a mother fondly thrown, as if she would thus keep the child safe. He would have made the boy’s fortune his care out in Melbourne; but the mother kept her child; and Mr. and Mrs. Clarke, and their son, rejoicing in his recovered strength, went on board the London, to be met on the other side of the sea, as they hoped, by their children and grandchildren. Before sailing, the father wrote a letter, the last words of which were a prayer, and it was with inexpressible comfort, in the midst of grief, that the relatives of the family reflected that the three were not unprepared to die.
Week by week will reveal more and more of the preciousness of those on board to those who now mourn their loss. But the story will never be completely told. Numbers will be mourned in secret, of whom we shall know nothing until the sea gives up its dead.
CHAPTER VI.
THREE DAYS AND NIGHTS OF DANGER ON THE DEEP.
With her precious freight of human life on board, the London left Plymouth in the very early morning of Saturday, January the 6th. A sailor’s superstition had been respected, some would say, and the anchor had not been hove up until a short time after midnight of Friday; so that it was really on a Saturday that the vessel set sail. The weather was then moderate, the wind blowing lightly from the northward, and little or no sea running. The breakwater was cleared, and the ship proceeded on her voyage at the speed of about eight knots an hour: she was going under steam with head to wind.
They sighted the Lizard lights about four hours after they set sail, and the weather then was calm and fine. But an hour later, at six o’clock on Saturday morning, the weather changed: the wind veered to the westward, and the sea began to rise. It is important to bear this in mind, because of the criticism which has been applied to Captain Martin leaving Plymouth when the barometer was indicating stormy weather. One after another of competent witnesses examined affirmed most positively that the barometer was so shifty that it could not be relied upon, and that the weather was as favourable as any one could desire for going to sea. And even if the weather had been threatening, to have asked Captain Martin to put back on this account, would have been asking him to throw away the reputation which it had taken years to acquire, and to have acted in opposition to the practice of the most experienced seamen of the day.
On Sunday, January 7th, the wind, which was still westerly, increased in violence, and there were strong squalls and a heavy sea, in which the ship rolled considerably. Religious service was of course held on board, and it was conducted by Dr. Woolley and Mr. Draper.
It was not until Monday, the 8th, that the passengers began to feel anxious concerning their safety, and to regard their position as becoming every hour more and more perilous. During Sunday night it was evident that a gale might be expected, and on Monday morning it was blowing with great violence. The Captain ordered the engines to be stopped and sail to be made on the ship. Towards noon the wind appeared to lull somewhat, and in the evening the weather had so improved that all sails were taken in, and the engines again set in motion. The weather, however, soon changed again, and the gale seemed only to have lulled to gain new strength; for between eight and twelve of Monday night the spanker of the ship was blown away by its violence.
Captain Martin and some of the crew, amongst whom was the gallant John King, one of the survivors, endeavoured to get the spanker in, and at last succeeded. It was a night of raving wind and rolling sea, and we hear of sleepless passengers below in their cabins reading the Bible to each other, and offering solemn prayer to Him who rode upon the wings of the wind. All that night Captain Martin was here and there throughout the ship—indeed he was to sleep no more until the dreadful afternoon of Thursday—and all the orders which he gave were speedily executed by the crew. The wind was blowing a full gale, and mizenstaysail and forestaysail and maintopmaststaysail and reefspanker had been set.