“Where abouts are we, sir?” responded the other.
“Heaven alone knows; for the electricity in the storm has rendered the compass almost useless. But, judging from where we were before the gale struck us, and from how we have been drifting since, I fancy we are near the African coast—too near, I fear, for we cannot with certainty make for any known harbour.”
“I reckon,” said the mate, “that we are not far from the Mozambique.”
“I fancy so too. Would to Heaven I could get but one glimpse of the Southern Cross. We might then with some chance make for Natal or Delagoa Bay.”
And he turned his eyes hopelessly up at the impenetrable blackness—hopeless indeed, for there was no sign of breaking there.
Hardly had I noted this when a cry of terror escaped from the lips of the whole crew. A terrific wind, accompanied by a quick succession of mountainous waves, had carried away at one sweep the jib-boom, fore-top-mast, gallant-mast, and royal-mast, leaving them still clinging to the ship by the stays, so impeding her progress that she rolled in the deep troughs of the sea as if every moment she would plunge in to rise no more. Our peril was not, however, yet at the worst; for hardly had a little calm succeeded this last damage, and the wreck had been cleared away—at the expense of two poor fellows’ lives—than, staggering on to the deck with pallid face, came the carpenter, with the awful announcement that the ship had sprung a leak, and the water was even then some feet deep in the hold.
The order was given—“All hands to the pumps;” and men wearied beyond apparent endurance before, at this danger were animated with fresh strength, and worked like giants.
Worked!—but to what purpose? Each anxious message sent down to learn how much the water had decreased, only brought back the desponding reply of an increase,—first, so many inches; then a foot; then two; then the terrible truth that, work with the strength of fifty giants, all would be useless. The ship was doomed—was sinking, sinking rapidly into the midst of that black, boiling, awful sea. If all men’s hearts grew faint at the news, was it a matter of wonder? Even the Captain’s cheek was pale as he gave the order to lower the boats, a command rapidly obeyed, but which only disclosed fresh disasters; for it was found that the starboard lifeboat had gone. They had therefore to repair to the starboard cutter, and with difficulty was it lowered to leeward, when it was speedily filled by some of the crew.
I stood by the captain, determined not to leave him; and cutting away the ropes, we watched the cutter take its course. Not for long did it keep it; for with a terrific cry from its wretched freight, echoed by all on the doomed ship, it foundered, leaving but a struggling mass of human beings on the surface, to be quickly engulphed by the mighty waves. The captain gave one lingering look, uttered a short prayer for them and for us, then, turning, wrung my hand, saying, while, I fancy, tears stood in his eyes—
“Galbraith, my man, our time will come next—our hour is at hand. Orders, now, in the wreck my poor, my beloved ship have become useless. We must part. Her fate is sealed, and so, I believe, is ours. God help us! Let each one now look for what safety he can. Goodbye—farewell—my men! God have mercy upon us! Should any chance to survive this terrible night, let him take the last farewells of those less fortunate to the dear ones left at home.”