“Holy Mother of God, he is gone,” cried Barnard. “My master—Oh! the boy I nursed, as I may say. Ha, see’st thou nought of Him?” cried the distracted old man, running to the lee-side of the ship, which was drifting broadside on, from the sudden cessation of the panic-struck rowers. “Ha, he’s there; I see him; I saw him as he was heaved up on the bosom of the billow. I’ll save him, or I’ll perish with him.”
“Stop him,” cried the Franciscan, who had rushed from the cabin on hearing the confused cry; “stop him, he plunges to certain destruction.”
But old Barnard was too alert for them all. He was overboard ere any of them could reach him.
“Madman,” cried the Franciscan, hastily picking up a rope; and as the sea lifted up the bulky form of the old skipper, who hung for some moments poised as it were on the crest of the wave, he, with great dexterity, threw a coil over him, and Barnard was dragged most miraculously on board, being unwillingly [[532]]saved from his rash, though generous, but utterly hopeless attempt.
Meanwhile the brave Mercer was borne away, seemingly to certain destruction. Everything was done by the active Franciscan to bring the bark near him. He was seen, now tossed on the high top of a mountainous surge, and now far down in the gulf out of which it had swelled itself. Sometimes he was thrown violently towards them, and again he was whirled far away with the velocity of thought; yet amidst all the horrors of the apparently inevitable death that surrounded him, he struggled with a calmness that showed his undaunted soul, and seemed determined to husband his strength as long as hope remained. A rope with a noose upon it was thrown to him. He had watched the endeavours his friends were making to save him, and he now exerted all his strength and skill to aid them. After many an unsuccessful effort, he at last caught the rope, and, with great adroitness, passed the noose over his head and arms. The Franciscan and the half-frantic helmsman, aided by some of the crew, began to pull him gently towards the vessel. A long rolling wave came and dashed him against the ship’s side. He was hastily pulled up—but life was for ever extinct.
The deepest grief fell upon the crew when they beheld their beloved commander thus stretched inanimate before them; and they forgot their own safety and that of the vessel in their affliction for his loss. Poor old Barnard hung over the dripping corpse of his master, and seemed to be utterly unconscious of all that was passing around him.
“Alas!” he cried, looking in his face, and putting back his drenched locks with his rough hand as he said so, “would I had but sunk ere I had beheld thee so. I had never the blessing of wife or of children, but I did esteem thy father as my son; yea, and thou wert as the grandchild of mine old age. Thou didst grow to be a man under mine own especial nurture. I had pride and pleasure in thy gallantry and in thy success. Right cheerfully did I work for thee; ay, and would have worked for thee whiles my old timbers did hang together; but now, sith thou art gone, I have but little tie to this world. I care not how soon I weigh anchor for the land of souls; for what have I, a poor old lonesome man, to do here without thee? Let fresher hands take the watch, for—I—I—” his feelings overcame his hardy nature for a moment, but he recovered himself. “Take care no harm comes over his corpse,” cried he, looking sternly round upon his shipmates. “Let it be [[533]]laid decently out in his own berth—and—and——” His voice again became choked—he coughed—he put his hands to his eyes—and turning hastily away, disappeared into the hole that was his usual place of repose, to bury his emotions in darkness and silence.
After the loss of Mercer, there was an utter confusion and want of system among the under officers and crew, until the Franciscan monk boldly assumed the command. Many of those on board had sailed with him in the days of old Mercer, and being well acquainted with his resolute mind, as well as with his nautical knowledge, they scrupled not to obey him. He was indefatigable in his exertions; but nothing he could do availed, and he was compelled to allow the bark, crazed as she was, to drift before the wind with every fear of her foundering.
Dreadful was the night that ensued, and anxiously did every soul on board long for morning, but when it came it was like a mimic night. The clouds hung darkly over the sea, as if about to mingle with it. Torrents of rain fell; and the waves arose like peaked mountains, their whitened tops piercing the black vault of the clouds. The tempestuous wind seemed to shift from one point to another; and they were so tossed to and fro that they became bewildered, and could not even avail themselves of the imperfect needle then in use. Land they could see none; and when the second night fell upon them, each man gave his soul to the care of the Virgin or his patron saint, persuaded that there was but little chance of ever seeing another sun.
Meanwhile the hardy Franciscan never quailed, nor did he ever leave the deck. Little could be done to aid the ship, but he ceased not to encourage the mariners, both by his voice and his example.