“Now then,” cried Mr. Marsh, “give way with a will—look out! she’s going. Row, row for your lives!”
The wreck gave a sudden lurch and then recovered herself with a staggering motion just at the moment when those in the boat so dangerously near expected to see her founder. The oars were plied vigorously, and the gig was more than half way to the ship when Jumbo exclaimed, “Look at her now!”
The bark’s last moment had come. Her bows rose gradually out of the water, and she rolled slowly over, disappearing stern foremost, as easily as though she were being launched into that element which she had sailed so many years, and which was now ending her existence. The fore mast, with the distress signals fluttering in the breeze, was the last thing to vanish; and as it sunk beneath the whirling vortex a groan escaped Captain Murray. As chief owner of the Dundee, his financial loss would be considerable, but there was another stronger feeling. In the vessel which had just descended to unknown depths he had traversed all the waterways of the globe; she had been his only home for many years, and seemed almost a part of himself. Kindred he had none, and the old bark had absorbed whatever of latent affection there was in his cold nature. Now she was gone as completely as if she had never existed; a few spars, an empty cask, and the torn British ensign, alone remaining to show where she had last been seen.
There was a dead silence in that little boat (save for the sound of the oars) for many minutes after the final scene. All seemed awed, and when at length the ship’s side was reached, Captain Murray raised his head for the first time since he had looked on his lost vessel. His eyes were moist with the only tears that they had known since childhood. As he climbed over the bulwarks, Captain Meade came forward—the American warmly grasped the Englishman’s hand. With rare tact, he spoke no word, but led his guest down the companion-way and into the privacy of his own room, leaving Mr. Marsh to attend to the proper disposition of the remainder of the rescued.
Chapter IV.
There are few sights more thrilling than that of a vessel foundering at sea; and for several weeks the Sagamore’s people thought of little but the lost bark and her crew. The Dundee’s steward was set to work in the galley, and the able seamen were divided between the two watches, where each day’s numerous duties soon made them forget their recent hardships. Captain Murray took the loss of his vessel much to heart, and was greatly depressed for some days; but to distract his attention, he voluntarily assumed the bo’s’un’s duties, and became less despondent as time passed.
During the week following the rescue, the Sagamore, with streaming decks, slowly but surely beat her way to the westward against contrary winds. Sometimes it was useless to attempt to proceed against the tremendous head sea, and she was hove to for a time. Then a gale would swoop down, sails would be furled or reefed; and after it was over, a few hours of what Captain Meade facetiously called “pleasant weather” would intervene. Then, if it happened to be day, old Sol shed his kindly warmth upon the ship, and the leaden sky was changed to an alluring blue. If night, the same glorious harvest moon that shone on fields and vineyards far away, here flooded the angry ocean with her soft, mysterious light. At such times, when it was possible to set a few sails, the merry clank, clunk, clank, of the capstan was heard as the heavy yards were hoisted, to the wild accompaniment of a sailors’ chorus. Every day it was “Tack ship” or “All hands reef sail,” until officers and crew were well-nigh fagged out. Most of those on board had been through the same experience many times, and knew that until it ended, all they could do was to bear their trials as best they could.
But one day there were indications of a change for the better. The ship was so far to the west, that a fair wind would enable her to steer north, cross the 50th. parallel, and leave Cape Horn behind. The state of the barometer, combined with other well known signs, led Captain Meade to predict “a regular old ripper from the southeast,” which was just what was wanted.
A violent snow-storm struck the Sagamore that evening, soon covering the decks with a mantle of white. After it ceased the wind nearly failed, and it was decided to put the ship on the other tack, so as to be in readiness to receive the south-easter which was felt to be at hand. When the passengers came on deck after supper, the whole southern horizon was black as pitch, sea and sky blending together in one dark, lowering mass. All hands were called to strip the ship; halyards were let go, sheets slackened, buntlines hauled in, and then the men, in rubber boots and oilers, climbed the rigging and went out upon the swaying yards. The gale struck her before the work was concluded; the icy polar wind was soon screeching through the rigging, to the accompaniment of whirling snow-flakes and flying spray; hail-stones pattered on the deck; and amidst all this, the port watch had to work an hour overtime before it was possible to go below and get supper. It is not an enviable task,—furling stiff, wet sails, one after another, while a bitter wind blows with a force that makes it necessary to hold on with one hand, to avoid being blown into the sea, while you work with the other—and all this at an elevation of sixty or seventy feet above the deck. The wind kept getting into the belly of the half-frozen sails, making them slippery as inflated balloons, and causing the men ten times the usual work to get them laid on the yards; while the pelting snow and hail, combined with the wild plunges of the ship, made it difficult to retain their precarious footing. But the job was finished at last, and grog served out.
Mr. Marsh came below cold and wet, in spite of his oilers, and his eyes heavy from loss of sleep.