[CHAPTER VII.]
IN THE BOATS.
By twelve o’clock they had baled the long-boat out and got her over the ship’s side, a task of no small difficulty, since, the main-mast being gone, they had no means of slinging her. The other boats were also lowered, each with a hand in her, and hung in a group about the port side of the ship, where the bulwarks were smashed.
Each boat was properly supplied with mast, sail, and oars; also with water, biscuits, some rum in bottles, etc. They looked mere cookie-shells alongside the great hull, and it seemed difficult to realise that they would sustain among them the weight of the crowd of men who stood by ready to jump into them.
The ship was settling fast. They had left off pumping her some time since, and she had now sunk a great hole under her port fore-chains to a level with the water, which gushed in like a cascade.
Mrs. Ashton was the first to be handed out of the ship. She screamed and hung back, and threw her hands out to her husband; but the men, raising her firmly in their arms, offering her the while certain rough and hearty encouragements, passed her over the ship’s side to the sailors in the boats, who deposited her in the long-boat. The widow, at her own request, was assigned to Holdsworth’s boat. They handed her boy over first, and then she followed and seated herself in the stern-sheets, holding her child tightly.
Then rose a cry of “Bear a hand! the ship will founder!”
Mrs. Ashton’s maid was passed out quickly, and then the passengers; the actor and the General getting into Holdsworth’s boat, the others into the long-boat. After this, the seamen, feeling the imminence of the danger, tumbled rapidly into the boats; and then Holdsworth quitted the ship, followed by the captain.
“Shove off!” shouted the boatswain, who commanded one of the quarter-boats.
Out flashed the oars; the boats parted and stood aloof from the hull at a distance of about three hundred feet.
It is impossible to describe the mingled emotions of dismay, curiosity, and breathless suspense with which the men awaited the sinking of the hull. There was not a soul among them who felt privileged to depart until the vessel, so noble once, so desolate and broken now, had sunk to her long home in the deep Atlantic. Something absolutely of human pathos that appealed to the heart, as the distress of a living thing might, seemed mixed up in the aspect of unutterable desolation she presented, the more defined and keen because of the mocking joyousness of the sunlight that streamed over her, and the fair and azure surface of the sea on which she rested. Her figure-head, uninjured by the gale—as perfect a piece of workmanship as ever graced a vessel’s bows—might, by no violent fantasy, have been deemed the spirit of the ship poising herself an instant ere she soared towards the sky. The two sails upon her flapped hollowly to her roll, and once there came from her silent deck a sound as of a bell being struck, which filled the listening sailors with awe, and set them bending superstitious glances in search of the Shadow that was tolling the ship’s funeral knell.