John Holdsworth, Chief Mate

by William Clark Russell

All on a sudden the hull lurched in the direction of the boats and exposed her sloping decks. “She’s going now!” cried one of the men. This was true. Down sank her stern slowly, so slowly that many seconds passed ere her stern-windows were on a level with the water. She righted, and her bows, high raised, pointed the shattered jib-boom aloft, as though in her last agony she raised her mangled limbs to heaven. She then sank stern foremost, the deepest tragical dignity attending her descent: the silence unbroken, save by the sullen gurgling and bubbling of the water forcing itself through her decks. Her stern disappeared; then her bows stood black on the water; they vanished, and the fore-mast with the sail upon it alone remained visible. Lower and lower these crept, but still it was possible to trace the undulating outline of the hull in the clear water. The sponge-like sail sucked up the water quicker than it sank, and arched a brown shadow upon its snow; then the jagged top of the fore-mast only was to be seen; this vanished, and the boats were left alone upon the mighty surface of the deep.

A deep silence prevailed among the men while she was sinking; and not for some moments after she had disappeared did the spell upon them break, and a long and tremulous sigh escaped them.

Then the captain’s voice in the long-boat was heard:

“Mr. Holdsworth, our course is east-north-east. Every boat has a compass aboard of her. Now, my men, up with your masts; we may get a breeze before sun-down. And, meanwhile, out with your oars and make what way we can towards the old country!”

The stout-hearted fellows answered with a cheer; in all four boats they shipped the masts; out went the oars, and the water bubbled round the stems.

The men were right to cheer. God knows they needed what encouragement each other’s voice could give them.

What pen shall describe the overwhelming sense of the immensity of the sea, now that its surface could be touched by the hand—its huge presence so close! That sense alone was a weight that oppressed the hearts of the passengers like death. The height of a large ship from the edge of the water implanted a habit of security; but here, they overhung the deep by an arm’s length, and near enough to see their own pale faces mirrored in the green abyss from which they were separated by planks not much stouter than the sole of a boot.

There were in Holdsworth’s boat: himself, Mrs. Tennent and her boy, Mr. St. Aubyn, the General, and two seamen—Winyard and Johnson; in all, seven souls. The long-boat, in the distance, looked crowded; but then she was the largest of the boats. Astern of her rowed the boat commanded by the boatswain; astern of Holdsworth’s, the boat commanded by Mr. Thompson, the second mate.

There could be no purpose gained by rowing, for, let them ply the oars as hard as they would, they could not urge the heavy boats faster than three miles an hour. Holdsworth steered for the long-boat, and proposed to the captain that they should lay their oars in and wait for a breeze; which was agreed to. The sun shone hot upon the glassy sea, and the boats hoisted their sails as a protection against the rays. And for ever the men bent earnest and anxious glances round the bare and polished horizon for a sail.

In Holdsworth’s boat the two seamen sat forward, talking together in low voices; Mr. St. Aubyn reclined with his back against the mast, glancing incessantly about him with quick, scared eyes, but quite silent, as though the novelty and horror of the situation was more than his mind could receive, and he was labouring to master it. The General’s face was placid, and even hopeful. The widow, holding her son at her side, kept her eyes bent downwards, and often her lips moved.