The Perils and Adventures of Harry Skipwith by Land and Sea

by William Henry Giles Kingston

The mate gave a hurried glance round the horizon. He did not answer me, but he shouted—

“Aloft, all of ye! Furl the topsails. Let fly topgallants sheets. Here, you—Britisher, go to the helm, and do as I bid you. You, white boy, stand by those ropes.”

There was no time for further orders. The men flew aloft. They knew what ought to be done; but before they could do it the hurricane burst us. With desperate energy they attempted to gather in the furiously flapping canvas. As Snag directed I turned round the spokes of the wheel, and as the ship’s head was providentially pointing in the direction towards which the hurricane blew, away she flew before it, like a bird just escaping from the nets of the fowler. Had this not been the case, she would probably have instantly been thrown on her beam-ends. I had to exert all my strength to turn the wheel. I kept my eye on Snag, for not a word could I hear, as he rushed from rope to rope, hauling away with Peter on some, and letting go others.

The sails flapped and struggled with claps like thunder, as the blast caught them, till the vexed canvas tore itself out of the bolt-ropes. The masts bent and trembled, the yards strained and cracked. I looked up for a moment; I knew that the poor fellows aloft were in instant peril of their lives. They clung desperately to the yielding yards—clung for their lives—for the rent sails lashed furiously round them, and they scarcely dared to loose their hold for an instant to move in towards the masts. Most of them had lost their hats or caps, their hair was streaming out, their eyeballs starting from their heads.

A wild shriek reached my ears, even through the terrific din of the tempest. I caught a glimpse of the outer man on the fore-topsail-yard as the leech of the sail, torn to ribbons, coiled itself like some huge serpent round him, and tore him from his hold. In vain he tried to regain his hold, in vain to extricate himself—no human power could avail him. Helplessly he stretched out his arms; the fierce wind unloosened the coil of canvas, and, though grasping at a rope which eluded his hand, he was flung into the seething waters through which the brig was rushing onwards. For one instant I caught a sight of his countenance, as, still desperately struggling for life, he dropped astern, while the vessel flew by him. The mate saw what had happened, but took not the slightest notice. I thought Peter would have jumped overboard in his eagerness to try and save the man. He threw a rope, but it was utterly useless. Even had the poor wretch caught it, it would have been torn out of his hands. When Peter was certain that the man was hopelessly lost, I saw him wring his hands in sorrow, and he was evidently giving utterance to his feelings in words, though what he said of course I could not hear.

Even the gale did not bring the wretched master to his senses, but I fancied that I could hear him singing, or rather howling away in his drunken madness, keeping up a wild concert with the creaking of the bulkheads, the rattling of the blocks, the whistling of the wind through the rigging, and the loud roar of the rising seas, as they dashed against the sides of the vessel. The mate, to do him justice, was the only man of the whole crew who remained calm and collected. How he might have behaved aloft I do not know; still I think he would have been the same. He soon saw that it was impossible for the men to furl the canvas—or, rather, that there was no canvas left for them to furl. He made a signal to them to come down off the yards. It was not given too soon. Some obeyed, and slid down on deck, but before the last two on the main topsail-yard were off it, the main-top mast, which had already been bending ready to crack, gave way and went over the side, carrying the rigging, and the yard, and the two men on it, overboard. They were not shaken off, but still they clung with all the energy of despair to the spar. It was but for a moment. There were several loud cracks, some ropes gave way, the bolts which secured the shrouds to the side were drawn, and the whole mass of rigging, parting from the side, floated astern. In vain the men shrieked for help; in vain they held out their hands to us imploringly; no help could be given them, their fate might presently be ours.

The next minute the fore-topmasts went over the side, and the fore-yard came down with a crash on deck, carrying away the bulwarks, and crushing a man who had just descended from aloft, and thought he was in safety. There he lay writhing under it, and unable to extricate himself. I would have hurried to his assistance, but I dared not leave the helm, and Snag and the other men were so engaged in clearing the rest of the wreck, that they could make no attempt to lift up the yard so as to release him. It was dreadful to watch the poor fellow, as, with the movement of the ship, the heavy yard rolled on his broken limbs, inflicting the most excruciating torture. He shrieked out in his agony, entreating his companions either to release him or to put an end to his sufferings with a crowbar—so Peter told me, for his voice was borne far away from me on the wings of the hurricane. Peter, as soon as he saw what had occurred, in spite of the gestures of the mate ordering him to remain where he was, hurried forward. Still his whole strength could not, of course, move the spar; but getting hold of a handspike, he was able to prevent it from rolling over the man as often as before. Every moment the sea was rising, and as the vessel pitched more and more, the difficulty of keeping the yard off the man became greater.

At last the wreck, by means of axes and knives was cleared, and the mate had no longer on excuse for neglecting the seaman who lay under the yard. With careless indifference he directed the other men how to lift the spar so as to drag out the sufferer.

“He’s of no further use,” he exclaimed (so Peter told me) when he saw the injury the man had received. “May as well heave him overboard at once. We can’t mend broken legs here.”

“Oh, no; no, don’t now!” shrieked the poor wretch, who was probably not aware of the extent to which he was hurt. “I shall soon be well. I’ll work; I’ll work. Oh spare me!—spare! I am not fit to die! I’ll get well and work. Will nobody save me? I can’t die; I mustn’t die!”