The Crater
by
James Fenimore Cooper
Part 1 out of 9
THE CRATER
Or, Vulcan's Peak
A Tale of the Pacific.
By J. Fenimore Cooper.
1863
"Thus arise
Races of living things, glorious in strength
And perish, as the quickening breath of God
Fills them, or is withdrawn."--_Bryant._
Complete In One Volume
Preface.
The reader of this book will very naturally be disposed to ask the
question, why the geographies, histories, and other works of a similar
character, have never made any mention of the regions and events that
compose its subject. The answer is obvious enough, and ought to satisfy
every mind, however "inquiring." The fact is, that the authors of the
different works to which there is any allusion, most probably never
heard there were any such places as the Reef, Rancocus Island, Vulcan's
Peak, the Crater, and the other islands of which so much is said in our
pages. In other words, they knew nothing about them.
We shall very freely admit that, under ordinary circumstances, it would
be _prima facie_ evidence against the existence of any spot on the face
of this earth, that the geographies took no notice of it. It will be
remembered, however, that the time was, and that only three centuries
and a half since, when the geographies did not contain a syllable about
the whole of the American continent; that it is not a century since they
began to describe New Zealand, New Holland, Tahiti, Oahu, and a vast
number of other places, that are now constantly alluded to, even in the
daily journals. Very little is said in the largest geographies, of
Japan, for instance; and it may be questioned if they might not just as
well be altogether silent on the subject, as for any accurate
information they do convey. In a word, much as is now known of the
globe, a great deal still remains to be told, and we do not see why the
"inquiring mind" should not seek for information in our pages, as well
as in some that are ushered in to public notice by a flourish of
literary trumpets, that are blown by presidents, vice-presidents and
secretaries of various learned bodies.
One thing we shall ever maintain, and that in the face of all who may be
disposed to underrate the value of our labours, which is this:--there is
not a word in these volumes which we now lay before the reader, _as
grave matter of fact_, that is not entitled to the most implicit credit.
We scorn deception. Lest, however, some cavillers may be found, we will
present a few of those reasons which occur to our mind, on the spur of
the moment, as tending to show that everything related here _might_ be
just as true as Cook's voyages themselves. In the first place, this
earth is large, and has sufficient surface to contain, not only all the
islands mentioned in our pages, but a great many more. Something is
established when the possibility of any hypothetical point is placed
beyond dispute. Then, not one half as much was known of the islands of
the Pacific, at the close of the last, and at the commencement of the
present century, as is known to-day. In such a dearth of precise
information, it may very well have happened that many things occurred
touching which we have not said even one word. Again, it should never be
forgotten that generations were born, lived their time, died, and have
been forgotten, among those remote groups, about which no civilized man
ever has, or ever will hear anything. If such be admitted to be the
facts, why may not _all_ that is here related have happened, and equally
escape the knowledge of the rest of the civilized world? During the wars
of the French revolution, trifling events attracted but little of the
general attention, and we are not to think of interests of this nature,
in that day, as one would think of them now.
Whatever may be thought of the authenticity of its incidents, we hope
this book will be found not to be totally without a moral. Truth is not
absolutely necessary to the illustration of a principle, the imaginary
sometimes doing that office quite as effectually as the actual.
The reader may next wish to know why the wonderful events related in
these volumes have so long been hidden from the world. In answer to this
we would ask if anyone can tell how many thousands of years the waters
have tumbled down the cliffs at Niagara, or why it was that civilized
men heard of the existence of this wonderful cataract so lately as only
three centuries since. The fact is, there must be a beginning to
everything; and now there is a beginning to the world's knowing the
history of Vulcan's Peak, and the Crater. Lest the reader, however,
should feel disposed to reproach the past age with having been negligent
in its collection of historical and geological incidents, we would again
remind him of the magnitude of the events that so naturally occupied its
attention. It is scarcely possible, for instance, for one who did not
live forty years ago to have any notion how completely the world was
engaged in wondering at Napoleon and his marvellous career, which last
contained even more extraordinary features than anything related here;
though certainly of a very different character. All wondering, for near
a quarter of a century, was monopolized by the French Revolution and its
consequences.
There are a few explanations, however, which are of a very humble nature
compared with the principal events of our history, but which may as well
be given here. The Woolston family still exists in Pennsylvania, and
that, by the way, is something towards corroborating the truth of our
narrative. Its most distinguished member is recently dead, and his
journal has been the authority for most of the truths here related. He
died at a good old age, having seen his three-score years and ten,
leaving behind him, in addition to a very ample estate, not only a good
character, which means neither more nor less than what "the neighbours,"
amid their ignorance, envy, love of detraction, jealousy and other
similar qualities, might think proper to say of him, but the odour of a
well-spent life, in which he struggled hard to live more in favour with
God, than in favour with man. It was remarked in him, for the last forty
years of his life, or after his return to Bucks, that he regarded all
popular demonstrations with distaste, and, as some of his enemies
pretended, with contempt. Nevertheless, he strictly acquitted himself of
all his public duties, and never neglected to vote. It is believed that
his hopes for the future, meaning in a social and earthly sense, were
not very vivid, and he was often heard to repeat that warning text of
Scripture which tells us, "Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed
lest he fall."
The faithful, and once lovely partner of this principal personage of our
history is also dead. It would seem that it was not intended they should
be long asunder. But their time was come, and they might almost be said
to have departed in company. The same is true of Friends Robert and
Martha, who have also filled their time, and gone hence, it is to be
hoped to a better world. Some few of the younger persons of our drama
still exist, but it has been remarked of them, that they avoid
conversing of the events of their younger days. Youth is the season of
hope, and hope disappointed has little to induce us to dwell on its
deceptive pictures.
If those who now live in this republic, can see any grounds for a timely
warning in the events here recorded, it may happen that the mercy of a
divine Creator may still preserve that which he has hitherto cherished
and protected.
It remains only to say that we have endeavoured to imitate the
simplicity of Captain Woolston's journal, in writing this book, and
should any homeliness of style be discovered, we trust it will be
imputed to that circumstance.
The Crater.
Chapter I.
"'Twas a commodity lay fretting by you;
'Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas."
_Taming of the Shrew._
There is nothing in which American Liberty, not always as much
restrained as it might be, has manifested a more decided tendency to run
riot, than in the use of names. As for Christian names, the Heathen
Mythology, the Bible, Ancient History, and all the classics, have long
since been exhausted, and the organ of invention has been at work with
an exuberance of imagination that is really wonderful for such a
matter-of-fact people. Whence all the strange sounds have been derived
which have thus been pressed into the service of this human
nomenclature, it would puzzle the most ingenious philologist to say. The
days of the Kates, and Dollys, and Pattys, and Bettys, have passed away,
and in their stead we hear of Lowinys, and Orchistrys, Philenys,
Alminys, Cytherys, Sarahlettys, Amindys, Marindys, &c. &c. &c. All these
last appellations terminate properly with an a, but this unfortunate
vowel, when a final letter, being popularly pronounced like y, we have
adapted our spelling to the sound, which produces a complete bathos to
all these flights in taste.
The hero of this narrative was born fully sixty years since, and happily
before the rage for modern appellations, though he just escaped being
named after another system which we cannot say we altogether admire;
that of using a family, for a christian name. This business of names is
a sort of science in itself and we do believe that it is less
understood and less attended to in this country than in almost all
others. When a Spaniard writes his name as Juan de Castro y[1] Munos, we
know that his father belonged to the family of Castro and his mother to
that of Munos. The French, and Italian, and Russian woman, &c., writes
on her card Madame this or that, _born_ so and so; all which tells the
whole history of her individuality Many French women, in signing their
names, prefix those of their own family to those of their husbands, a
sensible and simple usage that we are glad to see is beginning to obtain
among ourselves. The records on tomb-stones, too, might be made much
more clear and useful than they now are, by stating distinctly who the
party was, on both sides of the house, or by father and mother; and each
married woman ought to be commemorated in some such fashion as this:
"Here lies Jane Smith, wife of John Jones," &c., or, "Jane, daughter of
Thomas Smith and wife of John Jones." We believe that, in some
countries, a woman's name is not properly considered to be changed by
marriage, but she becomes a Mrs. only in connection with the name of her
husband. Thus Jane Smith becomes Mrs. _John_ Jones, but not Mrs. Jane
Jones. It is on this idea we suppose that our ancestors the
English--every Englishman, as a matter of course, being every American's
ancestor--thus it is, we suppose, therefore, that our ancestors, who pay
so much more attention to such matters than we do ourselves, in their
table of courtesy, call the wife of Lord John Russell, Lady _John_, and
not Lady--whatever her Christian name may happen to be. We suppose,
moreover, it is on this principle that Mrs. General This, Mrs. Dr. That,
and Mrs. Senator T'other, are as inaccurate as they are notoriously
vulgar.
[Footnote 1: Some few of our readers may require to be told that,
in Spanish, y, pronounced as e, is the simple conjunction "and;"
thus this name is de Castro _and_ Munos.]
Mark Woolston came from a part of this great republic where the names
are still as simple, unpretending, and as good Saxon English, as in the
county of Kent itself. He was born in the little town of Bristol, Bucks
county, Pennsylvania. This is a portion of the country that, Heaven be
praised! still retains some of the good old-fashioned directness and
simplicity. Bucks is full of Jacks, and Bens, and Dicks, and we question
if there is such a creature, of native growth, in all that region, as an
Ithusy, or a Seneky, or a Dianthy, or an Antonizetty, or a Deidamy.[2]
The Woolstons, in particular, were a plain family, and very unpretending
in their external appearance, but of solid and highly respectable habits
around the domestic hearth. Knowing perfectly how to spell, they never
dreamed anyone would suspect them of ignorance. They called themselves
as their forefathers were called, that is to say, Wooster, or just as
Worcester is pronounced; though a Yankee schoolmaster tried for a whole
summer to persuade our hero, when a child, that he ought to be styled
Wool-ston. This had no effect on Mark, who went on talking of his uncles
and aunts, "Josy Wooster," and "Tommy Wooster," and "Peggy Wooster,"
precisely as if a New England academy did not exist on earth; or as if
Webster had not actually put Johnson under his feet!
[Footnote 2: Absurd and forced as these strange appellations may
appear, they are all genuine. The writer has collected a long list
of such names from real life, which he may one day
publish--Orchistra, Philena, and Almina are among them. To all the
names ending in a, it must be remembered that the sound of a final
y is given.]
The father of Mark Woolston (or Wooster) was a physician, and, for the
country and age, was a well-educated and skilful man. Mark was born in
1777, just seventy years since, and only ten days before the surrender
of Burgoyne. A good deal of attention was paid to his instruction, and
fortunately for himself, his servitude under the eastern pedagogue was
of very short duration, and Mark continued to speak the English language
as his fathers had spoken it before him. The difference on the score of
language, between Pennsylvania and New Jersey and Maryland, always
keeping in the counties that were not settled by Germans or Irish, and
the New England states, and _through_ them, New York, is really so
obvious as to deserve a passing word. In the states first named,
taverns, for instance, are still called the Dun Cow, the Indian Queen,
or the Anchor: whereas such a thing would be hard to find, at this day,
among the six millions of people who dwell in the latter. We question
if there be such a thing as a coffee-house in all Philadelphia, though
we admit it with grief, the respectable town of Brotherly Love has, in
some respects, become infected with the spirit of innovation. Thus it is
that good old "State House _Yard_" has been changed into "Independence
Square." This certainly is not as bad as the _tour de force_ of the
aldermen of Manhattan when they altered "Bear Market" into "_Washington_
Market!" for it is not a prostitution of the name of a great man, in the
first place, and there is a direct historical allusion in the new name
that everybody can understand. Still, it is to be regretted; and we hope
this will be the last thing of the sort that will ever occur, though we
confers our confidence in Philadelphian stability and consistency is a
good deal lessened, since we have learned, by means of a late law-suit,
that there are fifty or sixty aldermen in the place; a number of those
worthies that is quite sufficient to upset the proprieties, in Athens
itself!
Dr. Woolston had a competitor in another physician, who lived within a
mile of him, and whose name was Yardley. Dr. Yardley was a very
respectable person, had about the same degree of talents and knowledge
as his neighbour and rival, but was much the richest man of the two. Dr.
Yardley, however, had but one child, a daughter, whereas Dr. Woolston,
with much less of means, had sons and daughters. Mark was the oldest of
the family, and it was probably owing to this circumstance that he was
so well educated, since the expense was not yet to be shared with that
of keeping his brothers and sisters at schools of the same character.
In 1777 an American college was little better than a high school. It
could not be called, in strictness, a grammar school, inasmuch as all
the sciences were glanced at, if not studied; but, as respects the
classics, more than a grammar school it was not, nor that of a very high
order. It was a consequence of the light nature of the studies, that
mere boys graduated in those institutions. Such was the case with Mark
Woolston, who would have taken his degree as a Bachelor of Arts, at
Nassau Hall, Princeton, had not an event occurred, in his sixteenth
year, which produced an entire change in his plan of life, and nipped
his academical honours in the bud.
Although it is unusual for square-rigged vessels of any size to ascend
the Delaware higher than Philadelphia, the river is, in truth, navigable
for such craft almost to Trenton Bridge. In the year 1793, when Mark
Woolston was just sixteen, a full-rigged ship actually came up, and lay
at the end of the wharf in Burlington, the little town nearly opposite
to Bristol, where she attracted a great deal of the attention of all the
youths of the vicinity. Mark was at home, in a vacation, and he passed
half his time in and about that ship, crossing the river in a skiff of
which he was the owner, in order to do so. From that hour young Mark
affected the sea, and all the tears of his mother and eldest sister, the
latter a pretty girl only two years his junior, and the more sober
advice of his father, could not induce him to change his mind. A six
weeks' vacation was passed in the discussion of this subject, when the
Doctor yielded to his son's importunities, probably foreseeing he should
have his hands full to educate his other children, and not unwilling to
put this child, as early as possible, in the way of supporting himself.
The commerce of America, in 1793, was already flourishing, and
Philadelphia was then much the most important place in the country. Its
East India trade, in particular, was very large and growing, and Dr.
Woolston knew that fortunes were rapidly made by many engaged in it.
After, turning the thing well over in his mind, he determined to consult
Mark's inclinations, and to make a sailor of him. He had a cousin
married to the sister of an East India, or rather of a Canton
ship-master, and to this person the father applied for advice and
assistance. Captain Crutchely very willingly consented to receive Mark
in his own vessel, the Rancocus, and promised "to make a man and an
officer of him."
The very day Mark first saw the ocean he was sixteen years old. He had
got his height, five feet eleven, and was strong for his years, and
active. In fact, it would not have been easy to find a lad every way so
well adapted to his new calling, as young Mark Woolston. The three years
of his college life, if they had not made him a Newton, or a Bacon, had
done him no harm, filling his mind with the germs of ideas that were
destined afterwards to become extremely useful to him. The young man was
already, indeed, a sort of factotum, being clever and handy at so many
things and in so many different ways, as early to attract the attention
of the officers. Long before the vessel reached the capes, he was at
home in her, from her truck to her keelson, and Captain Crutchely
remarked to his chief mate, the day they got to sea, that "young Mark
Woolston was likely to turn up a trump."
As for Mark himself, he did not lose sight of the land, for the first
time in his life, altogether without regrets. He had a good deal of
feeling in connection with his parents, and his brothers and sisters;
but, as it is our aim to conceal nothing which ought to be revealed, we
must add there was still another who filled his thoughts more than all
the rest united. This person was Bridget Yardley, the only child of his
father's most formidable professional competitor.
The two physicians were obliged to keep up a sickly intercourse, not
intending a pun. They were too often called in to consult together, to
maintain an open war. While the heads of their respective families
occasionally met, therefore, at the bed-side of their patients, the
families themselves had no direct communications. It is true, that Mrs.
Woolston and Mrs. Yardley were occasionally to be seen seated at the
same tea-table, taking their hyson in company, for the recent trade with
China had expelled the bohea from most of the better parlours of the
country; nevertheless, these good ladies could not get to be cordial
with each other. They themselves had a difference on religious points,
that was almost as bitter as the differences of opinions between their
husbands on the subject of alternatives. In that distant day,
homoeopathy, and allopathy, and hydropathy, and all the opathies, were
nearly unknown; but men could wrangle and abuse each other on medical
points, just as well and as bitterly then, as they do now. Religion,
too, quite as often failed to bear its proper fruits, in 1793, as it
proves barren in these, our own times. On this subject of religion, we
have one word to say, and that is, simply, that it never was a meet
matter for self-gratulation and boasting. Here we have the
Americo-Anglican church, just as it has finished a blast of trumpets,
through the medium of numberless periodicals and a thousand letters from
its confiding if not confident clergy, in honour of its quiet, and
harmony, and superior polity, suspended on the very brink of the
precipice of separation, if not of schism, and all because it has
pleased certain ultra-sublimated divines in the other hemisphere, to
write a parcel of tracts that nobody understands, themselves included.
How many even of the ministers of the altar fall, at the very moment
they are beginning to fancy themselves saints, and are ready to thank
God they are "not like the publicans!"
Both. Mrs. Woolston and Mrs. Yardley were what is called 'pious;' that
is, each said her prayers, each went to her particular church, and very
_particular_ churches they were; each fancied she had a sufficiency of
saving faith, but neither was charitable enough to think, in a very
friendly temper, of the other. This difference of religious opinion,
added to the rival reputations of their husbands, made these ladies
anything but good neighbours, and, as has been intimated, years had
passed since either had entered the door of the other.
Very different was the feeling of the children. Anne Woolston, the
oldest sister of Mark, and Bridget Yardley, were nearly of an age, and
they were not only school-mates, but fast friends. To give their mothers
their due, they did not lessen this intimacy by hints, or intimations of
any sort, but let the girls obey their own tastes, as if satisfied it
was quite sufficient for "professors of religion" to hate in their own
persons, without entailing the feeling on posterity. Anne and Bridget
consequently became warm friends, the two sweet, pretty young things
both believing, in the simplicity of their hearts, that the very
circumstance which in truth caused the alienation, not to say the
hostility of the elder members of their respective families, viz.
professional identity, was an additional reason why _they_ should love
each other so much the more. The girls were about two and three years
the juniors of Mark, but well grown for their time of life, and frank
and affectionate as innocence and warm hearts could make them. Each was
more than pretty, though it was in styles so very different, as
scarcely to produce any of that other sort of rivalry, which is so apt
to occur even in the gentler sex. Anne had bloom, and features, and fine
teeth, and, a charm that is so very common in America, a good mouth; but
Bridget had all these added to expression. Nothing could be more soft,
gentle and feminine, than Bridget Yardley's countenance, in its ordinary
state of rest; or more spirited, laughing, buoyant or pitying than it
became, as the different passions or feelings were excited in her young
bosom. As Mark was often sent to see his sister home, in her frequent
visits to the madam's house, where the two girls held most of their
intercourse, he was naturally enough admitted into their association.
The connection commenced by Mark's agreeing to be Bridget's brother, as
well as Anne's. This was generous, at least; for Bridget was an only
child, and it was no more than right to repair the wrongs of fortune in
this particular. The charming young thing declared that she would
"rather have Mark Woolston for her brother than any other boy in
Bristol; and that it was delightful to have the same person for a
brother as Anne!" Notwithstanding this flight in the romantic, Bridget
Yardley was as natural as it was possible for a female in a reasonably
civilized condition of society to be. There was a vast deal of
excellent, feminine self-devotion in her temperament, but not a particle
of the exaggerated, in either sentiment or fueling. True as steel in all
her impulses and opinions, in adopting Mark for a brother she merely
yielded to a strong natural sympathy, without understanding its tendency
or its origin. She would talk by the hour, with Anne, touching _their_
brother, and what they must make him do, and where he must go with them,
and in what they could oblige him most. The real sister was less active
than her friend, in mind and body, and she listened to all these schemes
and notions with a quiet submission that was not entirely free from
wonder.
The result of all this intercourse was to awaken a feeling between Mark
and Bridget, that was far more profound than might have been thought in
breasts so young, and which coloured their future lives. Mark first
became conscious of the strength of this feeling when he lost sight of
the Capes, and fancied the dear little. Bucks county girl he had left
behind him, talking with his sister of his own absence and risks. But
Mark had too much of the true spirit of a sailor in him, to pine, or
neglect his duty; and, long ere the ship had doubled the Cape of Good
Hope, he had become an active and handy lad aloft. When the ship reached
the China seas, he actually took his trick at the helm.
As was usual in that day, the voyage of the Rancocus lasted about a
twelvemonth. If John Chinaman were only one-half as active as Jonathan
Restless, it might be disposed of in about one-fourth less time; but
teas are not transported along the canals of the Celestial Empire with
anything like the rapidity with which wheat was sent to market over the
rough roads of the Great Republic, in the age of which we are writing.
When Mark Woolston re-appeared in Bristol, after the arrival of the
Rancocus below had been known there about twenty-four hours, he was the
envy of all the lads in the place, and the admiration of most of the
girls. There he was, a tall, straight, active, well-made, well-grown and
decidedly handsome lad of seventeen, who had doubled the Cape of Good
Hope, seen foreign parts, and had a real India handkerchief hanging out
of each pocket of a blue round-about of superfine cloth, besides one
around his half-open well-formed throat, that was carelessly tied in a
true sailor knot! The questions he had to answer, and _did_ answer,
about whales, Chinese feet, and "mountain waves!" Although Bristol lies
on a navigable river, up and down which frigates had actually been seen
to pass in the revolution, it was but little that its people knew of the
ocean. Most of the worthy inhabitants of the place actually fancied that
the waves of the sea were as high as mountains, though their notions of
the last were not very precise, there being no elevations in that part
of the country fit even for a windmill.
But Mark cared little for these interrogatories. He was happy; happy
enough, at being the object of so much attention; happier still in the
bosom of a family of which he had always been the favourite and was now
the pride; and happiest of all when he half ravished a kiss from the
blushing cheek of Bridget Yardley. Twelve months had done a great deal
for each of the young couple. If they had not quite made a man of Mark,
they had made him manly, and his _soi-disant_ sister wondered that any
one could be so much improved by a sea-faring life. As for Bridget,
herself, she was just bursting into young womanhood, resembling the bud
as its leaves of green are opening to permit those of the deepest
rose-coloured tint to be seen, before they expand into the full-blown
flower. Mark was more than delighted, he was fascinated; and young as
they were, the month he passed at home sufficed to enable him to tell
his passion, and to obtain a half-ready, half-timid acceptance of the
offer of his hand. All this time, the parents of these very youthful
lovers were as profoundly ignorant of what was going on, as their
children were unobservant of the height to which professional
competition had carried hostilities between their respective parents.
Doctors Woolston and Yardley no longer met even in consultations; or, if
they did meet in the house of some patient whose patronage was of too
much value to be slighted, it was only to dispute, and sometimes
absolutely to quarrel.
At the end of one short month, however, Mark was once more summoned to
his post on board the Rancocus, temporarily putting an end to his
delightful interviews with Bridget. The lovers had made Anne their
confidant, and she, well-meaning girl, seeing no sufficient reason why
the son of one respectable physician should not be a suitable match for
the daughter of another respectable physician, encouraged them in their
vows of constancy, and pledges to become man and wife at a future, but
an early day. To some persons all this may seem exceedingly improper, as
well as extremely precocious; but the truth compels us to say, that its
impropriety was by no means as obvious as its precocity. The latter it
certainly was, though Mark had shot up early, and was a man at a time of
life when lads, in less genial climates, scarcely get tails to their
coats; but its impropriety must evidently be measured by the habits of
the state of society in which the parties were brought up, and by the
duties that had been inculcated. In America, then, as now, but little
heed was taken by parents, more especially in what may be called the
middle classes, concerning the connections thus formed by their
children. So Long as the parties were moral, bore good characters, had
nothing particular against them, and were of something near the same
social station, little else was asked for; or, if more were actually
required, it was usually when it was too late, and after the young
people had got themselves too deeply in love to allow ordinary
prudential reasons to have their due force.
Mark went to sea this time, dragging after him a "lengthening chain,"
but, nevertheless, filled with hope. His years forbade much despondency,
and, while he remained as constant as if he had been a next-door
neighbour, he was buoyant, and the life of the whole crew, after the
first week out. This voyage was not direct to Canton, like the first;
but the ship took a cargo of sugar to Amsterdam, and thence went to
London, where she got a freight for Cadiz. The war of the French
Revolution was now blazing in all the heat of its first fires, and
American bottoms were obtaining a large portion of the carrying trade of
the world. Captain Crutchely had orders to keep the ship in Europe,
making the most of her, until a certain sum in Spanish dollars could be
collected, when he was to fill up with provisions and water, and again
make the best of his way to Canton. In obeying these instructions, he
went from port to port; and, as a sort of consequence of having Quaker
owners, turning his peaceful character to great profit, thus giving Mark
many opportunities of seeing as much of what is called the world, as can
be found in sea-ports. Great, indeed, is the difference between places
that are merely the marts of commerce, and those that are really
political capitals of large countries! No one can be aware of, or can
fully appreciate the many points of difference that, in reality, exist
between such places, who has not seen each, and that sufficiently near
to be familiar with both. Some places, of which London is the most
remarkable example, enjoy both characters; and, when this occurs, the
town gels to possess a tone that is even less provincial and narrow, if
possible, than that which is to be found in a place that merely rejoices
in a court. This it is which renders Naples, insignificant as its
commerce comparatively is, superior to Vienna, and Genoa to Florence.
While it would be folly to pretend that Mark, in his situation, obtained
the most accurate notions imaginable of all he saw and heard, in his
visits to Amsterdam, London, Cadiz, Bordeaux, Marseilles, Leghorn,
Gibraltar, and two or three other ports that might be mentioned and to
which he went, he did glean a good deal, some of which was useful to him
in after-life. He lost no small portion of the provincial rust of home,
moreover, and began to understand the vast difference between "seeing
the world" and "going to meeting and going to mill."[3] In addition to
these advantages, Mark was transferred from the forecastle to the cabin
before the ship sailed for Canton. The practice of near two years had
made him a very tolerable sailor, and his previous education made the
study of navigation easy to him. In that day there was a scarcity of
officers in America, and a young man of Mark's advantages, physical and
moral, was certain to get on rapidly, provided he only behaved well. It
is not at all surprising, therefore, that our young sailor got to be the
second-mate of the Raucocus before he had quite completed his eighteenth
year.
[Footnote 3: This last phrase has often caused the writer to smile,
when he has heard a countryman say, with a satisfied air, as is so
often the case in this good republic, that "such or such a thing
here is good enough for _me_;" meaning that he questions if there
be anything of the sort that is better anywhere else. It was
uttered many years since, by a shrewd Quaker, in West-Chester, who
was contending with a neighbour on a subject that the other
endeavoured to defend by alluding to the extent of his own
observation. "Oh, yes, Josy," answered the Friend, "thee's been to
meeting and thee's been to mill, and thee knows all about it!"
America is full of travellers who have been to meeting and who have
been to mill. This it is which makes it unnecessarily provincial.]
The voyage from London to Canton, and thence home to Philadelphia,
consumed about ten months. The Rancocus was a fast vessel, but she could
not impart her speed to the Chinamen. It followed that Mark wanted but a
few weeks of being nineteen years old the day his ship passed Cape May,
and, what was more, he had the promise of Captain Crutchely, of sailing
with him, as his first officer, in the next voyage. With that promise in
his mind, Mark hastened up the river to Bristol, as soon as he was clear
of the vessel.
Bridget Yardley had now fairly budded, to pursue the figure with which
we commenced the description of this blooming flower, and, if not
actually expanded into perfect womanhood, was so near it as to show
beyond all question that the promises of her childhood were to be very
amply redeemed. Mark found her in black, however; or, in mourning for
her mother. An only child, this serious loss had thrown her more than
ever in the way of Anne, the parents on both sides winking at an
association that could do no harm, and which might prove so useful. It
was very different, however, with the young sailor. He had not been a
fortnight at home, and getting to be intimate with the roof-tree of
Doctor Yardley, before that person saw fit to pick a quarrel with him,
and to forbid him his house. As the dispute was wholly gratuitous on the
part of the Doctor, Mark behaving with perfect propriety on the
occasion, it may be well to explain its real cause. The fact was, that
Bridget was an heiress; if not on a very large scale, still an heiress,
and, what was more, unalterably so in right of her mother; and the
thought that a son of his competitor, Doctor Woolston, should profit by
this fact, was utterly insupportable to him. Accordingly he quarrelled
with Mark, the instant he was apprised of the character of his
attentions, and forbade him the house, To do Mark justice, he knew
nothing of Bridget's worldly possessions. That she was beautiful, and
warm-hearted, and frank, and sweet-tempered, and feminine, and
affectionate, he both saw and felt; but beyond this he neither saw
anything, nor cared about seeing anything. The young sailor was as
profoundly ignorant that Bridget was the actual owner of certain three
per cents, that brought twelve hundred a year, as if she did not own a
'copper,' as it was the fashion of that period to say,'_cents_' being
then very little, if at all, used. Nor did he know anything of the farm
she had inherited from her mother, or of the store in town, that brought
three hundred and fifty more in rent. It is true that some allusions
were made to these matters by Doctor Yardley, in his angry comments on
the Woolston family generally, Anne always excepted, and in whose
flavour he made a salvo, even in the height of his denunciations. Still.
Mark thought so much of that which was really estimable and admirable
in Bridget, and so little of anything mercenary, that even after these
revelations he could not comprehend the causes of Doctor Yardley's harsh
treatment of him. During the whole scene, which was purposely enacted in
the presence of his wondering and trembling daughter, Mark behaved
perfectly well. He had a respect for the Doctor's years, as well as for
Bridget's father, and would not retort. After waiting as long as he
conceived waiting could be of any use, he seized his hat, and left the
room with an air of resentment that Bridget construed into the
expression of an intention never to speak to any of them again. But Mark
Woolston was governed by no such design, as the sequel will show.
Chapter II.
"She's not fourteen."
"I'll lay fourteen of my teeth,
And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four,--
She is not fourteen."--
_Romeo and Juliet._
Divine wisdom has commanded us to "Honour your father and your mother."
Observant travellers affirm that less respect is paid to parents in
America, than is usual in Christian nations--we say _Christian_ nations;
for many of the heathen, the Chinese for instance, worship them, though
probably with an allegorical connection that we do not understand. That
the parental tie is more loose in this country than in most others we
believe, and there is a reason to be found for it in the migratory
habits of the people, and in the general looseness in all the ties that
connect men with the past. The laws on the subject of matrimony,
moreover, are so very lax, intercourse is so simple and has so many
facilities, and the young of the two sexes are left so much to
themselves, that it is no wonder children form that connection so often
without reflection and contrary to the wishes of their friends. Still,
the law of God is there, and we are among those who believe that a
neglect of its mandates is very apt to bring its punishment, even in
this world, and we are inclined to think that much of that which Mark
and Bridget subsequently suffered, was in consequence of acting directly
in the face of the wishes and injunctions of their parents.
The scene which had taken place under the roof of Doctor Yardley was
soon known under that of Doctor Woolston. Although the last individual
was fully aware that Bridget was what was then esteemed rich, at
Bristol, he cared not for her money. The girl he liked well enough, and
in secret even admired her as much as he could find it in his heart to
admire anything of Doctor Yardley's; but the indignity was one he was by
no means inclined to overlook, and, in his turn, he forbade all
intercourse between the girls. These two bitter pills, thus administered
by the village doctors to their respective patients, made the young
people very miserable. Bridget loved Anne almost as much as she loved
Mark, and she began to pine and alter in her appearance, in a way to
alarm her father. In order to divert her mind, he sent her to town, to
the care of an aunt, altogether forgetting that Mark's ship lay at the
wharves of Philadelphia, and that he could not have sent his daughter to
any place, out of Bristol, where the young man would be so likely to
find her. This danger the good doctor entirely overlooked, or, if he
thought of it at all, he must have fancied that his sister would keep a
sharp eye on the movements of the young sailor, and forbid him _her_
house, too.
Everything turned out as the Doctor ought to have expected. When Mark
joined his ship, of which he was now the first officer, he sought
Bridget and found her. The aunt, however, administered to him the second
potion of the same dose that her brother had originally dealt out, and
gave him to understand that his presence in Front street was not
desired. This irritated both the young people, Bridget being far less
disposed to submit to her aunt than to her father, and they met
clandestinely in the streets. A week or two of this intercourse brought
matters to a crisis, and Bridget consented to a private marriage. The
idea of again going to sea, leaving his betrothed entirely in the hands
of those who disliked him for his father's sake, was intolerable to
Mark, and it made him so miserable, that the tenderness of the deeply
enamoured girl could not withstand his appeals. They agreed to get
married, but to keep their union a secret until Mark should become of
age, when it was hoped he would be in a condition, in every point of
view, openly to claim his wife.
A thing of this sort, once decided on, is easily enough put in execution
in America. Among Mark's college friends was one who was a few years
older than himself, and who had entered the ministry. This young man was
then acting as a sort of missionary among the seamen of the port, and he
had fallen in the way of the young lover the very first day of his
return to his ship. It was an easy matter to work on the good nature of
this easy-minded man, who, on hearing of the ill treatment offered to
his friend, was willing enough to perform the ceremony. Everything being
previously arranged, Mark and Bridget were married, early one morning,
during the time the latter was out, in company with a female friend of
about her own age, to take what her aunt believed was her customary walk
before breakfast. Philadelphia, in 1796, was not the town it is to-day.
It then lay, almost entirely, on the shores of the Delaware, those of
the Schuylkill being completely in the country. What was more, the best
quarters were still near the river, and the distance between the
Rancocus--meaning Mark's ship, and not the creek of that name--and the
house of Bridget's aunt, was but trifling. The ceremony took place in
the cabin of the vessel just named, which, now that the captain was
ashore in his own house, Mark had all to himself, no second-mate having
been shipped, and which was by no means an inappropriate place for the
nuptials of a pair like that which our young people turned out to be, in
the end.
The Rancocus, though not a large, was a very fine, Philadelphia-built
ship, then the best vessels of the country. She was of a little less
than four hundred tons in measurement, but she had a very neat and
commodious poop-cabin. Captain Crutchely had a thrifty wife, who had
contributed her full share to render her husband comfortable, and
Bridget thought that the room in which she was united to Mark was one of
the prettiest she had ever seen. The reader, however, is not to imagine
it a cabin ornamented with marble columns, rose-wood, and the maples, as
so often happens now-a-days. No such extravagance was dreamed of fifty
years ago; but, as far as judicious arrangements, neat joiner's work,
and appropriate furniture went, the cabin of the Rancocus was a very
respectable little room. The circumstance that it was on deck,
contributed largely to its appearance and comfort, sunken cabins, or
those below decks, being necessarily much circumscribed in small ships,
in consequence of being placed in a part of the vessel that is
contracted in its dimensions under water, in order to help their sailing
qualities.
The witnesses of the union of our hero and heroine were the female
friend of Bridget named, the officiating clergyman, and one seaman who
had sailed with the bridegroom in all his voyages, and who was now
retained on board the vessel as a ship-keeper, intending to go out in
her again as soon as she should be ready for sea. The name of this
mariner was Betts, or Bob Betts as he was commonly called; and as he
acts a conspicuous part in the events to be recorded, it may be well to
say a word or two more of his history and character; Bob Betts was a
Jerseyman;--or, as he would have pronounced the word himself, a
Jarseyman--in the American meaning of the word, however, and not in the
English. Bob was born in Cape May county, and in the _State_ of New
Jersey, United States of America. At the period of which we are now
writing, he must have been about five-and-thirty, and seemingly a
confirmed bachelor. The windows of Bob's father's house looked out upon
the Atlantic Ocean, and he snuffed sea air from the hour of his birth.
At eight years of age he was placed, as cabin-boy, on board a coaster;
and from that time down to the moment when he witnessed the marriage
ceremony between Mark and Bridget, he had been a sailor. Throughout the
whole war of the revolution Bob had served in the navy, in some vessel
or other, and with great good luck, never having been made a prisoner of
war. In connection with this circumstance was one of the besetting
weaknesses of his character. As often happens to men of no very great
breadth of views, Bob had a notion that that which he had so
successfully escaped, viz. captivity, other men too might have escaped
had they been equally as clever. Thus it was that he had an
ill-concealed, or only half-concealed contempt for such seamen as
suffered themselves, at any time or under any circumstances, to fall
into the enemies' hands. On all other subjects Bob was not only
rational, but a very discreet and shrewd fellow, though on that he was
often harsh, and sometimes absurd. But the best men have their weakness,
and this was Bob Betts's.
Captain Crutchely had picked up Bob, just after the peace of 1783, and
had kept him with him ever since. It was to Bob that he had committed
the instruction of Mark, when the latter first joined the ship, and from
Bob the youth had got his earliest notions of seamanship. In his calling
Bob was full of resources, and, as often happens with the American
sailor, he was even handy at a great many other things, and particularly
so with whatever related to practical mechanics. Then he was of vast
physical force, standing six feet two, in his stockings, and was
round-built and solid. Bob had one sterling quality--he was as fast a
friend as ever existed. In this respect he was a model of fidelity,
never seeing a fault in those he loved, or a good quality in those he
disliked. His attachment to Mark was signal, and he looked on the
promotion of the young man much as he would have regarded preferment
that befel himself. In the last voyage he had told the people in the
forecastle "That young Mark Woolston would make a thorough sea-dog in
time, and now he had got to be _Mr._ Woolston, he expected great things
of him. The happiest day of my life will be that on which I can ship in
a craft commanded by _Captain_ Mark Woolston. I teached him, myself, how
to break the first sea-biscuit he ever tasted, and next day he could do
it as well as any on us! You see how handy and quick he is about a
vessel's decks, shipmates; a ra'al rouser at a weather earin'--well,
when he first come aboard here, and that was little more than two years
ago, the smell of tar would almost make him swound away." The latter
assertion was one of Bob's embellishments, for Mark was never either
lackadaisical or very delicate. The young man cordially returned Bob's
regard, and the two were sincere friends without any phrases on the
subject.
Bob Betts was the only male witness of the marriage between Mark
Woolston and Bridget Yardley, with the exception of the officiating
clergyman; as Mary Bromley was the only female. Duplicate certificates,
however, were given to the young couple, Mark placing his in his
writing-desk, and Bridget hers in the bosom of her dress. Five minutes
after the ceremony was ended, the whole party separated, the girls
returning to their respective residences, and the clergyman going his
way, leaving the mate and the ship-keeper together on the vessel's deck.
The latter did not speak, so long as he saw the bridegroom's eyes
fastened on the light form of the bride, as the latter went swiftly up
the retired wharf where the ship was lying, on her way to Front street,
accompanied by her young friend. But, no sooner had Bridget turned a
corner, and Bob saw that the attraction was no longer in view, than he
thought it becoming to put in a word.
"A trim-built and light-sailing craft, Mr. Woolston," he said, turning
over the quid in his mouth; "one of these days she'll make a noble
vessel to command."
"She is my captain, and ever will be, Bob," returned Mark. "But you'll
be silent concerning what has passed."
"Ay, ay, sir. It is not my business to keep a log for all the women in
the country to chatter about, like so many monkeys that have found a bag
of nuts. But what was the meaning of the parson's saying, 'with all my
worldly goods I thee endow'--does that make you any richer, or any
poorer, sir?"
"Neither," answered Mark, smiling. "It leaves me just where I was, Bob,
and where I am likely to be for some time to come, I fear."
"And has the young woman nothing herself, sir? Sometimes a body picks up
a comfortable chest-full with these sort of things, as they tell me,
sir."
"I believe Bridget is as poor as I am myself, Bob, and that is saying
all that can be said on such a point. However, I've secured her now,
and two years hence I'll claim her, if she has not a second gown to
wear. I dare say the old man will be for turning her adrift with as
little as possible."
All this was a proof of Mark's entire disinterestedness. He did not know
that his young bride had quite thirty thousand dollars in reversion, or
in one sense in possession, although she could derive no benefit from it
until she was of age, or married, and past her eighteenth year. This
fact her husband did not learn for several days after his marriage, when
his bride communicated it to him, with a proposal that he should quit
the sea and remain with her for life. Mark was very much in love, but
this scheme scarce afforded him the satisfaction that one might have
expected. He was attached to his profession, and scarce relished the
thought of being dependent altogether on his wife for the means of
subsistence. The struggle between love and pride was great, but Mark, at
length, yielded to Bridget's blandishments, tenderness and tears. They
could only meet at the house of Mary Bromley, the bride's-maid, but then
the interviews between them were as frequent as Mark's duty would allow.
The result was that Bridget prevailed, and the young husband went up to
Bristol and candidly related all that had passed, thus revealing, in
less than a week, a secret which it was intended should remain hid for
at least two years.
Doctor Woolston was sorely displeased, at first; but the event had that
about it which would be apt to console a parent. Bridget was not only
young, and affectionate, and beautiful, and truthful; but, according to
the standard of Bristol, she was rich. There was consolation in all
this, notwithstanding professional rivalry and personal dislikes. We are
not quite certain that he did not feel a slight gratification at the
thought of his son's enjoying the fortune which his rival had received
from his wife, and which, but for the will of the grandfather, would
have been enjoyed by that rival himself. Nevertheless, the good Doctor
did his duty in the premises. He communicated the news of the marriage
to Doctor Yardley in a very civilly-worded note, which left a fair
opening for a settlement of all difficulties, had the latter been so
pleased. The latter did not so please, however, but exploded in a
terrible burst of passion, which almost carried him off in a fit of
apoplexy.
Escaping all physical dangers, in the end, Doctor Yardley went
immediately to Philadelphia, and brought his daughter home. Both Mark
and Bridget now felt that they had offended against one of the simplest
commands of God. They had _not_ honoured their father and their mother,
and even thus early came the consciousness of their offence. It was in
Mark's power, however, to go and claim his wife, and remove her to his
father's house, notwithstanding his minority and that of Bridget. In
this last respect, the law offered no obstacle; but the discretion of
Doctor Woolston did. This gentleman, through the agency of a common
friend, had an interview with his competitor, and they talked the matter
over in a tolerably composed and reasonable temper. Both the parents, as
medical men, agreed that it would be better that the young couple should
not live together for two or three years, the very tender age of
Bridget, in particular, rendering this humane, as well as discreet.
Nothing was said of the fortune, which mollified Doctor Yardley a good
deal, since he would be left to manage it, or at least to receive the
income so long as no legal claimant interfered with his control. Elderly
gentlemen submit very easily to this sort of influence. Then, Doctor
Woolston was exceedingly polite, and spoke to his rival of a difficult
case in his own practice, as if indirectly to ask an opinion of his
competitor. All this contributed to render the interview more amicable
than had been hoped, and the parties separated, if not friends, at least
with an understanding on the subject of future proceedings.
It was decided that Mark should continue in the Rancocus for another
voyage. It was known the ship was to proceed to some of the islands of
the Pacific, in quest of a cargo of sandal-wood and beche-le-mar, for
the Chinese market, and that her next absence from home would be longer,
even, than her last. By the time the vessel returned, Mark would be of
age, and fit to command a ship himself, should it be thought expedient
for him to continue in his profession. During the period the vessel
still remained in port, Mark was to pay occasional visits to his wife,
though not to live with her; but the young couple might correspond by
letter, as often as they pleased. Such was an outline of the treaty made
between the high contracting parties.
In making these arrangements, Doctor Yardley was partly influenced by a
real paternal interest in the welfare of his daughter, who he thought
altogether too young to enter on the duties and cares of the married
life. Below the surface, however, existed an indefinite hope that
something might yet occur to prevent the consummation of this most
unfortunate union, as he deemed the marriage to be, and thus enable him
to get rid of the hateful connection altogether. How this was to happen,
the worthy doctor certainly did not know. This was because he lived in
1796, instead of in 1847. Now-a-days, nothing is easier than to separate
a man from his wife, unless it be to obtain civic honours for a
murderer. Doctor Yardley, at the present moment, would have coolly gone
to work to get up a lamentable tale about his daughter's fortune, and
youth, and her not knowing her own mind when she married, and a ship's
cabin, and a few other embellishments of that sort, when the worthy and
benevolent statesmen who compose the different legislatures of this vast
Union would have been ready to break their necks, in order to pass a
bill of divorce. Had there been a child or two, it would have made no
great difference, for means would have been devised to give the custody
of them to the mother. This would have been done, quite likely, for the
first five years of the lives of the dear little things, because the
children would naturally require a mother's care; and afterwards,
because the precocious darlings, at the mature age of seven, would
declare, in open court, that they really loved 'ma' more than they did
'pa'! To write a little plainly on a very important subject, we are of
opinion that a new name ought to be adopted for the form of government
which is so fast creeping into this country. New things require new
names; and, were Solomon now living, we will venture to predict two
things of him, viz. he would change his mind on the subject of
novelties, and he would never go to congress. As for the new name, we
would respectfully suggest that of Gossipian, in lieu of that of
Republican, gossip fast becoming the lever that moves everything in the
land. The newspapers, true to their instincts of consulting the ruling
tastes, deal much more in gossip than they deal in reason; the courts
admit it as evidence; the juries receive it as fact, as well as the law;
and as for the legislatures, let a piteous tale but circulate freely in
the lobbies, and bearded men, like Juliet when a child, as described by
her nurse, will "stint and cry, ay!" In a word, principles and proof are
in much less esteem than assertions and numbers, backed with enough of
which, anything may be made to appear as legal, or even constitutional.
But neither of our doctors entered into all these matters. It was enough
for them that the affair of the marriage was disposed of, for a time at
least, and things were permitted to drop into their ancient channels.
The intercourse between Bridget and Anne was renewed, just as if nothing
had happened, and Mark's letters to his virgin bride were numerous, and
filled with passion. The ship was 'taking in,' and he could only leave
her late on Saturday afternoons, but each Sunday he contrived to pass in
Bristol. On such occasions he saw his charming wife at church, and he
walked with her in the fields, along with Anne and a favoured admirer of
hers, of an afternoon, returning to town in season to be at his post on
the opening of the hatches, of a Monday morning.
In less than a month after the premature marriage between Mark Woolston
and Bridget Yardley, the Rancocus cleared for the Pacific and Canton.
The bridegroom found one day to pass in Bristol, and Doctor Yardley so
far pitied his daughter's distress, as to consent that the two girls
should go to town, under his own care, and see the young man off. This
concession was received with the deepest gratitude, and made the young
people momentarily very happy. The doctor even consented to visit the
ship, which Captain Crutchely, laughing, called St. Mark's chapel, in
consequence of the religious rite which had been performed on board her.
Mrs. Crutchely was there, on the occasion of this visit, attending to
her husband's comforts, by fitting curtains to his berth, and looking
after matters in general in the cabin; and divers jokes were ventured
by the honest ship-master, in making his comments on, and in giving his
opinion of the handy-work of his own consort. He made Bridget blush more
than once, though her enduring tenderness in behalf of Mark induced her
to sit out all the captain's wit, rather than shorten a visit so
precious, one moment.
The final parting was an hour of bitter sorrow. Even Mark's young heart,
manly, and much disposed to do his duty as he was, was near breaking:
while Bridget almost dissolved in tears. They could not but think how
long that separation was to last, though they did not anticipate by what
great and mysterious events it was to be prolonged. It was enough for
them, that they were to live asunder two whole years; and two whole
years appear like an age to those who have not yet lived their four
lustrums. But the final moment must and did arrive, and the young people
were compelled to tear themselves asunder, though the parting was like
that of soul and body. The bride hung on the bridegroom's neck, as the
tendril clings to its support, until removed by gentle violence.
Bridget did not give up her hold upon Mark so long as even his vessel
remained in sight. She went with Anne, in a carriage, as low as the
Point, and saw the Rancocus pass swiftly down the river, on this its
fourth voyage, bearing those in her who as little dreamed of their fate,
as the unconscious woods and metals, themselves, of which the ship was
constructed. Mark felt his heart beat, when he saw a woman's
handkerchief waving to him from the shore, and a fresh burst of
tenderness nearly unmanned him, when, by the aid of the glass, he
recognised the sweet countenance and fairy figure of Bridget. Ten
minutes later, distance and interposing objects separated that young
couple for many a weary day!
A few days at sea restored the equanimity of Mark's feelings, while the
poignant grief of Bridget did not fail to receive the solace which time
brings to sorrows of every degree and nature. They thought of each other
often, and tenderly; but, the pain of parting over, they both began to
look forward to the joys of meeting, with the buoyancy and illusions
that hope is so apt to impart to the bosoms of the young and
inexperienced. Little did either dream of what was to occur before
their eyes were to be again gladdened with the sight of their respective
forms.
Mark found in his state-room--for, in the Rancocus, the cabin was fitted
with four neat little state-rooms, one for the captain, and two for the
mates, with a fourth for the supercargo--many proofs of Bridget's love
and care. Mrs. Crutchely, herself, though so much longer experienced,
had scarcely looked after the captain's comfort with more judgment, and
certainly not with greater solicitude, than this youthful bride had
expended on her bridegroom's room. In that day, artists were not very
numerous in America, nor is it very probable that Doctor Yardley would
have permitted his daughter to take so decided a step as to sit for her
miniature for Mark's possession; but she had managed to get her profile
cut, and to have it framed, and the mate discovered it placed carefully
among his effects, when only a week out. From this profile Mark derived
the greatest consolation. It was a good one, and Bridget happened to
have a face that would tell in that sort of thing, so that the husband
had no difficulty in recognising the wife, in this little image. There
it was, with the very pretty slight turn of the head to one side, that
in Bridget was both natural and graceful. Mark spent hours in gazing at
and in admiring this inanimate shadow of his bride, which never failed
to recall to him all her grace, and nature, and tenderness and love,
though it could not convey any direct expression of her animation and
spirit.
It is said ships have no Sundays. The meaning of this is merely that a
vessel must perform her work, week-days and sabbaths, day and night, in
fair or foul. The Rancocus formed no exception to the rule, and on she
travelled, having a road before her that it would require months ere the
end of it could be found. It is not our intention to dwell on the
details of this long voyage, for two reasons. One is the fact that most
voyages to the southern extremity of the American continent are marked
by the same incidents; and the other is, that we have much other matter
to relate, that must be given with great attention to minutiae, and
which we think will have much more interest with the reader.
Captain Crutchely touched at Rio for supplies, as is customary; and,
after passing a week in that most delightful of all havens, went his
way. The passage round the Horn was remarkable neither way. It could not
be called a very boisterous one, neither was the weather unusually mild.
Ships do double this cape, occasionally, under their top-gallant-sails,
and we have heard of one vessel that did not furl her royals for several
days, while off that formidable head-land; but these cases form the
exception and not the rule. The Rancocus was under close-reefed topsails
for the better part of a fortnight, in beating to the southward and
westward, it blowing very fresh the whole time; and she might have been
twice as long struggling with the south-westerly gales, but for the
fortunate circumstance of the winds veering so far to the southward as
to permit her to lay her course, when she made a great run to the
westward. When the wind again hauled, as haul it was almost certain to
do, Captain Crutchely believed himself in a meridian that would admit of
his running with an easy bowline, on the larboard tack. No one but a
sailor can understand the effect of checking the weather-braces, if it
be only for a few feet, and of getting a weather-leach to stand without
'swigging out' on its bowline. It has much the same influence on the
progress of a ship, that an eloquent speech has on the practice of an
advocate, a great cure or a skilful operation on that of a medical man,
or a lucky hit in trade on the fortunes of the young merchant. Away all
go alike, if not absolutely with flowing sheets, easily, swiftly, and
with less of labour than was their wont. Thus did it now prove with the
good ship Rancocus. Instead of struggling hard with the seas to get
three knots ahead, she now made her six, and kept all, or nearly all,
she made. When she saw the land again, it was found there was very
little to spare, but that little sufficed. The vessel passed to windward
of everything, and went on her way rejoicing, like any other that had
been successful in a hard and severe struggle. A fortnight later, the
ship touched at Valparaiso.
The voyage of the Rancocus may now be said to have commenced in earnest.
Hitherto she had done little but make her way across the endless waste
of waters; but now she had the real business before her to execute. A
considerable amount of freight, which had been brought on account of
the Spanish government, was discharged, and the vessel filled up her
water. Certain supplies of food that was deemed useful in cases of
scurvy, were obtained, and after a delay of less than a fortnight, the
ship once more put to sea.
In the year 1796 the Pacific Ocean was by no means as familiar to
navigators as it is to-day. Cooke had made his celebrated voyages less
than twenty years before, and the accounts of them were then before the
world; but even Cooke left a great deal to be ascertained, more
especially in the way of details. The first inventor, or discoverer of
anything, usually gains a great name, though it is those who come after
him that turn his labours to account. Did we know no more of America
to-day than was known to Columbus, our knowledge would be very limited,
and the benefits of his vast enterprise still in their infancy.
Compared with its extent, perhaps, and keeping in view its ordinary
weather, the Pacific can hardly be considered a dangerous sea; but he
who will cast his eyes over its chart, will at once ascertain how much
more numerous are its groups, islands, rocks, shoals and reefs, than
those of the Atlantic. Still, the mariners unhesitatingly steered out
into its vast waters, and none with less reluctance and fewer doubts
than those of America.
For nearly two months did Captain Crutchely, after quitting Valparaiso,
hold his way into the depths of that mighty sea, in search of the
islands he had been directed to find. Sandal-wood was his aim, a branch
of commerce, by the way, which ought never to be pursued by any
Christian man, or Christian nation, if what we hear of its uses in China
be true. There, it is said to be burned as incense before idols, and no
higher offence can be committed by any human being than to be principal,
or accessory, in any manner or way, to the substitution of any created
thing for the ever-living God. In after-life Mark Woolston often thought
of this, when reflection succeeded to action, and when he came to muse
on the causes which may have led to his being the subject of the
wonderful events that occurred in connection with his own fortunes. We
have now reached a part of our narrative, however, when it becomes
necessary to go into details, which we shall defer to the commencement
of a new chapter.
Chapter III.
"God of the dark and heavy deep!
The waves lie sleeping on the sands,
Till the fierce trumpet of the storm
Hath summon'd up their thundering bands;
Then the white sails are clashed like foam,
Or hurry trembling o'er the seas,
Till calmed by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, Depart in peace."
Peabody.
The day that preceded the night of which we are about to speak, was
misty, with the wind fresh at east-south-east. The Rancocus was running
off, south-west, and consequently was going with the wind free. Captain
Crutchely had one failing, and it was a very bad one for a ship-master;
he would drink rather too much grog, at his dinner. At all other times
he might have been called a sober man; out, at dinner, he would gulp
down three or four glasses of rum and water. In that day rum was much
used in America, far more than brandy; and every dinner-table, that had
the smallest pretension to be above that of the mere labouring man, had
at least a bottle of one of these liquors on it. Wine was not commonly
seen at the cabin-table; or, if seen, it was in those vessels that had
recently been in the vine-growing countries, and on special occasions.
Captain Crutchely was fond of the pleasures of the table in another
sense. His eating was on a level with his drinking; and for pigs, and
poultry, and vegetables that would keep at sea, his ship was always a
little remarkable.
On the day in question, it happened to be the birthday of Mrs.
Crutchely, and the captain had drunk even a little more than common.
Now, when a man is in the habit of drinking rather more than is good for
him, an addition of a little more than common is very apt to upset him.
Such, a sober truth, was the case with the commander of the Rancocus,
when he left the dinner-table, at the time to which there is particular
allusion. Mark, himself, was perfectly sober. The taste of rum was
unpleasant to him, nor did his young blood and buoyant spirits crave its
effects. If he touched it at all, it was in very small quantities, and
greatly diluted with water. He saw the present condition of his
superior, therefore, with regret; and this so much the more, from the
circumstance that an unpleasant report was prevailing in the ship, that
white water had been seen ahead, during a clear moment, by a man who had
just come from aloft. This report the mate repeated to the captain,
accompanying it with a suggestion that it might be well to shorten sail,
round-to, and sound. But Captain Crutchely treated the report with no
respect, swearing that the men were always fancying they were going
ashore on coral, and that the voyage would last for ever, did he comply
with all their conceits of this nature. Unfortunately, the second-mate
was an old sea-dog, who owed his present inferior condition to his being
a great deal addicted to the practice in which his captain indulged only
a little, and he had been sharing largely in the hospitality of the
cabin that afternoon, it being his watch below. This man supported the
captain in his contempt for the rumours and notions of the crew, and
between them Mark found himself silenced.
Our young officer felt very uneasy at the account of the sailor who had
reported white water ahead, for he was one of the best men in the ship,
and altogether unlikely to say that which was not true. It being now six
o'clock in the evening, and the second-mate having taken charge of the
watch, Mark went up into the fore-top-gallant cross-trees himself, in
order to get the best look ahead that he could before the night set in.
It wanted but half an hour, or so of sunset, when the young man took his
station in the cross-trees, the royal not being set. At first, he could
discern nothing ahead, at a distance greater than a mile, on account of
the mist; but, just as the sun went below the waters it lighted up to
the westward, and Mark then plainly saw what he was perfectly satisfied
must be breakers, extending for several miles directly across the
vessel's track!
Such a discovery required decision, and the young man shouted out--
"Breakers ahead!"
This cry, coming from his first officer, startled even Captain
Crutchely, who was recovering a little from the effect of his potations,
though it was still treated with contempt by the second-mate, who had
never forgiven one as young as Mark, for getting a berth that he fancied
due to his own greater age and experience. He laughed openly at this
second report of breakers, at a point in the ocean where the chart laid
down a clear sea; but the captain knew that the charts could only tell
him what was known at the time they were made, and he felt disposed to
treat his first officer, young as he was, with more respect than the
second-mate. All hands were called in consequence, and sail was
shortened. Mark came down to assist in this duty, while Captain
Crutchely himself went aloft to look out for the breakers. They passed
each other in the top, the latter desiring his mate to bring the ship by
the wind, on the larboard tack, or with her head to the southward, as
soon as he had the sail sufficiently reduced to do so with safety.
For a few minutes after he reached the deck, Mark was fully employed in
executing his orders. Sail was shortened with great rapidity, the men
working with zeal and alarm, for they believed their messmate when the
captain had not. Although the vessel was under top-mast studding-sails
when the command to take in the canvas was given, it was not long before
Mark had her under her three topsails, and these with two reefs in them,
and the ship on an easy bowline, with her head to the southward. When
all this was done the young man felt a good deal of relief, for the
danger he had seen was ahead, and this change of course brought it
nearly abeam. It is true, the breakers were still to leeward, and
insomuch most dangerously situated but the wind did not blow strong
enough to prevent the ship from weathering them, provided time was taken
by the forelock. The Rancocus was a good, weatherly ship, nor was there
sufficient sea on to make it at all difficult for her to claw off a lee
shore. Desperate indeed is the situation of the vessel that has rocks or
sands under her lee, with the gale blowing in her teeth, and heavy seas
sending her bodily, and surely, however slowly, on the very breakers she
is struggling to avoid! Captain Crutchely had not been aloft five
minutes before he hailed the deck, and ordered Mark to send Bob Betts up
to the cross-trees. Bob had the reputation of being the brightest
look-out in the vessel, and was usually employed when land was about to
be approached, or a sail was expected to be made. He went up the
fore-rigging like a squirrel, and was soon at the captain's side, both
looking anxiously to leeward. A few minutes after the ship had hauled by
the wind, both came down, stopping in the top, however, to take one more
look to leeward.
The second-mate stood waiting the further descent of the captain, with a
soft of leering look of contempt on his hard, well-dyed features, which
seemed to anticipate that it would soon be known that Mark's white water
had lost its colour, and become blue water once more. But Captain
Crutchely did not go as far as this, when he got down. He admitted that
he had seen nothing that he could very decidedly say was breakers, but
that, once or twice, when it lighted up a little, there had been a
gleaming along the western horizon which a good deal puzzled him. It
might be white water, or it might be only the last rays of the setting
sun tipping the combs of the regular seas. Bob Betts, too, was as much
at fault as his captain, and a sarcastic remark or two of Hillson, the
second-mate, were fast bringing Mark's breakers into discredit.
"Jest look at the chart, Captain Crutchely," put in Hillson--"a regular
Tower Hill chart as ever was made, and you'll see there _can_ be no
white water hereabouts. If a man is to shorten sail and haul his wind,
at every dead whale he falls in with, in these seas, his owners will
have the balance on the wrong side of the book at the end of the
v'y'ge!"
This told hard against Mark, and considerably in Hillson's favour.
"And could _you_ see nothing of breakers ahead, Bob?" demanded Mark,
with an emphasis on the '_you_' which pretty plainly implied that the
young man was not so much surprised that the captain had not seen them.
"Not a bit of it, Mr. Woolston," answered Bob, hitching up his
trowsers, "and I'd a pretty good look ahead, too."
This made still more against Mark, and Captain Crutchely sent for the
chart. Over this map he and the second-mate pondered with a sort of
muzzy sagacity, when they came to the conclusion that a clear sea _must_
prevail around them, in all directions, for a distance exceeding a
thousand miles. A great deal is determined in any case of a dilemma,
when it is decided that this or that fact _must_ be so. Captain
Crutchely would not have arrived at this positive conclusion so easily,
had not his reasoning powers been so much stimulated by his repeated
draughts of rum and water, that afternoon; all taken, as he said and
believed, not so much out of love for the beverage itself, as out of
love for Mrs. John Crutchely. Nevertheless, our captain was accustomed
to take care of a ship, and he was not yet in a condition to forget all
his duties, in circumstances so critical. As Mark solemnly and steadily
repeated his own belief that there were breakers ahead, he so far
yielded to the opinions of his youthful chief-mate as to order the
deep-sea up, and to prepare to sound.
This operation of casting the deep-sea lead is not done in a moment,
but, on board a merchant vessel, usually occupies from a quarter of an
hour to twenty minutes. The ship must first be hove-to, and her way
ought to be as near lost as possible before the cast is made. Then the
getting along of the line, the stationing of the men, and the sounding
and hauling in again, occupy a good many minutes. By the time it was all
over, on this occasion, it was getting to be night. The misty, drizzling
weather threatened to make the darkness intense, and Mark felt more and
more impressed with the danger in which the ship was placed.
The cast of the lead produced no other result than the certainty that
bottom was not to be found with four hundred fathoms of line out. No
one, however, not even the muzzy Hillson, attached much importance to
this fact, inasmuch as it was known that the coral reefs often rise like
perpendicular walls, in the ocean, having no bottom to be found within a
cable's-length of them. Then Mark did not believe the ship to be within
three leagues of the breakers he had seen, for they had seemed, both to
him and to the seaman who had first reported them, to be several leagues
distant. One on an elevation like that of the top-gallant cross-trees,
could see a long way, and the white water had appeared to Mark to be on
the very verge of the western horizon, even as seen from his lofty
look-out.
After a further consultation with his officers, during which Hillson had
not spared his hits at his less experienced superior, Captain Crutchely
came to a decision, which might be termed semi-prudent. There is nothing
that a seaman more dislikes than to be suspected of extra-nervousness on
the subject of doubtful dangers of this sort. Seen and acknowledged, he
has no scruples about doing his best to avoid them; but so long as there
is an uncertainty connected with their existence at all, that miserable
feeling of vanity which renders us all so desirous to be more than
nature ever intended us for, inclines most men to appear indifferent
even while they dread. The wisest thing Captain Crutchely could have
done, placed in the circumstances in which he now found himself, would
have been to stand off and on, under easy canvas, until the return of
light, when he might have gone ahead on his course with some confidence,
and a great deal more of safety. But there would have been an air of
concession to the power of an unknown danger that conflicted with his
pride, in such a course, and the old and well-tried ship-master did not
like to give the 'uncertain' this advantage over him. He decided
therefore to stand on, with his topsails reefed, keeping bright
look-outs ahead, and having his courses in the brails, ready for getting
the tacks down to claw off to windward, should it prove to be necessary.
With this plan Mark was compelled to comply, there being no appeal from
the decrees of the autocrat of the quarter deck.
As soon as the decision of Captain Crutchely was made, the helm was put
up, and the ship kept off to her course. It was true, that under
double-reefed topsails, and jib, which was all the canvas set, there was
not half the danger there would have been under their former sail; and,
when Mark took charge of the watch, as he did soon after, or eight
o'clock, he was in hopes, by means of vigilance, still to escape the
danger. The darkness, which was getting to be very intense, was now the
greatest and most immediate source of his apprehensions. Could he only
get a glimpse of the sea a cable's-length ahead, he would have felt vast
relief; but even that small favour was denied him. By the time the
captain and second-mate had turned in, which each did after going below
and taking a stiff glass of rum and water in his turn, it was so dark
our young mate could not discern the combing of the waves a hundred
yards from the ship, in any direction. This obscurity was owing to the
drizzle that filled the atmosphere, as well as to the clouds that
covered the canopy above that lone and wandering ship.
As for Mark, he took his station between the knight-heads, where he
remained most of the watch, nearly straining the eyes out of his head,
in the effort to penetrate the gloom, and listening acutely to ascertain
if he might not catch some warning roar of the breakers, that he felt so
intimately persuaded must be getting nearer and nearer at each instant.
As midnight approached, came the thought of Hillson's taking his place,
drowsy and thick-headed as he knew he must be at that hour. At length
Mark actually fancied he heard the dreaded sounds; the warning, however,
was not ahead, but well on his starboard beam. This he thought an ample
justification for departing from his instructions, and he instantly
issued an order to put the helm hard a-starboard, so as to bring the
vessel up to the wind, on the contrary tack. Unfortunately, as the
result proved, it now became his imperative duty to report to Captain
Crutchely what he had done. For a minute or two the young man thought of
keeping silence, to stand on his present course, to omit calling the
second-mate, and to say nothing about what he had done, keeping the deck
himself until light should return. But reflection induced him to shrink
from the execution of this plan, which would have involved him in a
serious misunderstanding with both his brother officers, who could not
fail to hear all that had occurred in the night, and who must certainly
know, each in his respective sphere, that they themselves had been
slighted. With a slow step, therefore, and a heavy heart, Mark went
into the cabin to make his report, and to give the second-mate the
customary call.
It was not an easy matter to awaken either of those, who slept under the
influence of potations as deep as the night-caps taken by Captain
Crutchely and Mr. Hillson. The latter, in particular, was like a man in
a state of lethargy, and Mark had half a mind to leave him, and make his
condition an excuse for not having persisted in the call. But he
succeeded in arousing the captain, who soon found the means to bring the
second-mate to a state of semi-consciousness.
"Well, sir," cried the captain, as soon as fairly awake himself, "what
now?"
"I think I heard breakers abeam, sir, and I have hauled up to the
southward."
A grunt succeeded, which Mark scarce knew how to interpret. It might
mean dissatisfaction, or it might mean surprise. As the captain,
however, was thoroughly awake, and was making his preparations to come
out on deck, he thought that he had done all that duty required, and he
returned to his own post. The after-part of the ship was now the best
situation for watching, and Mark went up on the poop, in order to see
and hear the better. No lower sail being in the way, he could look ahead
almost as well from that position as if he were forward; and as for
hearing, it was much the best place of the two, in consequence of there
being no wash of the sea directly beneath him, as was the case when
stationed between the knight-heads. To this post he soon summoned Bob
Betts, who belonged to his watch, and with whom he had ever kept up as
great an intimacy as the difference in their stations would allow.
"Bob, your ears are almost as good as your eyes," said Mark; "have you
heard nothing of breakers?"
"I have, Mr. Woolston, and now own I did see something that may have
been white water, this afternoon, while aloft; but the captain and
second-mate seemed so awarse to believing in sich a thing, out here in
the open Pacific, that I got to be awarse, too."
"It was a great fault in a look-out not to let what he had seen be
known," said Mark, gravely.
"I own it, sir; I own how wrong I was, and have been sorry for it ever
since. But it's going right in the wind's eye, Mr. Woolston, to go ag'in
captain and dickey!"
"But, you now think you have _heard_ breakers--where away?"
"Astarn first; then ahead; and, just as you called me up on the poop,
sir, I fancied they sounded off here, on the weather bow."
"Are you serious, Bob?"
"As I ever was in my life, Mr. Mark. This oversight of the arternoon has
made me somewhat conscientious, if I can be conscientious, and my sight
and hearing are now both wide awake. It's my opinion, sir, that the ship
is in the _midst_ of breakers at this instant, and that we may go on 'em
at any moment!"
"The devil it is!" exclaimed Captain Crutchely, who now appeared on the
poop, and who caught the last part of Bob Betts's speech. "Well, for my
part, I hear nothing out of the way, and I will swear the
keenest-sighted man on earth can see nothing."
These words were scarcely out of the captain's mouth, and had been
backed by a senseless, mocking laugh from Hillson, who was still muzzy,
and quite as much asleep as awake, when the deep and near roar of
breakers was most unequivocally heard. It came from to windward, too and
abeam! This was proof that the ship was actually among the breakers when
Mark hauled up, and that she was now passing a danger to leeward, that
she must have previously gone by, in running down on her course. The
captain, without waiting to consult with his cool and clear-headed young
mate, now shouted for all hands to be called, and to "stand by to ware
ship." These orders came out so fast, and in so peremptory a manner,
that remonstrance was out of the question, and Mark set himself at work
to obey them, in good earnest. _He_ would have tacked in preference to
waring, and it would have been much wiser to do so; but it was clearly
expedient to get the ship on the other tack, and he lent all his present
exertions to the attainment of that object. Waring is much easier done
than tacking, certainly; when it does not blow too fresh, and there is
not a dangerous sea on, no nautical manoeuvre can be more readily
effected, though room is absolutely necessary to its success. This room
was now wanting. Just as the ship had got dead before the wind, and was
flying away to leeward, short as was the sail she was under, the
atmosphere seemed to be suddenly filled with a strange light, the sea
became white all around them, and a roar of tumbling waters arose, that
resembled the sound of a small cataract. The ship was evidently in the
midst of breakers, and the next moment she struck!
The intense darkness of the night added to the horrors of that awful
moment. Nevertheless, the effect was to arouse all that there was of
manliness and seamanship in Captain Crutchely, who from that instant
appeared to be himself again. His orders were issued coolly, clearly and
promptly, and they were obeyed as experienced mariners will work at an
instant like that. The sails were all clewed up, and the heaviest of
them were furled. Hillson was ordered to clear away an anchor, while
Mark was attending to the canvas. In the mean time, the captain watched
the movements of the ship. He had dropped a lead alongside, and by that
he ascertained that they were still beating ahead. The thumps were not
very hard, and the white water was soon left astern, none having washed
on deck. All this was so much proof that the place on which they had
struck must have had nearly water enough to float the vessel, a fact
that the lead itself corroborated. Fifteen feet aft was all the Rancocus
wanted, in her actual trim, and the lead showed a good three fathoms, at
times. It was when the ship settled in the troughs of the sea that she
felt the bottom. Satisfied that his vessel was likely to beat over the
present difficulty, Captain Crutchely now gave all his attention to
getting her anchored as near the reef and to leeward of it, as possible.
The instant she went clear, a result he now expected every moment, he
was determined to drop one of his bower anchors, and wait for daylight,
before he took any further steps to extricate himself from the danger by
which he was surrounded.
On the forecastle, the work went on badly, and thither Captain Crutchely
proceeded. The second-mate scarce knew what he was about, and the
captain took charge of the duty himself. At the same time he issued an
order to Mark to get up tackles, and to clear away the launch,
preparatory to getting that boat into the water. Hillson had bent the
cable wrong, and much of the work had to be done over again. As soon as
men get excited, as is apt to be the case when they find serious
blunders made at critical moments, they are not always discreet. The
precise manner in which Captain Crutchely met with the melancholy fate
that befel him, was never known. It is certain that he jumped down on
the anchor-stock, the anchor being a cock-bill, and that he ordered Mr.
Hillson off of it. While thus employed, and at an instant when the cable
was pronounced bent, and the men were in the act of getting inboard, the
ship made a heavy roll, breakers again appeared all around her, the
white foam rising nearly to the level of her rails. The captain was seen
no more. There is little doubt that he was washed from the anchor stock,
and carried away to leeward, in the midst of the darkness of that
midnight hour.
Mark was soon apprised of the change that had occurred, and of the heavy
responsibility that now rested on his young shoulders. A feeling of
horror and of regret came over him, at first; but understanding the
necessity of self-command, he aroused himself, at once, to his duty, and
gave his orders coolly and with judgment. The first step was to
endeavour to save the captain. The jolly-boat was lowered, and six men
got in it, and passed ahead of the ship, with this benevolent design.
Mark stood on the bowsprit, and saw them shoot past the bows of the
vessel, and then, almost immediately, become lost to view in the gloomy
darkness of the terrible scene. The men never reappeared, a common and
an unknown fate thus sweeping away Captain Crutchely and six of his best
men, and all, as it might be, in a single instant of time!
Notwithstanding these sudden and alarming losses, the work went on.
Hillson seemed suddenly to become conscious of the necessity of
exertion, and by giving his utmost attention to hoisting out the launch,
that boat was got safely into the water. By this time the ship had
beaten so far over the reef, as scarcely to touch at all, and Mark had
everything ready for letting go his anchors, the instant he had reason
to believe she was in water deep enough to float her. The thumps grew
lighter and lighter, and the lead-line showed a considerable drift; so
much so, indeed, as to require its being hauled in and cast anew every
minute. Under all the circumstances, Mark expected each instant, to find
himself in four fathoms' water, and he intended to let go the anchor the
moment he was assured of that fact. In the mean time, he ordered the
carpenter to sound the pumps. This was done, and the ship was reported
with only the customary quantity of water in the well. As yet her bottom
was not injured, materially at least.
While Mark stood with the lead-line in his hand, anxiously watching the
drift of the vessel and the depth of water, Hillson was employed in
placing provisions in the launch. There was a small amount of specie in
the cabin, and this, too, was transferred to the launch; everything of
that sort being done without Mark's knowledge, and by the second-mate's
orders. The former was on the forecastle, waiting the proper moment to
anchor; while all of the after-part of the ship was at the mercy of the
second-mate, and a gang of the people, whom that officer had gathered
around him.
At length Mark found, to his great delight, that there were four good
fathoms of water under the ship's bows, though she still hung abaft. He
ascertained this fact by means of Bob Betts, which true-hearted tar
stood by him, with a lantern, by swinging which low enough, the marks
were seen on the lead-line. Foot by foot the ship now surged ahead, the
seas being so much reduced in size and power, by the manner in which
they had been broken to windward, as not to lift the vessel more than an
inch or two at a time. After waiting patiently a quarter of an hour,
Mark believed that the proper time had come, and he gave the order to
'let run.' The seaman stationed at the stopper obeyed, and down went the
anchor. It happened, opportunely enough, that the anchor was thus
dropped, just as the keel cleared the bottom, and the cable being
secured at a short range, after forging ahead far enough to tighten the
hitter, the vessel tended. In swinging to her anchor, a roller came down
upon her, however; one that had crossed the reef without breaking, and
broke on board her. Mark afterwards believed that the rush and weight
of this sea, which did no serious harm, frightened the men into the
launch, where Hillson was already in person, and that the boat either
struck adrift under the power of the roller, or that the painter was
imprudently cast off in the confusion of the moment. He had got in as
far as the windlass himself, when the sea came aboard; and, as soon as
he recovered his sight after the ducking he received, he caught a dim
view of the launch, driving off to leeward, on the top of a wave.
Hailing was useless, and he stood gazing at the helpless boat until it
became lost, like everything else that was a hundred yards from the
ship, in the gloom of night. Even then Mark was by no means conscious of
the extent of the calamity that had befallen him. It was only when he
had visited cabin, steerage and forecastle, and called the crew over by
name, that he reached the grave fact that there was no one left on board
the Rancocus but Bob Betts and himself!
As Mark did not know what land was to be found to leeward, he naturally
enough hoped and expected that the people in both boats might reach the
shore, and be recovered in the morning; but he had little expectation of
ever seeing Captain Crutchely again. The circumstances, however,
afforded him little time to reflect on these things, and he gave his
whole attention, for the moment, to the preservation of the ship.
Fortunately, the anchor held, and, as the wind, which had never blown
very heavily, sensibly began to lessen, Mark was sanguine in the belief
it would continue to hold. Captain Crutchely had taken the precaution to
have the cable bitted at a short range with a view to keep it, as much
as possible, off the bottom; coral being known to cut the hempen cables
that were altogether in use, in that day, almost as readily as axes. In
consequence of this bit of foresight, the Rancocus lay at a distance of
less than forty fathoms from her anchor, which Mark knew had been
dropped in four fathoms' water. He now sounded abreast of the main-mast,
and ascertained that the ship itself was in nine fathoms. This was
cheering intelligence, and when Bob Betts heard it, he gave it as his
opinion that all might yet go well with them, could they only recover
the six men who had gone to leeward in the jolly-boat. The launch had
carried off nine of their crew, which, previously to this night, had
consisted of nineteen, all told. This suggestion relieved Mark's mind of
a load of care, and he lent himself to the measures necessary to the
continued safety of the vessel, with renewed animation and vigour.
The pump-well was once more sounded, and found to be nearly empty. Owing
to the nature of the bottom on which they had struck, the lightness of
the thumps, or the strength of the ship herself, it was clear that the
vessel had thus far escaped without any material injury. For this
advantage Mark was deeply grateful, and could he only recover four or
five of the people, and find his way out into open water, he might hope
to live again to see America, and to be re-united to his youthful and
charming bride.
The weather continued to grow more and more moderate, and some time
before the day returned the clouds broke away, the drizzle ceased, and a
permanent change was to be expected. Mark now found new ground for
apprehensions, even in these favourable circumstances. He supposed that
the ship must feel the influence of the tides, so near the land, and was
afraid she might tail the other way, and thus be brought again over the
reef. In order to obviate this difficulty, he and Bob set to work to get
another cable bent, and another anchor clear for letting go. As all our
readers may not be familiar with ships, it may be well to say that
vessels, as soon as they quit a coast on a long voyage, unbend their
cables and send them all below, out of the way, while, at the same time,
they stow their anchors, as it is called; that is to say, get them from
under the cat-heads, from which they are usually suspended when ready to
let go, and where they are necessarily altogether on the outside of the
vessel, to positions more inboard, where they are safer from the force
of the waves, and better secured. As all the anchors of the Rancocus had
been thus stowed, until Captain Crutchely got the one that was down, off
the gunwale, and all the cables below, Mark and Bob had labour enough
before them to occupy several hours, in the job thus undertaken.
Chapter IV.
"Deep in the wave is a coral grove,
Where the purple mullet and gold fish rove,
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blues,
That never are wet with falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine,
Far down in the green and grassy brine."
Percival.
Our young mate, and his sole assistant, Bob Betts, had set about their
work on the stream-cable and anchor, the lightest and most manageable of
all the ground-tackle in the vessel. Both were strong and active, and
both were expert in the use of blocks, purchases, and handspikes; but
the day was seen lighting the eastern sky, and the anchor was barely off
the gunwale, and ready to be stoppered in the meanwhile the ship still
tended in the right direction, the wind had moderated to a mere
royal-breeze, and the sea had so far gone down as nearly to leave the
vessel without motion. As soon as perfectly convinced of the existence
of this favourable state of things, and of its being likely to last,
Mark ceased to work, in order to wait for day, telling Bob to
discontinue his exertions also. It was fully time, for both of those
vigorous and strong-handed men were thoroughly fatigued with the toil of
that eventful morning.
The reader may easily imagine with what impatience our two mariners
waited the slow return of light. Each minute seemed an hour, and it
appeared to them as if the night was to last for ever. But the earth
performed its usual revolution, and by degrees sufficient light was
obtained to enable Mark and Bob to examine the state of things around
them. In order to do this the better, each went into a top, looking
abroad from those elevations on the face of the ocean, the different
points of the reef, and all that was then and there to be seen. Mark
went up forward, while Bob ascended into the main-top. The distance
between them was so small, that there was no difficulty in conversing,
which they continued to do, as was natural enough to men in their
situation.
The first look that each of our mariners bestowed, after he was in his
top, was to leeward, which being to the westward, was of course yet in
the darkest point of the horizon. They expected to obtain a sight of at
least one island, and that quite near to them, if not of a group. But no
land appeared! It is true, that it was still too dark to be certain of a
fact of this sort, though Mark felt quite assured that if land was
finally seen, it must be of no great extent, and quite low. He called to
Bob, to ascertain what _he_ thought of appearances to leeward, his
reputation as a look-out being so great.
"Wait a few minutes, sir, till we get a bit more day," answered his
companion. "There is a look on the water, about a league off here on the
larboard quarter, that seems as if something would come out of it. But,
one thing can be seen plain enough, Mr. Mark, and that's the breakers.
There's a precious line on 'em, and that too one within another, as
makes it wonderful how we ever got through 'em as well as we did!"
This was true enough, the light on the ocean to windward being now
sufficient to enable the men to see, in that direction, to a
considerable distance. It was that solemn hour in the morning when
objects first grow distinct, ere they are touched with the direct rays
from the sun, and when everything appears as if coming to us fresh and
renovated from the hands of the Creator. The sea had so far gone down as
to render the breakers much less formidable to the eye, than when it was
blowing more heavily; but this very circumstance made it impossible to
mistake their positions. In the actual state of the ocean, it was
certain that wherever water broke, there must be rocks or shoals
beneath; whereas, in a blow, the combing of an ordinary sea might be
mistaken for the white water of some hidden danger. Many of the rocks,
however, lay so low, that the heavy, sluggish rollers that came
undulating along, scarce did more than show faint, feathery lines of
white, to indicate the character of the places across which they were
passing. Such was now the case with the reef over which the ship had
beaten, the position of which could hardly have been ascertained, or its
danger discovered, at the distance of half a mile. Others again were of
a very different character, the water still tumbling about them like so
many little cataracts. This variety was owing to the greater depth at
which some of the rocks lay than others.
As to the number of the reefs, and the difficulty in getting through
them, Bob was right enough. It often happens that there is an inner and
an outer reef to the islands of the Pacific, particularly to those of
coral formation; but Mark began to doubt whether there was any coral at
all in the place where the Rancocus lay, in consequence of the entire
want of regularity in the position of these very breakers. They were
visible in all directions; not in continuous lines, but in detached
parts; one lying within another, as Bob had expressed it, until the eye
could not reach their outer limits. How the ship had got so completely
involved within their dangerous embraces, without going to pieces on a
dozen of the reefs, was to him matter of wonder; though it sometimes
happens at sea, that dangers are thus safely passed in darkness and fog,
that no man would be bold enough to encounter in broad daylight, and
with a full consciousness of their hazards. Such then had been the sort
of miracle by which the Rancocus had escaped; though it was no more easy
to see how she was to be got out of her present position, than it was to
see how she had got into it. Bob was the first to make a remark on this
particular part of the subject.
"It will need a reg'lar branch here, Mr. Mark, to carry the old Rancocus
clear of all them breakers to sea again," he cried. "Our Delaware banks
is just so many fools to 'em, sir!"
"It is a most serious position for a vessel to be in, Bob," answered
Mark, sighing--"nor do I see how we _are_ ever to get clear of it, even
should we get back men enough to handle the ship."
"I'm quite of your mind, sir," answered Bob, taking out his tobacco-box,
and helping himself to a quid. "Nor would I be at all surprised should
there turn out to be a bit of land to leeward, if you and I was to
Robinson Crusoe it for the rest of our days. My good mother was always
most awarse to my following the seas on account of that very danger;
most especially from a fear of the savages from the islands round
about."
"We will look for our boats," Mark gravely replied, the image of
Bridget, just at that instant, appearing before his mind with a painful
distinctness.
Both now turned their eyes again to leeward, the first direct rays of
the sun beginning to illumine the surface of the ocean in that quarter.
Something like a misty cloud had been settled on the water, rather less
than a league from the ship, in the western board, and had hitherto
prevented a close examination in that part of the horizon. The power of
the sun, however, almost instantly dispersed it, and then, for the first
time, Bob fancied he did discover something like land. Mark, however,
could not make it out, until he had gone up into the cross-trees, when
he, too, got a glimpse of what, under all the circumstances, he did not
doubt was either a portion of the reef that rose above the water, or was
what might be termed a low, straggling island. Its distance from the
ship, they estimated at rather more than two leagues.
Both Mark and Bob remained aloft near an hour longer, or until they had
got the best possible view of which their position would allow, of
everything around the ship. Bob went down, and took a glass up to his
officer, Mark sweeping the whole horizon with it, in the anxious wish to
make out something cheering in connection with the boats. The drift of
these unfortunate craft must have been towards the land, and that he
examined with the utmost care. Aided by the glass, and his elevation, he
got a tolerable view of the spot, which certainly promised as little in
the way of supplies as any other bit of naked reef he had ever seen. The
distance, however, was so great as to prevent his obtaining any certain
information on that point. One thing, however, he did ascertain, as he
feared, with considerable accuracy. After passing the glass along the
whole of that naked rock, he could see nothing on it in motion. Of birds
there were a good many, more indeed than from the extent of the visible
reef he might have expected; but no signs of man could be discovered. As
the ocean, in all directions, was swept by the glass, and this single
fragment of a reef, which was less than a mile in length, was the only
thing that even resembled land, the melancholy conviction began to force
itself on Mark and Bob, that all their shipmates had perished! They
might have perished in one of several ways; as the naked reef did not
lie precisely to leeward of the ship, the boats may have driven by it,
in the deep darkness of the past night, and gone far away out of sight
of the spot where they had left the vessel, long ere the return of day.
There was just the possibility that the spars of the ship might be seen
by the wanderers, if they were still living, and the faint hope of their
regaining the vessel, in the course of the day, by means of their oars.
It was, however, more probable that the boats had capsized in some of
the numerous fragments of breakers, that were visible even in the
present calm condition of the ocean, and that all in them had been
drowned. The best swimmer must have hopelessly perished, in such a
situation, and in such a night, unless carried by a providential
interference to the naked rock to leeward. That no one was living on
that reef, the glass pretty plainly proved.
Mark and Bob Betts descended to the deck, after passing a long time
aloft making their observations. Both were pretty well assured that
their situation was almost desperate, though each was too resolute, and
too thoroughly imbued with the spirit of a seaman, to give up while
there was the smallest shadow of hope. As it was now getting past the
usual breakfast hour, some cold meat was got out, and, for the first
time since Mark had been transferred to the cabin, they sat down on the
windlass and ate the meal together. A little, however, satisfied men in
their situation; Bob Betts fairly owning that he had no appetite, though
so notorious at the ship's beef and a biscuit, as to be often the
subject of his messmates' jokes. That morning even he could eat but
little, though both felt it to be a duty they owed to themselves to take
enough to sustain nature. It was while these two forlorn and desolate
mariners sat there on the windlass, picking, as it might be, morsel by
morsel, that they first entered into a full and frank communication with
each other, touching the realities of their present situation. After a
good deal had passed between them, Mark suddenly asked--
"Do you think it possible, Bob, for us two to take care of the ship,
should we even manage to get her into deep water again?"
"Well, that is not so soon answered, Mr. Woolston," returned Bob. "We're
both on us stout, and healthy, and of good courage, Mr. Mark; but
'twould be a desperate long way for two hands to carry a wessel of four
hundred tons, to take the old 'Cocus from this here anchorage, all the
way to the coast of America; and short of the coast there's no ra'al
hope for us. Howsever, sir, _that_ is a subject that need give us no
consarn."
"I do not see that, Bob; we shall have to do it, unless we fall in with
something at sea, could we only once get the vessel; out from among
these reefs."
"Ay, ay, sir--could' we get her out from among these reefs, indeed!
There's the rub, Mr. Woolston; but I fear 't will never be 'rub and
_go_.'"
"You think, then, we are too fairly in for it, ever to get the ship
clear?"
"Such is just my notion, Mr. Woolston, on that subject, and I've no wish
to keep it a secret. In my judgment, was poor Captain Crutchely alive
and back at his post, and all hands just as they was this time
twenty-four hours since, and the ship where she is now, that _here_ she
would have to stay. Nothing short of kedging can ever take the wessel
clear of the reefs to windward on us, and man-of-war kedging could
hardly do it, then."
"I am sorry to hear you say this," answered Mark, gloomily, "though I
feared as much myself."
"Men is men, sir, and you can get no more out on 'em than is in 'em. I
looked well at these reefs, sir, when aloft, and they're what I call as
hopeless affairs as ever I laid eyes on. If they lay in any sort of way,
a body might have some little chance of getting through 'em, but they
don't lay, no how. 'T would be 'luff' and 'keep her away' every half
minute or so, should we attempt to beat up among 'em; and who is there
aboard here to brace up, and haul aft, and ease off, and to swing yards
sich as our'n?"
"I was not altogether without the hope, Bob, of getting the ship into
clear water: though I have thought it would be done with difficulty, I
am still of opinion we had better try it, for the alternative is a very
serious matter."
"I don't exactly understand what you mean by attorneytives, Mr. Mark;
though it's little harm, or little good that any attorney can do the old
'Cocus, now! But, as for getting this craft through them reefs, to
windward, and into clear water, it surpasses the power of man. Did you
just notice the tide-ripples, Mr. Mark, when you was up in the
cross-trees?"
"I saw them, Bob, and am fully aware of the difficulty of running as
large a vessel as this among them, even with a full crew. But what will
become of us, unless we get the ship into open water?"
"Sure enough, sir. I see no other hope for us, Mr. Mark, but to Robinson
Crusoe it awhile, until our times come; or, till the Lord, in his marcy,
shall see fit to have us picked up."
"Robinson Crusoe it!" repeated Mark, smiling at the quaintness of Bob's
expression, which the well-meaning fellow uttered in all simplicity, and
in perfect good faith--"where are we to find even an uninhabited island,
on which to dwell after the mode of Robinson Crusoe?"
"There's a bit of a reef to-leeward, where I dare say a man might pick
up a living, arter a fashion," answered Bob, coolly; "then, here is the
ship."
"And how long would a hempen cable hold the ship in a place like this,
where every time the vessel lifts to a sea, the clench is chafing on a
rock? No, no, Bob--the ship cannot long remain where she is, depend on
_that_. We must try and pass down to leeward, if we cannot beat the ship
through the dangers to windward."
"Harkee, Mr. Mark; I thought this matter over in my mind, while we was
aloft, and this is my idee as to what is best to be done, for a start.
There's the dingui on the poop, in as good order as ever a boat was. She
will easily carry two on us, and, on a pinch, she might carry half a
dozen. Now, my notion is to get the dingui into the water, to put a
breaker and some grub in her, and to pull, down to that bit of a reef,
and have a survey of it. I'll take the sculls going down, and you can
keep heaving the by way of finding out if there be sich a thang as a
channel in that direction. If the ship is ever to be moved by us two,
it must be by going to leeward, and not by attempting to turn up ag'in
wind and tide among them 'ere rocks, out here to the eastward. No, sir;
let us take the dingui, and surwey the reef, and look for our shipmates;
a'ter which we can best tell what to undertake, with some little hope of
succeeding. The weather seems settled, and the sooner we are off the
better."
This proposal struck Mark's young mind as plausible, as well as
discreet. To recover even a single man would be a great advantage, and
he had lingering hopes that some of the people might yet be found on the
reef. Then Bob's idea about getting the ship through the shoal water, by
passing to leeward, in preference to making the attempt against the
wind, was a sound one; and, on a little reflection, he was well enough
disposed to acquiesce in it. Accordingly, when they quitted the
windlass, they both set about putting this project in execution.
The dingui was no great matter of a boat, and they had not much
difficulty in getting it into the water. First by slinging, it was
swayed high enough to clear the rail, when Bob bore it over the side,
and Mark lowered away. It was found to be tight, Captain Crutchely
having kept it half full of water ever since they got into the Pacific,
and in other respects it was in good order. It was even provided with a
little sail, which did very well before the wind. While Bob saw to
provisioning the boat, and filling its breakers with fresh water, Mark
attended to another piece of duty that he conceived to be of the last
importance. The Rancocus carried several guns, an armament prepared to
repel the savages of the sandal-wood islands, and these guns were all
mounted and in their places. There were two old-fashioned sixes, and
eight twelve-pound carronades. The first made smart reports when
properly loaded. Our young mate now got the keys of the magazine, opened
it, and brought forth three cartridges, with which he loaded three of
the guns. These guns he fired, with short intervals between them, in
hopes that the reports would be carried to the ears of some of the
missing people, and encourage them to make every effort to return. The
roar of artillery sounded strangely enough in the midst of that vast
solitude; and Bob Betts, who had often been in action, declared that he
was much affected by it, As no immediate result was expected from the
firing of these guns, Mark had no sooner discharged them, than he joined
Betts, who by this time had everything ready, and prepared to quit the
ship. Before he did this, however, he made an anxious and careful survey
of the weather it being all-important to be certain no change in this
respect was likely to occur in his absence. All the omens were
favourable, and Bob reporting for the third time that everything was
ready, the young man went over the side, and descended, with a
reluctance he could not conceal, into the boat. Certainly, it was no
trifling matter for men in the situation of our two mariners, to leave
their vessel all alone, to be absent for a large portion of the day. It
was to be done, however; though it was done reluctantly, and not without
many misgivings, in spite of the favourable signs in the atmosphere.
When Mark had taken his seat in the dingui, Bob let go his hold of the
ship, and set the sail. The breeze was light, and fair to go, though it
was by no means so certain how it would serve them on the return.
Previously to quitting the ship, Mark had taken a good look at the
breakers to leeward, in order to have some general notion of the course
best to steer, and he commenced his little voyage, but entirely without
a plan for his own government. The breakers were quite as numerous to
leeward as to windward, but the fact of there being so many of them made
smooth water between them. A boat, or a ship, that was once fairly a
league or so within the broken lines of rocks, was like a vessel
embayed, the rollers of the open ocean expending their force on the
outer reefs, and coming in much reduced in size and power. Still the
uneasy ocean, even in its state of rest, is formidable at the points
where its waters meet with rocks, or sands and the breakers that did
exist, even as much embayed as was the dingui, were serious matters for
so small a boat to encounter. It was necessary, consequently, to steer
clear of them, lest they should capsize, or fill, this, the only craft
of the sort that now belonged to the vessel, the loss of which would be
a most serious matter indeed.
The dingui slided away from the ship with a very easy movement. There
was just about as much wind as so small a craft needed, and Bob soon
began to sound, Mark preferring to steer. It was, however, by no means
easy to sound in so low a boat, while in such swift motion; and Bob was
compelled to give it up. As they should be obliged to return with the
oars, Mark observed that then he would feel his way back to the ship.
Nevertheless, the few casts of the lead that did succeed, satisfied our
mariners that there was much more than water enough for the Rancocus,
between the reefs. _On_ them, doubtless it would turn out to be
different.
Mark met with more difficulty than he had anticipated in keeping the
dingui out of the breakers. So very smooth was the sort of bay he was
in--a bay by means of the reefs to windward, though no rock in that
direction rose above the surface of the sea--so very smooth, then, was
the sort of bay he was in, that the water did not break, in many places,
except at long intervals; and then only when a roller heavier than
common found its way in from the outer ocean. As a consequence, the
breakers that did suddenly show themselves from a cause like this, were
the heaviest of all, and the little dingui would have fared badly had it
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