CHAPTER XIV.

SHIPWRECKED.

In the midst of this terrible confusion, the starboard lifeboat of the _Pandora_ was taken from her chocks, and swung into the davit tackles. Six sailors jumped quickly into her, and took their places on the thwarts, and the third officer, Mr Sparkes, grasped the tiller in the stern sheets. Then the women, with tear-stained faces and dishevelled hair, were handed down, some moaning piteously with fright, others murmuring prayers to Heaven for help, and clinging to their companions in their distress. The first to enter the boat was Grace Vansittart, wailing louder than the rest, and covering her face with her hands to shut out the terrifying scene around her. Her usually blooming face was white as marble, and her large brown eyes seemed to be starting from their sockets. But her grief was all for herself. No thought, in that awful hour, of the wretched man to whom she had been vowing protestations of fidelity throughout the voyage occupied her mind. She was too much alarmed on her own account to remember anybody else. Father, mother, and lover had alike sunk into insignificance beside the danger that threatened herself. There was no doubt but that, should Miss Vansittart survive the wreck, she would soon enough be comforted for the loss of Godfrey Harland. Mr and Mrs Vansittart were the next to follow.

The old man had wished to remain behind, but his wife had clung to him with so tenacious a grasp, that Vernon Blythe pushed them both in together.

‘John! John!’ the poor woman had exclaimed; ‘we have lived together for thirty years! Don’t let us die apart!’

And after all, as Vernon in the pride of his young manhood thought, what was an old man but a woman!

Mrs Leyton followed with Alice, but not before they had both turned round and given him a farewell kiss.

‘God bless you, dear boy,’ sobbed the mother, ‘for all you have done for me and mine.’

‘Oh! Jack, Jack!’ cried Alice, ‘I have never left off loving you! How I wish--’

‘All right, dear Mrs Leyton. All right, Alice,’ he replied cheerily. ‘Keep up your spirits! We shall meet again before long,’ and so passed them into the boat.

‘Oh, Jack! come with me!’ screamed Alice, as she found herself rocking on the deep, but the wind prevented her voice from reaching his ear, as he busied himself with handing the baby into the arms of the shellbacks.

Poor little Winnie was as sorely frightened as the rest, and loud in her lamentations. Then came Miss Vere, pale as a piece of Parian, but calm and collected; and when her full complement was made up, the lugger-rigged craft was pushed off, and headed for the harbour.

The remaining hands then cut away the lashings of the forward jolly-boat, while others shipped the stanchions and rigged tackles. The male passengers had partly recovered from their scare by this time, and followed the good example of Vernon Blythe and the seamen, in trying to launch the second boat. It was a very dangerous task. The seas had smashed up the smoke-room as if it had been so much match-wood, ripped up the main fiferail, and torn away the after end of the house amidships. The after companion-ladder had also been swept away, and the cabin could not be entered from the quarter-deck.

The port boats were stove in, and innumerable planks, sea-chests, buckets, and blocks, were washing about the deck, making an incessant clatter that was audible even above the howling of the gale.

Captain Robarts stood upon the poop, his agonised and distorted face the very picture of despair. One cannot judge of a sailor’s qualities until he is seen under circumstances of difficulty or danger. Then his noblest or his weakest points alike stand out in bold relief. A sailor may traverse the ocean for years, and never fall in with a mishap. It is easy sailing to steer a craft in fine weather, with plenty of sea room. But a heavy blow in the Channel, with land on either side, and a forest of shipping to keep clear of,--or a stiff breeze and a lee shore, with an untrustworthy vessel--these are the dangers which the mariner has to look out for, and which will prove him a man to be either esteemed or despised.

Standing by Captain Robarts’ side, with an excited look in her eye, but no fear upon her face, was Iris Harland--the only woman left upon the sinking ship. She had watched all the others depart, she had even made a feint of following them, but, after all, had kept intentionally in the background, and let the lifeboat go without her. But few knew that she remained behind. Vernon Blythe fully believed she was on her way to land. His first thought and inquiry had been for her, and one of the sailors had told him she was lowered into the boat. And so he had returned to his duty, with his mind at ease as far as Iris was concerned. Yet she stood by the skipper’s side, watching his gallant efforts to save the remainder of the passengers and crew--proud to think that (after a fashion) he belonged to her, and resolved to stay by his side to the very last, and die with him, if it was ordained that he should die.

These two standing together--the old experienced man, and the young untried woman--were the exponents of a rule which has but few exceptions,--that love is strong as death. _She_, who was regarded as the weaker vessel, made strong by reason of her love, stood calm and courageous in the midst of danger and the sight of dissolution; whilst _he_, who had but himself and his own credit to consider, caved in like a coward under a responsibility too heavy for him.

The jolly-boat was launched, and a dozen passengers essayed to enter her at once, pushing each other down in their effort to be first, thinking only of their own safety, and not caring a rush for that of their neighbours.

One man, however, looked round before he jumped into the boat, and catching sight of Iris Harland on the poop, elbowed his way towards her with an exclamation of horror. It was Will Farrell.

‘Miss Douglas!’ he cried excitedly, ‘why are you still here? Come! come! before it is too late.’

But Iris did not stir.

‘Save yourself, Mr Farrell,’ she replied; ‘I shall remain behind until--until the last.’

‘What! to court death? Don’t you know that before long the vessel must be broken up,--that every moment may be your last? Miss Douglas, for my sake--for Maggie’s sake--come with me.’

‘Do you think I have so much to live for that I should fear death?’ she answered, smiling. ‘Pray, Mr Farrell, don’t waste time over me. I do not intend to leave until the last boat goes.’

‘But there may not be another. Every minute renders it more difficult to launch a boat.’

‘Then I shall die here,’ said Iris, with her soft eyes following every movement of Vernon’s form.

‘You have lost your senses. Do you realise what you are saying? Mr Blythe,’ shouted Farrell lustily, ‘_make_ Miss Douglas come in the boat with us.’

In a moment he was by her side, trembling for her safety, when he had never trembled for his own.

‘Oh, Iris, how is this? I thought you were in the lifeboat. How came you to be left behind?’

‘I stayed of my own free will, Vernie,’ she said sweetly; ‘I stayed to be _with you_. Don’t deny me this poor privilege. We cannot live together, but if we are to die, oh! let me die by your side.’

‘_My darling!_’ he exclaimed; ‘I will guard your life with my own!’

‘Oh, Mr Blythe,’ said Farrell, ‘don’t let her throw that life away. Persuade her--command her, to leave the vessel. You _know_ it cannot live much longer in this sea.’

‘I know that our lives are in the hands of God,’ returned the young sailor simply, ‘and that there is as good a chance for the next boat as for this. If Mrs Harland prefers to remain with me, I shall not prevent her from doing so.’

‘Then God help you both. I must go, or they will start without me;’ and without another word Will Farrell ran off to take his place in the jolly-boat. As it pushed off, he found himself sitting next to Godfrey Harland. The men glared at one another like savage beasts, but fear for themselves had swallowed up for the time being even their desire for revenge. Only one boat now remained that could be called seaworthy, and that was the cutter--for the captain’s gig could not have lived in such a storm--and all hands rushed towards the mainmast, and climbed up by the crossjack braces, and along the mizen stay, towards the frail craft.

By the aid of the bridge, Vernon Blythe clambered again upon the poop, where Iris was now standing alone, the captain having staggered to the other side of the vessel, so paralysed by the scene before him as to be unable apparently either to act or think.

‘Iris,’ exclaimed Vernon, as he took her in his arms for one mad moment, ‘Iris, my own darling! you have risked your life to stay with me.’

But words failed him. His heart beat high with joy, although the murderous waves were leaping around them, as though they longed to lick them both down together to a cruel death. The warm tears filled his yearning eyes, and a strange choking sensation assailed his powers of speech. After an effort at self-control, he resumed, hastily and authoritatively,--

‘Come, dearest! this is the last boat, and you must be the first to enter her. Hold your shawl closely over you, and I will see you lowered into it.’

‘But, Vernie, _you_ will come, too?’ she asked anxiously.

‘I will come too. I will follow you. _I promise it_,’ he said.

Then he clasped her closely to him, and pressed a passionate kiss upon her quivering lips, before he turned to superintend the lowering of the cutter. With hatchets and sheath-knives the lashings were soon hacked through, and with the main-topmast staysail halliards, they swung her from her beds, and rove the patent lowering gear.

When Iris and the few men left on the fast-sinking _Pandora_ were safely aboard, Vernon Blythe went to find the captain, and entreat him to accompany them. Nothing more could be done for the ill-fated vessel, and it was folly to throw away life without reason. But on reaching the hatch, he was startled by hearing the report of a pistol, followed by a heavy fall, and running to the foot of the mizenmast, he discovered the body of his unfortunate commander, shot through the heart. The wretched man, not daring to meet his employers, with the brand of shame and failure on his brow, knowing well that all the blame for the loss of the _Pandora_ would be laid upon his shoulders, that his certificate would be suspended, and he would stand before the authorities a guilty man, had put an end to his existence. The fact is, Captain Robarts’ whole soul had been wrapped up in his profession. His ship had been his wife, his children, and his home, and without her he felt he had nothing left to live for. This unexpected fatal calamity, which had dashed his brightest hopes to the ground, in the very hour of their fulfilment, had unsettled his mind, and transformed him at once into an embittered, broken-down man, who saw no refuge before him except in death.

Vernon Blythe knelt down by the side of his expiring commander, and, raising his head upon his arm, caught his last faint orders.

‘_Here--here_--in _her_.’

What did he mean? Did he wish to be buried with his ship?

‘In the _Pandora_, sir?’ he asked. ‘Am I to leave you here?’

The dying man’s eyes opened with a last gleam of intelligence, and then closed for ever.

There was no time to lose.

Dragging the now lifeless form to the pilot-house, Vernon Blythe laid it on the spare bunk, and murmuring the prayer, ‘God have mercy on him,’ covered the corpse with the house flag of the vessel, which he took from the locker, and hastily closing the door, left the dead sailor in his desired resting-place.

As he jumped into the cutter, the men, weary and dispirited as they had become, received their gallant young officer with a cheer. But Vernon only thought of one thing--that Iris was safe, and, for the time being, they were _together_.

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