CHAPTER IX.

SHIPWRECK.

“Ah! many a dream was in that ship An hour before her death; And thoughts of home with sigh’s disturbed The sleeper’s long-drawn breath.

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A hundred souls in one instant of dread Are hurried over the deck; And fast the miserable ship Becomes a lifeless wreck. Her keel hath struck a hidden rock, Her planks are torn asunder, And down comes her mast with a reeling shock, And a hideous crash like thunder Her sails are draggled in the brine, That gladdened late the skies, And her pennant that kissed the fair moonshine, Down many a fathom lies.”—_Wilson._

It was a glorious summer morning, when the splendor of the sky, the sparkling brightness of the water, the animating bustle on the docks, and in the boats—all conspired to raise and cheer the spirits of the spectator.

At ten o’clock Lord Montressor entered the long-boat that was to convey him to the Queen Charlotte, where he found the captain, mate and men all engaged in the hearty work of preparation for getting under way. A fair wind had sprung up, and they were but waiting for the ebb tide. They had not to wait long. At twelve precisely the tide began to ebb. The captain came upon deck, seized his speaking-trumpet, and called out,

“All hands! Up anchor!”

In an instant every man was upon deck.

“Each officer to post! Man the capstan! Stand by to let fall the tops’ils. Heave round the capstan! Heave roundly!”

“Ay, ay, sir! Anchor’s apeak!”

“Heave! Heave my hearties! Heave and trip the anchor!”

The men laid themselves to the bars, turned vigorously, and then stopped to breathe.

“A-trip it is, sir!” cried the mate.

The moment the anchor was a-weigh the ship began to cast to larboard.

The captain shouted through his speaking-trumpet—

“Hoist the jib and the fore-to’mas’ stays’ils! Helm-a-starboard! So—steady—steady.”

“Ay, ay, sir! Steady it is!” responded the helmsman.

The crew worked heartily, the brave ship righted herself, the sails filled with the breeze, and the Queen Charlotte, stood gallantly out to the Channel. A shout from the shore cheered her on.

But she was not a fast sailer, this honest old Queen Charlotte, any more than her royal namesake was a “fast woman.” She was, on the contrary, “slow and sure,” like her good old majesty, the defunct queen. She was, in fact, an old-fashioned, short and square-bowed brig, one of the last of her generation, and very unlike in build and behavior to the long and narrow-decked, high-masted and rakish Baltimore clippers that were then in such high favor. In something more than due time, then, the Queen Charlotte left Lundy Island to leeward, got out of the Channel and into the broad Atlantic.

The fair wind continued for several days, and yet the brig made but moderate progress. How she would possibly get on against a head-wind remained to be seen.

The season seemed to promise a continuance of fine weather, and consequently a pleasant voyage, for the violent spring gales were over, and the latter summer storms were not soon to be expected.

Yet they had not been at sea more than two weeks before the weather changed, the sky became dark and gloomy, the wind sprang up, the waves arose, and for several days the ship beat about in a high sea, against a head wind, making no progress, scarcely able to hold her own. Day after day showed the same scene—morning after morning the murky sky, heavy with clouds, lowered down upon a turbulent sea, broken into high and coursing waves, whose crests were tipped with frost, like foam upon the lips of racers—night after night the impenetrable darkness above, around, beneath, and relieved only by the phosphoric glimmer and sparkle of the crested waves. A frisky clipper might have been lost in this gale, but the staid old Queen Charlotte “stood the storm” for a week.

And then there came another change of weather, bringing a clear sky, gentle breeze, and a calm sea, which continued with little variation for two or three weeks, during which the brig made moderate headway.

Ill could Lord Montressor brook this sort of “making haste slowly.” Often he reproached himself for taking passage in the Charlotte, instead of waiting ten days longer to embark in the Mercury. And this regret was in no degree lessened by an event that occurred when they were nearing the Azores.

It was a very fine day in August, with a fair, brisk wind, and the Queen Charlotte, being in most unaccountably gay spirits, had crowded on all her canvas, even to the studding sails and royals, and was doing her best at running before the wind—as if her long defunct majesty had ever in her court array forgotten her royal dignity and tried to run! While thus going under full sail the brig was hailed by a vessel bearing down full upon her.

“Ship—ahoy-oy!” came reverberating over the water from the speaking-trumpet of the purser.

“Halloo!” responded the Queen Charlotte.

“Who are you? where do you hail from? where are you bound?”

“The Queen Charlotte, Brownloe master, from Bristol to Baltimore! Who are you?”

“The Mercury, Captain Brande, from London to Baltimore.”

Almost as she spoke she bore rapidly down upon the brig, came alongside, and without stopping, cheered and passed!

But among the passengers that crowded the upper deck, Lord Montressor had recognized a man, whose appearance there sent all the blood from his heart to his brain!

This man was Victoire L’Orient.

How came he there? What was his object?

He also was going to America—to Baltimore! Why? What should carry him thither? Was he going in pursuit of Estelle? Had he, perhaps, managed to keep up a system of espionage around her? Had he discovered her flight to America—to Baltimore? and would he pursue her thither and persecute her there?

Before these questions had fairly formed themselves in the mind of Lord Montressor, the Mercury, with her crew and passengers, had cheered again, and passed far ahead.

The Queen Charlotte, comparatively “slow and sure,” even when under full sail and before a fresh wind, and unflurried either by the example of the Mercury or the impatience of her own passengers and crew, kept on the even tenor of her way.

All that afternoon and that night she sailed before a fair wind, and at sunrise the next morning entered the port of Fayal.

There again she spoke the Mercury, that was just passing out of the harbor.

And yet _once more_ the Queen Charlotte saw the Mercury. Alas! but we anticipate.

The brig remained in the port of Fayal two days to discharge a portion of her cargo and to take in freight, as well as to obtain a supply of fresh provisions and water, and then again set sail.

The weather continued fine, with little variation in the clear sky, fresh wind and gentle sea for several days, during which the brig made fair progress toward the Chesapeake.

It was the morning of the twentieth of August that the man on the look-out cried:

“Land ho!” and the distant points of Cape Charles and Cape Henry hove in sight. And an hour after noon the Queen Charlotte entered the Bay.

That night the wind suddenly fell. And the next day—a day ever to be remembered on that coast—the brig lay becalmed under a burning sky, and upon a motionless sea.

And now my mind shrinks from describing the events that made hideous that afternoon and night; shrinks both because of the deep horror one feels in reflecting upon those awful scenes of storm and devastation, when sky and ocean meet in deadly conflict, and fire, air and water—all the elements of organized nature seem resolving back into original “chaos and old night.”

This day—the twenty-first of August, when the Queen Charlotte lay becalmed in the Chesapeake—had, as I said, been still and hot, with an oppressive, suffocating atmosphere. Though there was not a cloud in the sky, a ripple on the water, nor a breath of wind from any quarter, yet the experienced old seamen seemed grave and thoughtful, and looked to the rigging of their ship. And the captain paced the deck, casting an eye—now to the sky, now to the sea, and now to the rigging.

“What can be the matter with the skipper?” asked one inexperienced passenger of another.

“He’s on the look-out for squalls,” answered the other, carelessly, not believing what they said.

Abaft, two Baltimore youths, homeward bound, were leaning over the taffrail, looking despondently into the motionless water.

“Was ever such a sea and such a sky as this? Not a ripple, not a breath, and as hot as Hades! Heaven send that the wind would rise!” complained one.

“Yes! it is a right down deuced bore to lay becalmed here, for days, perhaps, almost in gunshot of port,” grumbled the other.

“Now, d’ye see them two d——d land lubbers with their elbows on the taffrail?” observed one bronzed and grizzled old “salt” to his shipmate. “They want to hurry the wind up! Avast there, my fine fellows! don’t you be impatient! The wind will come out from the west, and speak to you presently!”

As noon approached an ominous change crept over the face of the heavens and the waters.

Not a cloud was to be seen, yet the whole heavens visibly darkened, assuming a dull, hazy, coppery hue.

Not a billow ruffled the surface of the waters, yet the whole vast sea perceptibly swelled.

Not a breath of wind stirred, yet at intervals a low voice wailed across the waters as if nature mourned the coming destruction.

The captain still walked the deck, telescope in hand, making observations, and occasionally giving orders.

“What do you think of the weather, captain? Is there a storm brewing?” asked Lord Montressor, joining him.

The skipper lowered his glass, and turning upon the questioner a sly look that might have been read—Do you really think I am going to tell you now?—replied:

“By the soul of Nelson! I cannot at this moment inform you, my lord. It may be only a fresh wind that will take us large into port; and then again it may be the confoundest hurricane that has ever been seen on this coast!—Avast there! Mate, see that the lightning conductors are rigged out!” he said, suddenly breaking off to give the order.

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied that officer, touching his hat, and going below to obey the command.

“At least,” said Lord Montressor, resuming the conversation, “you have sufficient time to take every necessary precaution for the safety of the vessel.”

“Humph—humph—why certainly it is not exactly upon us yet, whatever it is! and I and the ‘Charlotte’ have weathered a storm before to-day. Why, sir! I could tell you of a time, when we doubled Cape Horn——,” said the skipper, launching into a tale of a tempest that was presently interrupted—the tale—not the tempest—by the reappearance of the mate on deck, to report the lightning conductors rigged out.

“As you said, my lord, there is time to make ready for what may be coming, thank heaven! This may be only a fresh wind that will carry us gallantly into port; therefore I shall not take in sail just yet; though it is best to be ready at short notice to do so. Mate!”

“Ay, ay, sir!”

“Call all hands on deck!”

“Ay, ay, sir!”

“Let them stand by to take in the royals and to’gallant stun’s’ils.”

“Ay, ay, sir!”

As the meridian passed, the sun took on a dark blood-like color, and the awful stillness of the elements seemed more foreboding.

Slowly—slowly the Spirit of the Storm advanced and took shape.

A black cloud, seemingly no larger than an eagle with spread wings, appeared on the Western horizon, directly under the sun. The wind awoke with a sigh, and breathed across the waters, curling the surface into little ripples, and moving the sails of the brig, and then died away.

“In royals!” shouted the captain.

The order was executed.

The cloud climbed faster, higher, increasing in size and darkness. Again the wind arose and moaned across the waters, rolling the waves against the tide and fluttering the sails of the ship, and then died away as before.

“Take in the to’gallant stu’n-s’ils! And you at the wheel, mind your helm!” thundered the captain.

The cloud had nearly reached the zenith. Once more the wind sprung up, and roared across the now angry waters, driving the sea into high waves, and filling all the sails of the brig that now bounded before the blast.

“Clew down the topsails; haul up the courses! Hard down!” shouted the captain.

The storm came on apace, the whole sky was overcast and darkened. The wind lashed the sea into fury and drove the brig rocking and reeling forward, on her course.

The passengers swarmed upon the deck, and crowded around the skipper.

“Captain, captain, is there any danger?” asked one.

“Captain, captain!” exclaimed several others, as the skipper, regardless of their interruptions, hurried about giving his orders. “Captain, captain!——”

“For heaven’s sake, gentlemen, go below! You are in my way! You hinder me in the working of the ship! You risk your own lives as well as the safety of the vessel,” said the skipper, impatiently, hastening away.

“But—for the Lord’s sake, what are you going to do?” asked the first speaker, laying hold of the captain’s coat-skirt to detain him.

“We are trying to get into Hampton Roads: there we shall be safe. Once more, for heaven’s sake, gentlemen, be advised, and go below!” exclaimed the captain, breaking away.

A vivid flash of lightning, kindling into blue flame every scrap of metal about the ship, accompanied by an awful peal of thunder, and followed by a sudden deluge of rain, so enforced the order, that most of the passengers were glad to make a hasty retreat.

The storm hurried onward; the whole heavens lowered down upon the sea, and all was black as the blackest midnight, save when a dazzling flash of lightning kindled the whole scene into a momentary conflagration; showing the whole tremendous sea, rising and falling in mountains and valleys, and clouds and waves mingling together in wildest chaos, so that, which was the heavens, and which was the earth, it was almost impossible to know. And through all this horrible confusion, the brave ship—heaving, plunging, reeling,—struggled; now lifted upon the top of some mountain wave, high among the clouds; then pitched headlong down into the dreadful yawning, chasm of the sea.

The captain never for an instant left the deck. His presence there enheartened the crew, who worked gallantly. But their almost superhuman efforts failed to get the ship into Hampton Roads. She was driven furiously past their entrance. Through all that awful night the captain never left his post. At intervals some passenger, more venturous than the others, would make the desperate attempt to come upon deck; but even if he were not, by the heaving of the ship, hurled headlong down the companion-ladder, he was soon glad to retreat. The storm raged on with unabating violence. The captain never lost his presence of mind, nor the crew their courage. The former gave his orders, decisively, clearly, emphatically—the latter obeyed with alacrity. Every sail had been in succession taken in, and the ship was now driving along under bare poles. As she had done, many times before, the good ship weathered the storm. Yet was the night not unmarked by disaster to her brave crew; a heavy sea, taking her amidships, swept off three of her gallant seamen; but in the dense darkness, or blinding glare, amid the deafening noise of the tempest, this loss was not known—it was not discovered until morning.

It was long after midnight, when the fury of the storm had in some degree abated; the ship was scudding along before the wind, and the captain and the mate, exhausted by their late tremendous labors, were resting on the deck, when the distant report of a single cannon came booming over the waters.

“A ship in distress; but, great heaven! what earthly power can aid her in such a night as this?” said the captain.

The mate made no reply, but listened anxiously for a repetition of the signal.

In about three minutes, the firing was repeated.

“The Lord help her,” said the mate reverently—“what can be done for her, truly! We are making rapidly toward her if it were broad day, we might help her. Or if she could exist till day, we might save the crew. What think you, captain?”

“Good Heaven, that depends upon circumstances. If in beating about in this storm, she has sprung a leak, she must go down in a few minutes.”

“But if she has been cast upon a sand-bank, or driven ashore?”

“Even then it is doubtful whether we could aid her. If she has been cast upon Smith’s Sand-bar, as I fear is the case, we could not approach her without sharing her fate.”

“But the boats?”

“Would not reach her in this sea.”

“But the gale may go down before she breaks up,” suggested the pitying and hopeful mate.

“Well, Heaven grant it; for if it should turn out so, we may be of assistance,” replied the captain.

Every five minutes the signal gun was fired. The captain, mate and crew, listened in impotent sympathy, or spoke together in hushed and solemn voices; for well they knew that, but for the blessing of Providence upon their almost superhuman exertions, this case of shipwreck might have been their own.

Meanwhile the Queen Charlotte flew before the wind. At every firing of the signal gun, she seemed nearer the sound.

“We are approaching that other ship! We must look out, and not run afoul of her,” said the captain, leaving his position, and going forward to give orders.

Once again the signal gun was fired, and then it was heard no more. When ten or fifteen minutes had elapsed, and the listening crew found no repetition of the sound—

“God help her,” said the captain, “she is lost!”

The crew echoed his groan.

Day dawned, and the sun arose over a wild, wild scene. Black and ragged clouds, the fragments of the broken storm, drove across the sky. The wind was still very strong, and the waves ran very high.

The Queen Charlotte scudded along under a close-reefed main topsail and reefed foresail. She kept a sharp look out for some sign of the fate of the ship she had heard firing the signal guns in the night. The mate took his post forward, and with telescope in hand, scanned the expanse of sea ahead. And thus it was scarcely a quarter of an hour after sunrise, that that officer suddenly dropped his glass and called out:

“A wreck on the sand-bank ahead!”

The captain hurried forward, seized the glass from the hand of the mate, leveled it and took sight.

“By my life, it is the poor Mercury! and if we do not look sharp we shall run foul of her! Mind what you are about there at the wheel. Hard up. Hard up—so! Steady—steady!” cried the captain.

The ship answered her helm, and presently came in sight of the wreck.

It was a terrible spectacle.

There before them lay the sand-bank and the broken ship!

The ill-fated Mercury had been pitched headforemost with such tremendous force upon the bank, that her prow was buried deep in the sands, and her stern lifted, revealing one-third of the length of her keel. Her masts had been snapped short off, and with all their sails and shrouds had fallen forward upon the sand. And there she lay stranded, broken, helpless—exposed to every assault of wind and wave! At intervals a heavy sea broke over her. A nearer approach showed some half-dozen haggard wretches, the remnant of her unfortunate crew, assembled aft, holding on for dear life to the taffrail, yet scarcely able to keep their hold, with their hair and garments streaming in the wind. They were seen to wave signals of entreaty to the advancing ship.

But a horrible sea raged between the brig and the sand-bank! To have approached much nearer the wreck, would have been inevitably to share its fate! To have put out a boat would have been madness!—no boat could have lived a moment in such a sea.

Yet the Queen Charlotte could not, would not, pass her by. The only thing to do then, was to wear and heave to, to watch and seize an opportunity of rendering aid, if perchance the winds and waves should subside in time to send out boats to her.

But it was a terrible thing to lay there inactive, and behold sea after sea advance and break over that bound and disabled vessel!—at every advance shaking her hull almost in pieces—at every retreat carrying off some portion of her rigging or cargo. And it was more terrible still to behold those half-dozen fellow-creatures, clinging in desperation to their frail support!

At last a huge wave arose and rearing itself, like a moving cliff crested with foam, advanced upon the doomed wreck!

At this appalling sight, all on board the brig held their breath for very awe.

The mountain wave reached and broke over the sand-bank. And the ship was swamped!

A simultaneous cry of horror arose from the brig!

The next moment fragments of the shattered ship strewed the sea, and from amid the boiling hell of waters arose three struggling wretches.

One held on to a broken spar that kept him afloat.

Two others, for a single instant, strove for the possession of a plank that both had seized, but which was not sufficient to sustain more than one; then the stronger of the two, whom Lord Montressor thought he recognized as Victoire L’Orient, freeing his hand, struck off the weaker, who immediately sank, but in the impetuosity of this cruel blow he also lost his own hold upon the plank, and disappeared in the whirlpool of waters.

The third man—the sole survivor of the wreck, clinging desperately to the fragment of broken spar, and each moment growing more incapable of retaining his hold, was dashed hither and thither, at the mercy of the waves.

Lord Montressor, who had been standing, leaning over the bulwarks, chafing with impatience at his own inactivity, could now endure this sight no longer. It was not in his brave and generous nature thus to stand and behold a fellow-creature helpless amid such deadly peril, and not wish to risk life if needful for his rescue. Lord Montressor was a man of athletic and powerful frame, as well as of heroic spirit. He had been trained in all those gymnastic exercises calculated to develope extraordinary muscular strength and skill. Calling upon a seaman to assist him, he hastily stripped off his upper garments, fastened a strong rope securely around his waist, and, against the vehement expostulations of all who were near him, threw himself into the raging sea.

The captain, crew and passengers watched him in intense anxiety.

Buffeting the billows, he made toward the struggling wretch. Wind and tide were in his favor, though three times was he violently thrown back. Yet would he not give the signal to be drawn in. He seemed resolved to save the shipwrecked man or share his fate. At length it was due as much to an apparent accident, as to his own strength and skill, that he was enabled to effect his purpose—a friendly wave lifting him upon its breast, cast him forward in reach of the spar; simultaneously he threw his arms out and seized the man; it was time! the strength of the poor wretch was exhausted,—he was about to drop off! Wave after wave dashed over them, as if the sea had resolved to sever them, but Lord Montressor held on bravely to his prize. He gave the signal; the men on board the brig began to haul in the rope, and in a few moments more the shipwrecked man and his gallant preserver were safe upon the deck of the Queen Charlotte!

Lord Montressor left his charge in the hands of the sailors, and to escape the congratulations of his companions, as well as to change his wet clothes, he went below.

Amid all the horror with which he reflected upon the scenes of the shipwreck, one question forced itself upon his mind. Victoire L’Orient had been a passenger on board the ill-fated Mercury—was he lost or saved?—was he the man who had been seen to strike his fellow from the floating plank and perish in the cruel act? had he, in fact, been among the number of the passengers who had been swept off from the stern gallery? Or had he, perhaps, previously taken passage in some boat, that might, at some earlier hour of the disaster, have left the wreck in the desperate hope of reaching the shore? and had he perchance so reached the shore?—in a word, was he lost or saved? This question, as it was inevitable it should—pressed anxiously upon his mind.

And yet, reader, had Lord Montressor believed the man whom he saved to be Victoire L’Orient, he would just as certainly have risked his life for his preservation.

Meanwhile, the beaten and battered victim of the wreck was taken into the captain’s cabin, supplied with dry clothing, refreshed with bread and wine, and forced to lie down upon a berth to recover his exhausted strength. The captain, who like all old sailors, was a tolerably good physician, would not permit his guest to be questioned until he had some rest.

“And, indeed,” said the old skipper, “he is Lord Montressor’s own prize, and shall be examined first of all by his lordship!”

And in truth the stranger seemed to be of a similar opinion; for after he had been refreshed by a short rest, his first request was that he might be able to see and thank his brave preserver.

Word to this effect was transmitted to Lord Montressor, who lost no time in obeying the summons. He entered the cabin, and took his seat by the side of the berth upon which the shipwrecked passenger lay.

The stranger seemed to be a man of about twenty-two years of age, of symmetrical form and handsome face, having a Grecian profile; fair, clear complexion; golden-brown hair, and dark, hazel eyes.

“I am glad to find you so well recovered, my friend,” said Lord Montressor, looking with kind interest upon his rescued waif.

“I thank you, my lord—I beg pardon! but I understood my gallant preserver to be the Viscount Montressor,” said the young man, fixing his dark, expressive eyes with a look of inquiry upon the face of his lordship.

“That is my name, sir.”

“And mine is Julius Levering. I am a Baltimore man, my Lord, and am not unacquainted with the fame of Lord Montressor,” said the youth.

Lord Montressor gravely waived this compliment, and said—

“I hope that you have suffered no injury from the floating fragments of the wreck, sir?”

“I thank you; none, my lord,” said Julius Levering, passing his hand thoughtfully across his brow; then withdrawing it, he added, “In truth, I know not _how_, in adequate terms, to express my eternal gratitude to your lordship for the preservation of my life.”

“Thank Providence, my dear sir, and not me. My act was too instinctive to merit recollection,” returned Lord Montressor.

“But, my dear lord, you risked your own valuable life to save that of a stranger!”

“As I should have also risked it to save an enemy. The act was merely impulsive—inevitable, I may say! Pray let us drop that part of the subject. Now tell me, if you please, were there any other persons saved from the wreck, do you know?”

“Great heaven! I do not, sir! We struck the sand-bank just after midnight. At daybreak, fourteen of our number left the ship in an open boat, that seemed to have no chance of living in such a sea; they embarked in the frantic expectation of being able to reach the Maryland shore. Whether the boat ever made the land, or whether, as is most likely, she went down amid the waves, I have no means of knowing! I only know, that except myself, those who preferred to remain and take their chances with the ship, fared no better than she did, whatever her fate may have been. Before that last great sea took us—and even before your ship hove in sight of us—we had lost several of our companions, blown off or washed off from their frail hold. Among those who were swept off right before my eyes, was a poor old fragile French woman—one Madame L’Orient. Good heaven! shall I ever get rid of that vision!”