Night was unfolding her wings over the quiet sea. Purple, dark and smooth, the circling expanse of glassy stillness met the sky rim all round in an unbroken line, like the edge of some cloud-towering plateau, inaccessible to all the rest of the world. A few lingering streaks of fading glory laced the western verge, reflecting splashes of subdued colour half-way across the circle, and occasionally catching with splendid but momentary effect the rounded shoulder of an almost imperceptible swell. Their departure was being noted with wistful eyes by a little company of men and one woman, who, without haste and a hushed solemnity as of mourners at the burial of a dear one, were leaving their vessel and bestowing themselves in a small boat which lay almost motionless alongside. There was no need for haste, for the situation had been long developing. The brig was an old one, whose owner was poor and unable to spare sufficient from her scanty earnings for her proper upkeep. So she had been gradually going from bad to worse, not having been strongly built of hard wood at first, but pinned together hastily by some farmer-shipbuilder-fisherman up the Bay of Fundy, mortgaged strake by strake, like a suburban villa, and finally sold by auction for the price of the timber in her. Still, being a smart model and newly painted, she looked rather attractive when Captain South first saw her lying in lonely dignity at an otherwise deserted quay in the St. Katharine’s Docks. Poor man, the command of her meant so much to him. Long out of employment, friendless and poor, he had invested a tiny legacy, just fallen to his wife, in the vessel as the only means whereby he could obtain command of even such a poor specimen of a vessel as the Dorothea. And the shrewd old man who owned her drove a hard bargain. For the small privilege of the skipper carrying his wife with him 50s. per month was deducted from the scanty wage at first agreed upon. But in spite of these drawbacks the anxious master felt a pleasant glow of satisfaction thrill him as he thought that soon he would be once more afloat, the monarch of his tiny realm, and free for several peaceful months from the harassing uncertainties of shore-life.

In order to avoid expense he lived on board while in dock, and made himself happily busy rigging up all sorts of cunning additions to the little cuddy, with an eye to the comfort of his wife. While thus engaged came a thunderclap, the first piece of bad news. The Dorothea was chartered to carry a cargo of railway iron and machinery to Buenos Ayres. Had he been going alone the thing would have annoyed him, but he would have got over that with a good old-fashioned British growl or so. But with Mary on board—the thought was paralysing. For there is only one cargo that tries a ship more than railway metal, copper ore badly stowed. Its effect upon a staunch steel-built ship is to make her motion abominable—to take all the sea-kindness out of her. A wooden vessel, even of the best build, burdened with those rigid lengths of solid metal, is like a living creature on the rack, in spite of the most careful stowage. Every timber in her complains, every bend and strake is wrenched and strained, so that, be her record for “tightness” never so good, one ordinary gale will make frequent exercise at the pump an established institution. And Captain South already knew that the Dorothea was far from being staunch and well-built, although, happily for his small remaining peace of mind, he did not know how walty and unseaworthy she really was. A few minutes’ bitter meditation, over this latest crook in his lot, and the man in him rose to the occasion, determined to make the best of it and hope steadily for a fine run into the trades. He superintended her stowing himself, much to the disgust of the stevedores, who are never over particular unless closely watched, although so much depends upon the way their work is done. At any rate, he had the satisfaction of knowing that the ugly stuff was as handsomely bestowed as experience could suggest, and, with a sigh of relief, he saw the main hatches put on and battened down for a full due.

In the selection of his crew he had been unusually careful. Five A.B.’s were all that he was allowed, the vessel being only 500 tons burden, two officers besides himself, and one man for the double function of cook and steward. Therefore, he sought to secure the best possible according to his judgment, and really succeeded in getting together a sturdy little band. His chief comfort, however, was in his second mate, who was a Finn—one of that phlegmatic race from the eastern shore of the Baltic who seem to inherit not only a natural aptitude for a sea life, but also the ability to build ships, make sails and rigging, do blacksmithing, &c.—all, in fact, that there is to a ship, as our cousins say. Slow, but reliable to the core, and a perfect godsend in a small ship. In Olaf Svensen, then, the skipper felt he had a tower of strength. The mate was a young Londoner, smart and trustworthy—not too independent to thrust his arms into the tarpot when necessary, and amiable withal. The other six members of the crew—two Englishmen and three Scandinavians—were good seamen, all sailors—there wasn’t a steamboat man among them—and, from the first day when in the dock they all arrived sober and ready for work, matters went smoothly and salt-water fashion.

It was late in October when they sailed, and they had no sooner been cast adrift by the grimy little “jackal” that towed them down to the Nore than they were greeted by a bitter nor’-wester that gave them a sorry time of it getting round the Foreland. The short, vicious Channel sea made the loosely-knit frame of the brig sing a mournful song as she jumped at it, braced sharp up, and many were the ominous remarks exchanged in the close, wedge-shaped fo’c’s’le on her behaviour in these comparatively smooth waters, coupled with gloomy speculations as to what sort of a fist she would make of the Western Ocean waves presently. Clinkety-clank, bang, bang went the pumps for fifteen minutes out of every two hours, the water rising clear, as though drawn from overside, and a deeper shade settled on the skipper’s brow. For a merry fourteen days they fought their way inch by inch down Channel, getting their first slant between Ushant and Scilly in the shape of a hard nor’-easter, that drove them clear of the land and 300 miles out into the Atlantic. Then it fell a calm, with a golden haze all round the horizon by day, and a sweet, balmy feel in the air—a touch of Indian summer on the sea. Three days it lasted—days that brought no comfort to the skipper, who could hardly hold his patience when his wife blessed the lovely weather, in her happy ignorance of what might be expected as the price presently to be paid for it. Then one evening there began to rise in the west the familiar sign so dear to homeward-bounders, so dreaded by outward-going ships—the dense dome of cloud uplifted to receive the setting sun. The skipper watched its growth as if fascinated by the sight, watched it until at midnight it had risen to be a vast convex screen, hiding one-half of the deep blue sky. At the changing of the watch he had her shortened down to the two lower topsails and fore-topmast staysail, and having thus snugged her, went below to snatch, fully dressed, a few minutes’ sleep. The first moaning breath of the coming gale roused him almost as soon as it reached the ship, and as the watchful Svensen gave his first order, “Lee fore brace!” the skipper appeared at the companion hatch, peering anxiously to windward, where the centre of that gloomy veil seemed to be worn thin. The only light left was just a little segment of blue low down on the eastern horizon, to which, in spite of themselves, the eyes of the travailing watch turned wistfully. But whatever shape the surging thoughts may take in the minds of seamen, the exertion of the moment effectually prevents any development of them into despair in the case of our own countrymen. So, in obedience to the hoarse cries of Mr. Svensen, they strove to get the Dorothea into that position where she would be best able to stem the rising sea, and fore-reach over the hissing sullenness of the long, creaming rollers, that as they came surging past swept her, a mile at a blow, sideways to leeward, leaving a whirling, broadside wake of curling eddies. Silent and anxious, Captain South hung with one elbow over the edge of the companion, his keen hearing taking note of every complaint made by the trembling timbers beneath his feet, whose querulous voices permeated the deeper note of the storm.

All that his long experience could suggest for the safety of his vessel was put into practice. One by one the scanty show of sail was taken in and secured with extra gasket turns, lest any of them should, showing a loose corner, be ripped adrift by the snarling tempest. By eight bells (4 A.M.) the brig showed nothing to the bleak darkness above but the two gaunt masts, with their ten bare yards tightly braced up against the lee backstays, and the long peaked forefinger of the jibboom reaching out over the pale foam. A tiny weather-cloth of canvas only a yard square was stopped in the weather main rigging, its small area amply sufficing to keep the brig’s head up in the wind except when, momentarily becalmed by a hill of black water rearing its head to windward, it relaxed its steadfast thrust and suffered the vessel to fall off helplessly into the trough between two huge waves. Now commenced the long unequal struggle between a weakly-constructed hull, unfairly handicapped by the wrench of a dead mass of iron within that met every natural scend of her frame with unyielding brutality of resistance, and the wise old sea, kindly indeed to ships whose construction and cargo enable them to meet its masses with the easy grace of its own inhabitants, but pitiless destroyer of all vessels that do not greet its curving assault with yielding grace, its mighty stride with sinuous deference of retreat. The useless wheel, held almost hard down, thumped slowly under the hands of the listless helmsman with the regularity of a nearly worn-out clock, while the oakum began to bulge upward from the deck seams. As if weary even unto death, the brig cowered before the untiring onslaught of the waves, allowing them to rise high above the weather rail, and break apart with terrible uproar, filling the decks rail-high from poop to forecastle. Pumping was incessant, yet Svensen found each time he dropped the slender sounding-rod down the tube a longer wetness upon it, until its two feet became insufficient, and the mark of doom crept up the line. And besides the ever-increasing inlet of the sea, men stayed by the pumps only at imminent risk of being dashed to pieces, for they were, as always, situated in the middle of the main deck, where the heaviest seas usually break aboard. There was little said, and but few looks exchanged. The skipper had, indeed, to meet the wan face of his wife, but she dared not put her fear into words, or he bring himself to tell her that except for a miracle their case was hopeless. He seldom left the deck, as if the wide grey hopelessness around had an irresistible fascination for him, and he watched with unspeculative eyes the pretty gambols of those tiny elves of the sea, the Mother Carey’s chickens, as they fluttered incessantly to and fro across the wake of his groaning vessel.

So passed a night and a day of such length that the ceaseless tumult of wind and wave had become normal, and slighter sounds could be easily distinguished because the ear had become attuned to the elemental din. Unobtrusively the impassive Svensen had been preparing their only serviceable boat by stocking her with food, water, &c. The skipper had watched him with a dull eye, as if his proceedings were devoid of interest, but felt a glimmer of satisfaction at the evidence of his second mate’s forethought. For all hope of the Dorothea’s weathering the gale was now completely gone. Even the blue patches breaking through the heavy cloud-pall to leeward could not revive it. For she was now only wallowing, with a muffled roar of turbid water within as it sullenly swept from side to side with the sinking vessel’s heavy roll. The gale died away peacefully, the sea smoothed its wrinkled plain, and the grave stars peered out one by one, as if to reassure the anxious watchers. Midnight brought a calm, as deep as if wind had not yet been made, but the old swell still came marching on, making the doomed brig heave clumsily as it passed her. The day broke in perfect splendour, cloudless and pure, the wide heavens bared their solemn emptiness, and the glowing sun in lonely glory showered such radiance on the sea that it blazed with a myriad dazzling hues. But into that solitary circle, whereof the brig was the pathetic centre, came no friendly glint of sails, no welcome stain of trailing smoke across the clear blue. But the benevolent calm gave opportunity for a careful launching of the boat, and as she lay quietly alongside the few finishing touches were given to her equipment. As the sun went down the vessel’s motion ceased—she was now nearly level with the smooth surface of the ocean, which impassively awaited her farewell to the light. Hardly a word was spoken as the little company left her side and entered the boat. When all were safely bestowed the skipper said, “Cut that painter forrard there,” and his voice sounded hollowly across the burdening silence. A few faint splashes were heard as the oars rose and fell, and the boat glided away. At a cable’s length they ceased pulling, and with every eye turned upon the brig they waited. In a painful, strained hush, they saw her bow as if in stately adieu, and as if with an embrace the placid sea enfolded her. Silently she disappeared, the dim outlines of her spars lingering, as if loth to leave, against the deepening violet of the night.

With one arm around his wife, the skipper sat at the tiller, a small compass before him, by the aid of which he kept her head toward Madeira, but, anxious to husband energy, he warned his men not to pull too strenuously. Very peacefully passed the night, no sound invading the stillness except the regular plash of the oars and an occasional querulous cry from a belated sea-bird aroused from its sleep by the passage of the boat. At dawn rowing ceased for a time, and those who were awake watched in a perfect silence, such as no other situation upon this planet can afford, the entry of the new day. Not one of them but felt like men strangely separated from mundane things, and face to face with the inexpressible mysteries of the timeless state. But it was Svensen who broke that sacred quiet by a sonorous shout of “Sail-ho!” With a transition like a wrench from death to life, all started into eager questioning; and all presently saw, with the vigilant Finn, the unmistakable outlines of a vessel branded upon the broad, bright semi-circle of the half-risen sun. No order was given or needed. Double-banked, the oars gripped the water, and with a steady rush the boat sped eastward towards that beatific vision of salvation. Even the skipper’s face lost its dull shade of hopelessness, in spite of his loss, as he saw the haggard lines relax from Mary’s face. Quite a cheerful buzz of chat arose. Unweariedly, hour after hour, the boat sped onward over the bright smoothness, though the sun poured down his stores of heat and the sweat ran in steady streams down the brick-red faces of the toiling rowers. After four hours of unremitting labour they were near enough to their goal to see that she was a steamer lying still, with no trace of smoke from her funnel. As they drew nearer they saw that she had a heavy list to port, and presently came the suggestion that she was deserted. Hopes began to rise, visions of recompense for all their labour beyond anything they could have ever dreamed possible. The skipper’s nostrils dilated, and a faint blush rose to his cheeks. Weariness was forgotten, and the oars rose and fell as if driven by steam, until, panting and breathless, they rounded to under the stern of a schooner-rigged steamer of about 2000 tons burden, without a boat in her davits, and her lee rail nearly at the water’s edge. Running alongside, a rope trailing overboard was caught, and the boat made fast. In two minutes every man but the skipper was on board, and a purchase was being rigged for the shipment of Mrs. South. No sooner was she also in safety than investigation commenced. The discovery was soon made that, although the decks had been swept and the cargo evidently shifted, there was nothing wrong with the engines or boilers except that there was a good deal of water in the stokehold. She was evidently Italian by her name, without the addition of Genoa, the Luigi C., being painted on the harness casks and buckets, and her crew must have deserted her in a sudden panic.

Like men intoxicated, they toiled to get things shipshape on board their prize, hardly pausing for sleep or food. And when they found the engines throbbing beneath their feet they were almost delirious with joy. Opening the hatches, they found that the cargo of grain had shifted, but not beyond their ability to trim, so they went at it with the same savage vigour they had manifested ever since they first flung themselves on board. And when, after five days of almost incessant labour, they took the pilot off Dungeness, and steamed up the Thames to London again, not one of them gave a second thought to the hapless Dorothea. Twelve thousand pounds were divided among them by the Judge’s orders, and Captain South found himself able to command a magnificent cargo steamer of more than 3000 tons register before he was a month older.