THE STORM AND SHIPWRECK.

The wind
Increased at night, until it blew a gale;
And though 'twas not much to naval mind,
Some landsmen would have looked a little pale,
For sailors are, in fact, a different kind:
At sunset they began to take in sail.
--BYRON.

Nearly two centuries and a half have made wonderful changes in ocean travel. The floating palaces of to-day which plough the deep on schedule time, regardless of storms, contrary winds and adverse tides, were unknown when John Stevens embarked for England in 1654.

The vessel in which he sailed was one of the best of the time. It was large, well manned and officered, and few had any fears of risking a voyage in the stanch craft Silverwing; but John Stevens could no more allay his fears than control the storm.

His wife, who stood weeping on the strand, became a speck in the distance and then disappeared from his view. The heart of the husband overflowed with bitterness, and he turned from the taffrail where he had been standing and walked forward to conceal his emotion.

All about him were gay groups of people, laughing and jesting. They were mostly men and women who had come from England and were happy now that they were going home. John's wife seemed to have lost her many faults, and the image that faded from his gaze was a creature of perfection. Only the beautiful face, the great dark eyes and the sunny smiles were remembered.

John went to his stateroom and, falling into his berth, wept. He may be called weak, but he was not. John had braved too many dangers and undergone too many hardships to be termed weak. His mind was filled with his wife and children. The face of his sleeping baby, whose warm, tender arms had been so often entwined about his neck, lingered in his mind. When the dinner hour came he was not hungry, so he remained in his cabin.

The vessel had gained the open sea by nightfall and was bowling along at a three-knot rate under full spread of canvas and fair wind. He went to supper, though little inclined to eat, and during the night was awakened with a load heavier than grindstones on his stomach.

"Surely I will die," he groaned, as each heaving billow seemed to torture his poor stomach. He rose at dawn and found himself unable to stand. The sea was rough, and the ship was tossing and reeling like a drunken man. John found himself unable to lie down or sit up. He spent the day in rolling alternately in his berth or on the floor, groaning, "Surely I will die."

The purser came and laughed at his distress, assuring him that he would survive. Next day he felt better and crawled out upon the deck. The sea still ran high, though the sky was clear, and the sun shone on the wildly agitated sea.

He saw a wretch as miserable as himself crouching under a hencoop and holding both hands upon his tortured stomach. John Stevens paused for a moment at the rail, gasping with seasickness.

"Say, neighbor, are you having a hard time?" asked the seasick but cheerful individual under the hencoop.

"My head hurts," John gasped.

"Verily, I ache all over," returned the new acquaintance under the hencoop.

At this moment the cabin door was thrown suddenly and unceremoniously open, and a man past middle age darted forward as if he had been shot out of a cannon and went sprawling upon the deck, howling as he did so:

"Good morrow, stranger!"

John was not astonished at the sudden appearance of the man, but was rather alarmed at the violence of his fall. He ran to him and assisted him to rise.

"Are you injured?" he asked.

"Nay, nay; the fall was not violent."

The man under the hencoop, who had been a disinterested spectator, took occasion to remark:

"Marry! my friend, I wish it were I who had taken such a tumble; surely it would have crushed the stones in my stomach."

"I am not sick," the new-comer answered, rising to his feet. "I was thrown by the sudden lurch of the ship; but it will soon be over."

"I trust so," groaned the seasick man by the hencoop.

"But the sea runs high," the old man said, "let us go in."

John Stevens, who had partially recovered from his seasickness, went into the cabin with the stranger. He had formed no acquaintances since coming on board the vessel and was strangely impressed with this old gentleman. Men cannot always brood on the past and retain their senses. John Stevens was not a coward, yet the helpless condition of his wife and children made him dread danger. When they were seated he said:

"You do not belong at Jamestown."

"No. I am from London and know no one at Jamestown."

"You came in the last ship?"

"We did."

"You did not come alone?"

"No; my daughter Blanche came with me. She is all the child I have."

John Stevens remembered to have seen a very pretty girl on the streets of Jamestown, and for having praised her beauty, his wife had grown insanely jealous and given way to one of her outbursts of anger. The gentleman from London was Mr. Samuel Holmes, who had been a too warm friend of Charles I. to suit the Protectorate, and after Cromwellism had become a certainty, he considered it better to fly the country. As Virginia had been friendly to cavaliers, he had brought his daughter to Jamestown and spent six months there; but, being assured by friends that he could return with safety, he had decided to go home.

From that time John Stevens and Mr. Holmes became friends. In a day or two more the passengers had nearly all recovered from their seasickness, and the voyage promised to be a favorable one. John Stevens met Blanche Holmes, a pretty blue-eyed English girl, with light brown hair and ruddy cheeks. She was not over eighteen years of age, and was one of those trusting, confiding creatures, who win friends at first sight. By the strange, fortuitous circumstances which fate seems to indiscriminately weave about people, the maid and John Stevens were thrown much into each other's society.

She had many questions to ask about the New World. He, having passed all his life there and having explored the coast to Massachusetts and fought many battles with the Indians, was able to entertain her, and she never seemed to tire of listening to his adventures. It never occurred to John that there could be any impropriety in talking to this child, nor was there any, though modern society might condemn him. He never mentioned his family to either Blanche or her father.

That wife and children left at Jamestown were subjects too sacred for general conversation. When alone in his stateroom he knelt and breathed a prayer for them, and often in his dreams he heard his laughing boy at play, or felt the warm, soft hand of his baby on his cheek, or heard her sweet voice calling him. Often he awoke and sobbed like a child on discovering that the ship was hourly bearing him further and further from home.

Mr. Holmes was a cheerful companion at first, but gradually he grew melancholy, and at times inapproachable. One day John met him at the gangway, and he took the young man's arm and, leading him aft, said:

"I want to talk with you."

They sat upon some coils of rope, and Mr. Holmes resumed: "We are going to have bad weather. I am something of a sailor, and, in addition to my own experience, the captain says we will have a storm ere many hours."

There was something in the voice and manner of the man which chilled Stevens; but he retained his self-possession and answered:

"Of course you feel no serious apprehension? The ship is strong and able to weather any storm."

"I believe it is; yet in a storm at sea we have no assurance of safety. Our captain is incompetent and the vessel has, through a miscalculation, gone a long distance out of her true course. Now what I wish to say is this: should anything happen to me on this voyage, I want you to care for my daughter. You have seen and talked with her every day since first we met, and you know how good she is. I am her only relative on earth, and Cromwell has set a price on my head. Should I perish, she will be without a protector."

John Stevens was astonished at the strange request, but consented to accept the charge, provided he should be spared and Mr. Holmes should perish.

Mr. Holmes was not mistaken in his surmises about the weather. The day of this interview was the nineteenth of September, and before night the sky was obscured by great fleecy clouds, and in the evening the rain fell in torrents. The firmament darkened apace; sudden night came on, and the horrors of extreme darkness were rendered still more horrible by the peals of thunder which made the sphere tremble, and the frequent flashes of lightning, which served only to show the horror of the situation, and then leave them in darkness still more intense. The wind grew more violent, and a heavy sea, raised by its force, united to add to the dangers of the situation.

"It is coming," Mr. Holmes whispered to John, whom he met in the gangway.

"We are going to have a terrible storm," John answered.

"Yes; remember your promise."

"I will not forget it, Mr. Holmes; but why do you refer to it? Surely you are as likely as I to outlive the tempest."

"No, no," Mr. Holmes answered, shaking his white head despairingly, "I have an impression that my time has surely come."

John Stevens was startled by the remark, for he too was living in the shadow of some expected calamity. He next met the passenger whom he had seen under the lee of the hencoop, and his despair and grimaces were enough to make even the discouraged John smile.

"Oh, I shall be drowned. I shall be drowned!" the poor fellow was groaning. "Pray for me, some of you who can. I cannot, for it would do no good; but some of you can surely pray. By the mass! I see the very whale that swallowed Jonah ready to gulp me down."

He was clinging to some ropes as if he expected momentarily to be swept away.

John Stevens went to bed, which was the most sensible thing he could do. By daylight on the morning of the twentieth, the gale had increased to a furious tempest, and the sea, keeping pace with it, ran mountains high. All that day the passengers were kept close below hatches, for the sea beat over the ship.

About seven o'clock on the morning of the twenty-first, John Stevens was alarmed by an unusual noise upon deck, and running up, perceived that every sail in the vessel, except the foresail, had been totally carried away. The sight was horrible, and the whole vessel presented a spectacle of despair, which the stoutest heart could not withstand. Fear had produced not only all the helplessness of despondency, but all the mischievous freaks of insanity. In one place stood the captain, raving, stamping and tearing his hair in handfuls from his head. Here some of the crew were upon their knees, clasping their hands and praying, with all the extravagance of horror depicted in their faces. Others were flogging their images with might and main, calling upon them to allay the storm. One of the passengers from England had got hold of a bottle of rum and, with an air of distraction and deep despair imprinted on his face, was stalking about in his shirt, crying:

"Come, drink to oblivion, death we must meet; let us make the dissolution easy." Perceiving that it was his intent to serve it out to the few undismayed members of the ship's crew, John rushed on him, seized the liquor and hurled it over into the raging sea.

Having accomplished this, Stevens next applied himself to the captain, endeavoring to bring him back to his senses, and a realization of the duty which he owed as commander to the passengers and crew. He appealed to his dignity as a man, exhorted him to encourage the sailors by his example, and strove to raise his spirits by saying that the storm did not appear so terrible as some he had before experienced. While he was thus employed, they shipped a sea on the starboard side, which all thought would send them to the bottom. For a moment the vessel seemed to sink beneath its weight, shivered and remained motionless. It was a moment of critical suspense, and, fancying that they were gradually descending into the great bosom of the ocean, John Stevens gave himself up for lost and summoned all his fortitude to bear the approaching death as became a brave man.

At this crisis, the water, which rushed with incredible force through all parts of the vessel, floated out. Mr. Holmes was almost drowned, and, had not John seized one arm which he swung wildly above his head, he probably would have been washed overboard. The vessel did not go down immediately as they thought it would, and Mr. Holmes, partially recovered, joined Stevens.

"The storm is terrible," said the old man. "The ship is going down, and I will go with it."

"Nay, nay; keep up a stout heart," urged John.

"Verily, how can I, when danger overwhelms even the captain?"

"If we must die, let us die like men, struggling for our lives," said John.

"Remember your pledge to me. Care for her, for I will go. The ship may be saved, but my end I feel is near."

John promised to obey his request, and then, being one whom hope never entirely deserted, he turned upon the captain of the ship and once more urged him to make some manly exertion to save himself and the crew.

"Throw the guns overboard as well as much of the weighty cargo," he cried, "and set the pumps a-going."

Mr. Holmes, having sufficiently recovered to realize the wisdom of the course pursued by Stevens, joined him in his entreaties, and they got the captain and some of his crew to make one more effort. The water, however, gained on the pumps, and it seemed as if they would not long be able to keep the vessel afloat.

At ten o'clock, the wind had increased to a hurricane; the sky was so entirely obscured with black clouds, and the rain poured in such torrents, that objects could not be discerned from the wheel to the ship's head. Soon the pumps were choked and could be no longer worked. Then dismay seized on all, and nothing but unutterable despair, anguish and horror, wrought up to frenzy, were to be seen. Not a single person was capable of an effort to be useful; all seemed more desirous to terminate their calamities in an embrace of death, than willing, by a painful exertion, to avoid it.

John Stevens, though despairing, yet determined to make a manly struggle for life, and he was staggering through the main cabin, when some one clutched his arm. He turned about and through the gloom saw Blanche's pale face.

"Are we going down?" she asked.

"God grant that it be not so!" he answered.

"But such fearful noises, such hideous sights."

"Be brave, young maid," he urged. "Where is your father?"

"His shoulder is injured, and his left arm is almost useless."

At this moment Mr. Holmes came along, holding his injured arm with his right hand.

"Aye, my friend, the worst is coming," he said, fixing his despairing eyes on the white face of his daughter. "I am pleased to find you together, for now I can say what I would to both of you. Blanche, he hath promised to care for you; he is a man of honor, rely on him."

A sudden lurch of the vessel sent all three in a heap at one side of the cabin, and, as soon as John could regain his feet and ascertain that the old gentleman and his daughter had sustained no injury, he went on deck. At about eleven o'clock, they could plainly distinguish a dreadful roaring noise resembling that of waves rolling against the rocks; but the darkness of the day and the accompanying rain made it impossible to see for any distance, and John realized that, if they were near rocks, they might be dashed to pieces on them before they were perceived. At twelve o'clock, however, the weather cleared a little, when they discovered breakers and reefs outside, so that it was evident they had passed in quite close to them, and were now fairly hemmed in between the rocks and the land.

At this very critical moment, the captain adopted the dangerous expedient of dropping anchor, to bring the ship up with her head to the sea. Any seaman of common sense and not frightened out of his wits must have known that no ship could ride at anchor in that storm. John Stevens, though no sailor, saw the folly of such a course and expostulated with the captain, but to no purpose. Scarcely had the anchor taken firm hold when an enormous sea, rolling over the ship, overwhelmed her and filled her with water, and every one on board concluded that she was sinking. On the instant a sailor, with presence of mind worthy of an English mariner, took an axe, ran forward and cut the cable.

The freed vessel again floated and made an effort to right herself, but she was almost completely waterlogged and heeled to larboard so much that the gunwale lay under water. They then endeavored to steer as fast as they could for land, which they knew could not be at any great distance, though through the hazy weather they were unable to see it. The foresail was loosened, and, by great efforts in bailing, she righted a little, her gunwale was raised above water, and they scudded as well as they could before the wind, which blew hard on shore, and at about two o'clock one of the sailors said he espied land ahead.

"We will never reach it," said Mr. Holmes, who was at the side of John Stevens.

"Do not despair," said John.

"But we can't reach the shore, look at those waves."

A tremendous sea rolling after them broke over the stern of the ship, tore everything before it, stove in the steerage, carried away the rudder, shivered the wheel to pieces and tore up the very ringbolts of the deck, carrying the men who stood on the deck forward and sweeping them overboard. Among them was the unfortunate captain of the Silverwing. John was standing at the time near the wheel, and fortunately had hold of the taffrail, which enabled him to resist in part the weight of the wave. He was, however, swept off his feet, and dashed against the main-mast. So violent was the jerk from the taffrail, that it seemed as if it would have dislocated his arms. However, it broke the force of the stroke, and, in all probability, saved him from being dashed to death against the mast.

John floundered about in the water at the foot of the mast, until at length he got upon his feet and seized a rope, which he held while considering what he should do to extricate himself. At this instant he perceived Mr. Holmes and his daughter on the capstan. How they had got there was a marvel to him which he had no time to investigate. Mr. Holmes beckoned with his lame hand to John, while he clung to his daughter with his right. A vivid flash of lightning lighted up the scene, and John saw that Blanche was very pale, but calm. Never had he seen a more beautiful picture than this pretty maiden with her face turned in resignation to the storm. He forgot his own danger, forgot wife and children at home in his unselfish eagerness to snatch the unfortunate girl from the impending danger.

It was no easy matter for John Stevens to break away from his hold on the main-mast and make his way to the capstan. At every roll of the ship and every surge of the waves, unfortunate passengers or sailors were washed overboard and plunged into the boiling, seething waves which thundered about them. Stevens made a bold push, however, and reached the capstan. Here he could survey the wreck, and he saw that the water was nearly breast-high on the quarter-deck of the vessel.

"It will soon be over," said Mr. Holmes in a voice so despairing that it rang in the ears of John Stevens to his dying day. "Crew and passengers are nearly all gone, and my turn will come soon."

Even as he spoke, the purser, two men and four women were washed overboard, their drowning screams mingling with the hollow roars of the ocean.

"Take her! take her!" cried Mr. Holmes frantically. "I resign her to you. I am going; I can hold out no longer."

A wave more terrible than any that had preceded it at this moment seemed to bury the ship, which was driving straight toward the unknown shore. Instinctively John wound one arm about the girl and held to the capstan with the other. It seemed an age, and he was almost on the point of relaxing his hold on the capstan, when they once more rose above the water, and he got a breath of air. He still clung to Blanche in despair, though she lay so limp in his arms that he thought her dead.

It was now dark, for night had fallen upon the awful scene. A flash of lightning illuminated the wreck, Mr. Holmes was gone, and Stevens could not see another soul on the vessel. The wild roar of surf fell on his ears, and a moment later he felt the bottom of the ship grating on the sands. It seemed to glide further and further on the beach, as if the ship were being lifted and driven inland. The tide was at the full, and the wind was blowing a hurricane on shore, so that the wreck was driven far up on the beach, and at low tide it was high and dry.

John Stevens remained by the capstan, as it was highest point, holding Blanche in his arms long after the ship had settled in the sands. The waves leaped and raved angrily below; but not a human voice was heard. He asked himself if Blanche were dead or living. At last he felt her move and, placing his hand on her heart, was rejoiced to know that it still beat.

"Father--father!" she faintly murmured.

"He is gone," John answered.

"Is this you?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Cling to me."

"I will. We will survive or perish together."

Then she became silent, and the night grew blacker, while the storm howled; but the waves receded with the ebbing tide, and the broken hulk remained fast fixed in the sands. The poor girl shivered all through that night and clung to her preserver. She did not weep at the loss of her father, for the horror of their situation dried the fountains of grief. All night long the warring elements raged about the remaining castaways, who clung with the tenacity of despair to the wreck.