By twelve o’clock they had baled the long-boat out and got her over the ship’s side, a task of no small difficulty, since, the main-mast being gone, they had no means of slinging her. The other boats were also lowered, each with a hand in her, and hung in a group about the port side of the ship, where the bulwarks were smashed.

Each boat was properly supplied with mast, sail, and oars; also with water, biscuits, some rum in bottles, etc. They looked mere cookie-shells alongside the great hull, and it seemed difficult to realise that they would sustain among them the weight of the crowd of men who stood by ready to jump into them.

The ship was settling fast. They had left off pumping her some time since, and she had now sunk a great hole under her port fore-chains to a level with the water, which gushed in like a cascade.

Mrs. Ashton was the first to be handed out of the ship. She screamed and hung back, and threw her hands out to her husband; but the men, raising her firmly in their arms, offering her the while certain rough and hearty encouragements, passed her over the ship’s side to the sailors in the boats, who deposited her in the long-boat. The widow, at her own request, was assigned to Holdsworth’s boat. They handed her boy over first, and then she followed and seated herself in the stern-sheets, holding her child tightly.

Then rose a cry of “Bear a hand! the ship will founder!”

Mrs. Ashton’s maid was passed out quickly, and then the passengers; the actor and the General getting into Holdsworth’s boat, the others into the long-boat. After this, the seamen, feeling the imminence of the danger, tumbled rapidly into the boats; and then Holdsworth quitted the ship, followed by the captain.

“Shove off!” shouted the boatswain, who commanded one of the quarter-boats.

Out flashed the oars; the boats parted and stood aloof from the hull at a distance of about three hundred feet.

It is impossible to describe the mingled emotions of dismay, curiosity, and breathless suspense with which the men awaited the sinking of the hull. There was not a soul among them who felt privileged to depart until the vessel, so noble once, so desolate and broken now, had sunk to her long home in the deep Atlantic. Something absolutely of human pathos that appealed to the heart, as the distress of a living thing might, seemed mixed up in the aspect of unutterable desolation she presented, the more defined and keen because of the mocking joyousness of the sunlight that streamed over her, and the fair and azure surface of the sea on which she rested. Her figure-head, uninjured by the gale—as perfect a piece of workmanship as ever graced a vessel’s bows—might, by no violent fantasy, have been deemed the spirit of the ship poising herself an instant ere she soared towards the sky. The two sails upon her flapped hollowly to her roll, and once there came from her silent deck a sound as of a bell being struck, which filled the listening sailors with awe, and set them bending superstitious glances in search of the Shadow that was tolling the ship’s funeral knell.

All on a sudden the hull lurched in the direction of the boats and exposed her sloping decks. “She’s going now!” cried one of the men. This was true. Down sank her stern slowly, so slowly that many seconds passed ere her stern-windows were on a level with the water. She righted, and her bows, high raised, pointed the shattered jib-boom aloft, as though in her last agony she raised her mangled limbs to heaven. She then sank stern foremost, the deepest tragical dignity attending her descent: the silence unbroken, save by the sullen gurgling and bubbling of the water forcing itself through her decks. Her stern disappeared; then her bows stood black on the water; they vanished, and the fore-mast with the sail upon it alone remained visible. Lower and lower these crept, but still it was possible to trace the undulating outline of the hull in the clear water. The sponge-like sail sucked up the water quicker than it sank, and arched a brown shadow upon its snow; then the jagged top of the fore-mast only was to be seen; this vanished, and the boats were left alone upon the mighty surface of the deep.

A deep silence prevailed among the men while she was sinking; and not for some moments after she had disappeared did the spell upon them break, and a long and tremulous sigh escaped them.

Then the captain’s voice in the long-boat was heard:

“Mr. Holdsworth, our course is east-north-east. Every boat has a compass aboard of her. Now, my men, up with your masts; we may get a breeze before sun-down. And, meanwhile, out with your oars and make what way we can towards the old country!”

The stout-hearted fellows answered with a cheer; in all four boats they shipped the masts; out went the oars, and the water bubbled round the stems.

The men were right to cheer. God knows they needed what encouragement each other’s voice could give them.

What pen shall describe the overwhelming sense of the immensity of the sea, now that its surface could be touched by the hand—its huge presence so close! That sense alone was a weight that oppressed the hearts of the passengers like death. The height of a large ship from the edge of the water implanted a habit of security; but here, they overhung the deep by an arm’s length, and near enough to see their own pale faces mirrored in the green abyss from which they were separated by planks not much stouter than the sole of a boot.

There were in Holdsworth’s boat: himself, Mrs. Tennent and her boy, Mr. St. Aubyn, the General, and two seamen—Winyard and Johnson; in all, seven souls. The long-boat, in the distance, looked crowded; but then she was the largest of the boats. Astern of her rowed the boat commanded by the boatswain; astern of Holdsworth’s, the boat commanded by Mr. Thompson, the second mate.

There could be no purpose gained by rowing, for, let them ply the oars as hard as they would, they could not urge the heavy boats faster than three miles an hour. Holdsworth steered for the long-boat, and proposed to the captain that they should lay their oars in and wait for a breeze; which was agreed to. The sun shone hot upon the glassy sea, and the boats hoisted their sails as a protection against the rays. And for ever the men bent earnest and anxious glances round the bare and polished horizon for a sail.

In Holdsworth’s boat the two seamen sat forward, talking together in low voices; Mr. St. Aubyn reclined with his back against the mast, glancing incessantly about him with quick, scared eyes, but quite silent, as though the novelty and horror of the situation was more than his mind could receive, and he was labouring to master it. The General’s face was placid, and even hopeful. The widow, holding her son at her side, kept her eyes bent downwards, and often her lips moved.

In the other boats the men talked, and often called to one another. Their voices sounded forced and unreal as the tones floated across the water, and in a strange manner heightened the unspeakable sense of solitude inspired by the boundless and tenantless deep.

For some time the little boy appeared to share in the feelings which held all but the two sailors in Holdsworth’s boat silent; but he presently grew restless, and pulling his mother by the skirt, asked her in a whisper when the ship was coming back to take them on board again.

“Another ship will come and take us soon, pray God, Louis,” answered the mother.

“But where is our ship, mamma?”

Holdsworth overheard the question, and answered in his hearty, cheery manner:

“Look well about you, Louis, and, by-and-by, you will see a tiny spot of white rise somewhere on that clear circle,” pointing round the horizon, “and that will be our ship coming to take us home.”

“Oh, Mr. Holdsworth!” said the actor, in a faint voice, “if the wind rises, will not the water get into our boat and sink it?”

“Not if I can help it, sir. I am waiting for the wind to rise. There is no chance of a rescue in this calm.”

“Though we should be grateful for this calm,” exclaimed the General, “for it has enabled us all to leave the sinking ship in safety.”

“I have lost my all in that ship—all the money I had in the world, and my clothes, and things that were priceless to me,” moaned Mr. St. Aubyn.

The widow raised her head, and exclaimed, “I too have lost much that was precious, and which no money could ever purchase. But, so far, God has watched over us and preserved our lives, and I can well spare all else—all else—if He will but leave me this treasure.” She wept as she bowed her head over her child.

“Let us not murmur, Mr. St. Aubyn,” said the General softly, “but call upon Him who rebuked the winds and waves in the sea of Galilee, and calmed them. Have not we His disciples’ faith? He is in our midst, watching over us, even as we sit now. This ocean is but the symbol of His majesty and might: His servant who will bear us safely on its bosom at its Lord’s command. Our Saviour sleeps not, neither will He forsake us. We forget Him when we yield to our fears.”

“Thank you for those words, sir,” said the man named Johnson. “God don’t forget those who are at sea any more than those who stop on shore. I have been worse off nor this, sir, lashed to a raft for forty-eight hours, and here I am to tell the story. Begging your pardon, sir,” he added, touching his cap, and drawing back respectfully.

By this time the boats had drifted some distance apart; but the voices talking in them could still be heard with the utmost clearness, so exquisite a vehicle of sound is the smooth surface of water.

It was one o’clock by Holdsworth’s watch when they beheld the horizon in the east darkening under what resembled the shadow of a cloud, and the voice of a man in the long-boat came across the water, crying, “A breeze at last, my boys!”

It was a light breeze, and moved very slowly, but it filled the sails and sent the boats rippling gently through the water. As it came foul of the course the skipper meant to take, they lay as close to it as they could; and eyes were strained in its direction for the welcome sail, some of them whispered, it might bring along with it. Some white clouds came up, and as they soared about the horizon, they so closely resembled the sails of ships that even Holdsworth’s experienced eye was deceived, and he gazed intently with a beating heart.

The breeze freshened, and the unequal sailing qualities of the boats manifested themselves. The long-boat drew ahead rapidly; Holdsworth’s came next; the other two fell astern. The wind, though in reality light, seemed tolerably strong, owing to the boats sailing close to it. Holdsworth’s boat lay over, which terrified St. Aubyn, and made him cling to the weather-gunwale.

“You’re afeard rather early, sir,” said one of the seamen—Winyard—sarcastically.

“The boat will turn over!” gasped the actor.

Indeed his fear and despair were pitiable, and had not only dulled his eyes, but pinched and thinned his face as though he were fresh from a sick bed.

“Take a pull at this,” said Holdsworth, offering him some rum, and heartily commiserating the man’s sufferings. But St. Aubyn shook his head, and gazed with distended eyes at the water, shivering repeatedly, and sometimes talking to himself.

In order to let the hinder boats come up, the long-boat ahead from time to time stopped her way by putting her helm down, which example Holdsworth regularly followed; and so they sailed throughout the whole afternoon, the breeze remaining steady and the sea smooth.

The boat commanded by Holdsworth was about twenty-seven feet long, with seven feet or thereabouts of beam. There was a locker aft, which had been filled with small bags of bread, as they call biscuits at sea; and forward were one small and two large kegs of water, and a tin pannikin to serve out the allowances with. At the bottom of the boat was a set of gratings, meant to keep the feet clear of any water that might be shipped, with a well convenient to get at, and half a cocoa-nut-shell with a handle let into it, to bale the boat with. The boat was new, stoutly built, and rigged with a lug-sail. A small compass had been put in her, and Holdsworth had lashed it carefully to a thwart. This was the only nautical instrument they had with them, and unless they could guess their whereabouts, it would not, after a time, be of much service.

They had during the afternoon ascertained the quantity of provisions and water they carried, and discovered that there was enough to last for about ten days, providing each person had no more than two biscuits, and a quarter full of the pannikin of water, a day. They had also three bottles of rum. The first allowance was served out by Holdsworth at five o’clock in the afternoon. A biscuit was handed to each person; the little boy and the two seamen ate theirs hungrily: the General and Holdsworth nibbled only a portion of theirs: but Mrs. Tennent and the actor ate nothing. The mother gave half her biscuit to her boy, and put the other half in her pocket for him to eat during the night. The actor refused his allowance altogether, and Holdsworth returned it to the bag he had taken it from.

All the other boats remained in sight; the long-boat ahead, and the other two at unequal distances astern. From time to time they encouraged each other by waving their hats; and just before sunset some of the men in the long-boat struck up a hymn, the chorus of which stole faintly across the breeze, and mingled with the bubbling play of the water round the boat’s bows.

The sun went down, branding the great ocean with an angry glare; but nothing was visible upon either horizon but the deceptive tail-ends of clouds rising or dwindling. The breeze grew stronger as the darkness crept on, and they lowered the sail and took a couple of reefs in it, whilst there was light enough abroad for them to see what they were about. They soon lost sight of the other boats, and Holdsworth finding the wind drawing ahead, put the boat round, judging that the others would do so likewise.

Now, if at no other time, was the sense of the profound helplessness of their position forced upon them. It is easy to write and read of an open boat far out in the Atlantic Ocean, and darkness around; but none save those who have experienced the situation can realise all the horror of it. Waves which would scarcely more than ripple against the sides of a ship, make a dangerous sea for an open boat, and arch their seething heads over her with a threat in every one of them of destruction.

But the overpowering sensation is the near presence of the sea. Your feet are below its surface; your head but an arm’s length above it. And you hear the quick splash of the boat’s bows as she jumps awkwardly into the hollows of the waves, wobbling as she goes forward with jerks and many stoppages, while now and again the sea chucks a handful of spray into your eyes as an earnest of the way it means to deal with you presently, when the wind has made it more angry.

The stars came out and shone placidly among the clouds which were rolling away to the north-west. There was a short quick sea, which made the boat dip uncomfortably, and now and again whisked a sheet of spray over the seamen who sat forward. But there was more south than east in the breeze, which kept the temperature of the night mild. The little boy fell asleep in his mother’s arms; Mr. St. Aubyn reclined against the mast, his arms folded, and his head drooping on his breast, starting at intervals as the spray fell like a shower of rain in the boat, but speedily relapsing again into the sluggish or semi-unconscious state into which he had fallen shortly after the sun had gone down. The General and Holdsworth sometimes conversed. Presently Winyard, turning his coat collar over his ears, slipped under the thwart, where he coiled himself like a cat, and went to sleep.

“I wish I could induce you to lie down, Mrs. Tennent,” said Holdsworth. “My coat will make you a capital pillow. I don’t want it indeed. I have slept on deck in my shirt-sleeves in colder nights than this. I shan’t put the boat about again to-night if this wind holds, and you will lie with your boy alongside of you as snugly as possible on this seat.”

She thanked him, but said it would be useless for her to lie down; she should not be able to sleep.

“You have eaten nothing all day,” said the General; “you must not allow your strength to fail you. Pray try to eat a little biscuit.”

Holdsworth handed her a biscuit, and she broke a piece of it off and appeared to munch it; but in the darkness they could not tell how little she ate.

No sign was to be seen of the other boats, although once Holdsworth imagined he heard a voice halloing a long way to windward. The boat’s head was now pointing east-north-east; but she lay close to the wind and made scarcely more than four knots an hour. The jump of the sea deadened her way materially; but this jump decreased as the night wore on, for the waves grew longer, with steadier intermissions. At twelve o’clock, Holdsworth, who was worn out by his long spell at the helm, called to Johnson to awaken Winyard. Up jumped the seaman from the bottom of the boat and came aft. Holdsworth gave him the yoke-lines, and bidding Johnson lie down and get some rest, seated himself on the lee-side of the mast and scanned the sea to right and left of him. The old General had fallen asleep right along the thwart on which he sat, his face buried in his arm. The boy slept soundly in his mother’s arms, but whether she slumbered or not, Holdsworth could not tell. Once Mr. St. Aubyn started up as from a nightmare, muttered some broken sentences, and was silent again.

“Keep her close,” said Holdsworth to Winyard, “and watch the seas.”

“You had best take some rest, sir. I can handle the boat whilst you’re down.”

“No. I’ll wait until Johnson has had his nap.”

So passed two hours.

It was drawing near half-past two in the morning when Winyard called, in a loud whisper:

“Master, isn’t that a ship to windward, there?”

No one in the boat heard him but Holdsworth. He jumped up and peered into the starlit gloom ahead, where, sure enough, the outline of a dark shadow could be traced, though only by looking on one side of it.

“Yes, that’s a ship!” he answered hoarsely; “but she’s too far to windward to hear our shouts. Have we any lights aboard of us? Quick!”

He pulled the General, who leaped up, rubbing his eyes.

“Have you any matches about you?”

“No—what is it?”

“There’s a ship yonder! I could souse my handkerchief in rum and set fire to it. Hi! Mr. St. Aubyn! feel if you have a match in your pockets.” But the actor answered with a stupefied stare, whereupon Holdsworth searched his pockets without avail.

Johnson was awake, standing up in the bows, with his arms lifted.

“Ship ahoy!” roared Holdsworth. One might have thought the voice deep and powerful enough to have carried twice the distance of that gliding shadow.

They waited breathlessly; but no sound was returned.

“Altogether, now!” shouted Holdsworth; “one, two, three—ship ahoy!”

The united voices sounded like a shriek of death-agony rising out of the ebony-coloured deep; but no response was brought back by the wind.

“O God!” raved Winyard. “They’d see us if we could only show a light!”

“She is running before the wind,” cried Johnson; “she’s passing us!”

“Put your helm up!” roared Holdsworth. “We’ll follow her. She may hear us when we get her to leeward.”

They let go the halliards, shook the reefs out of the sail, and set it again, slackening the sheet far out. The boat headed for the visionary shadow, which was fast fading in the universal gloom, and the foam boiled under and alongside of her.

“Altogether again!” sang out Holdsworth.

Once more went forth the loud, despairing chorus, to be followed by silence. They might as well have attempted to chase a cloud. Keen as the sailors’ eyes were, they could no longer perceive the shadow.

“Never mind!” exclaimed Holdsworth, cheerily, “there may be others near us; we’ll keep a sharp look-out.”

“She may fall in with one of the other boats,” said Johnson, “and, maybe, she’ll cruise about to find us.”

The chill of disappointment passed, and they grew hopeful. The mere fact of having sighted a ship imparted a new encouragement.

“We should be in the track of outward-bounders,” said Holdsworth. “Give us a hand here, Johnson, to take these reefs in. Bring her close again, Winyard. Pray God we shall be talking of this night on a ship’s deck by noon to-morrow.”

The little boy, who had been awakened by the halloing of the men, shivered, crept closer to his mother’s side, and fell asleep again.