Should owners allow captains to take their wives to sea with them? Opinions vary among master mariners on this head. Some think that a man has as much right to be taken care of at sea as ashore; that shirts, buttons, and linen want as much looking after in a ship as in a house; that captains are always the better for having their wives with them, because when in port they have an inducement to stop by the vessel and spend their evenings in the cabin, instead of roaming ashore at nightfall and bringing up in bad and perilous anchorages; and they also reason that a ship and cargo are bound to be rendered the safer by the captain’s wife being on board, as the skipper is sure then to be vigilant and keep his weather-eye lifting. Of course a cynic might say that so far as regards the safety of the ship, and the inducements to the skipper to spend his evenings when in harbour aboard of her, a good deal must depend upon the lady as wife and companion. I once met a captain who told me that he questioned whether an insurance could be effected on his ship and cargo were it to be suspected that he had any intention of carrying his wife to sea with him. “We’re always quarrelling,” said he—a remark that saved me from asking him more questions. But what do the wives think? Are owners’ objections to their accompanying their husbands agreeable to them? It is quite possible for a woman to love a sailor without loving the sea; and though owners deserve no praise for their hard and fast rule touching captains’ wives, as there is not an atom of sentimental regard for the ladies in it, I cannot but think it a good rule, as it saves many a woman from following her husband into a life to which nothing could have courted her but the sense of wifely duty. After all, what sailor would willingly subject the woman he loves to the perils of the deep by taking her with him voyage after voyage? The farewells, it is true, are hard to say; the shot is often low in the locker, and she and the children will have a hard job to scrape through the months while father is absent: but then she is safe, there are no gales of wind to affright her, no mutinies, no collisions; the little home can never be water-logged, nor can there ever arise the need of taking to the boats and perishing of famine after a week of unspeakable anguish. There have, indeed, been many heroines among captains’ wives, many brave and some truly heroical acts performed by them whilst at sea with their husbands. Nothing, for instance, in its way was ever more striking than the conduct of the wife of the captain of the Edgar. All the crew, with the exception of the captain and mate, were prostrated with sickness. The ship was homeward bound from Senegal, and the captain and mate had to work in the engine-room, whilst the wife steered. In this way the vessel was safely brought home, though, as was related in the newspapers at the time, seven of the crew died of the fever on the voyage. Here, perhaps, was a valuable ship saved by a captain’s wife, for without her it is difficult to imagine what the other two could have done; and those skippers who think owners unjust in forcing them to go to sea en garÇon should quote the case of the Edgar as a very strong commercial argument—the only sort that is likely to prove successful—in favour of their views. But, as Lord Bacon said of dancing, so may I say of such instances as this: The better the worse. The greater the marine dangers in which women distinguished themselves, the more resolved should husbands be to guard their wives against the like risks. If it were always fine weather; if charts were always perfectly accurate; if there were no fogs and no shoals; if there was no danger in iron pyrites; if all surveyors were above suspicion; iron ships as well constructed as they are highly classed; stevedores scientific people; and if vessels were built by rules of common sense instead of being the fragile products of a system of economy rendered vicious by insurance; then, indeed—the maritime millennium having arrived—might all skippers laudably combine to agitate until owners gave in, and allowed wives to ship with their husbands. But, while the ocean and all the conditions of the ocean-wrecks, leaks, piecework, blind rivet-holes, “boat iron,” storms, thick weather, and all the rest of it—remain as they are, captains who are good husbands will keep the ladies ashore. It is only men of the Billy Taylor type who deserve to be followed to sea; and it is only the Hannah Snells of this world who should attempt such pursuits. Over and over again one is reading of the wrecks in which the captain’s wife, and too often, alas! the captain’s little child, lose their lives. The poor things are always called “passengers,” and it is usually the “passengers” who seem to be drowned. Here is one of these stories related by the captain himself; and, taking it as a typical thing, which all seamen may know it to be, I will ask, is it not well that owners—no matter the reasons which influence them—should object to their captains taking their wives to sea with them?

“The steamer I commanded was a schooner-rigged vessel, built at Low Walker, and you may call her tonnage in round numbers 500. She left a North-country port on a certain day with a crew of seventeen hands and a cargo of coal, our destination being Cronstadt. My wife was on board, and this was the first voyage she had made with me. We had been married two years, and in that time I had made several trips, as you may imagine; these voyages—as I suppose I must call a trip across the North Sea, or a run along the Mediterranean—occupying only a few weeks. Every time I started, my wife wanted to go too; the owners had no objection, but I had. I told her the sea was all very well for lady passengers who had to cross it, but it was no place for a woman to make a home of. She would do far better keeping house ashore, and making all ready for my return; and so I would put her off. But when it came to this trip, she pleaded so earnestly, saying that she loved the sea, that the run would do her good, that she felt terribly lonely when I was away, and that her place was at my side let me be where I would, that I could no longer refuse. ‘Very well,’ said I, ‘for this once,’ my notion being that one voyage would do more for my wishes than fifty years of arguing; and so she came aboard. Well, sir, at the start we had fine weather. It was in the spring; the air was sharp, but the sky was blue and the sunshine strong and cheerful; and my wife heartily enjoyed it. There was no sea-sickness to baulk her relish; she was too much a sailor’s lass for that weakness. We were not much of a ship; you know the regular type, high bows, wall-sided, Plimsoll’s mark well awash, you may take your oath, the flying-bridge over the chart-house, and the pole-compass forking up like a scarecrow above that. But my wife thought the vessel made a fine sight—merely, I expect, because I commanded her. Poor girl! poor girl! often I’d come on deck and see her leaning over the side, when she’d call to me to admire the line of froth there—as if that was a thing an old fist like me would take notice of; and if a vessel passed she’d stand and watch it with a look of delight, as though nothing more beautiful was ever seen, though it might be an old sailing collier, sir, with nothing showing over the rail but a red night-cap, or a steam-waggon after our own pattern. But much as she enjoyed the water, her presence never gave me pleasure. I remember going below on the very night on which the ship was lost, and looking at my poor lass as she lay sleeping, and I recall that the sight of her worried me to a degree you’d scarcely think likely. I was for ever wishing her back home, snug and secure in the little house that she always had ready and bright and cheerful for me to return to. You might almost think such wishes unnatural, but I see them in their proper light now, and reckon there’s a world of truth in that old saying about coming events casting their shadows before them. It was a Tuesday afternoon. The weather had changed in the forenoon, and at midday it was blowing a strong breeze from the north-west. It had grown as cold as January, and now and again when a squall drove up there’d come a shower of hail that was like heaving a bucket of shot on to the decks. I had kept the patent log towing astern, our course being a trifle to the north of east, and on hauling it in at noon I found that we had made about a hundred and seventy miles run since quitting our port. There were no sights to be got, for, though the morning had opened fine, the sky was now as thick as mud. All this time the wind was freshening up into a gale. I put the log over again, keeping the vessel on the same course, under sail, and her engines going full ahead. The wind was well abaft the beam, the sea a following one, and there was nothing to stop the ship; she drove along handsomely, whitening the water all around her, and for a couple of miles astern, and making excellent sport for my wife, who stood holding on and taking in the scene with her eyes like diamonds, and her cheeks like roses. I never could have supposed that there was so much to admire in the sea as she had found. To me it was hardly much more than a waste of salt water that was to be crossed as soon as possible, full of hard work, exposure, poor pay, and heavy anxiety. My poor lass knew nothing of that part of it, except the pay. I think, had time been given her, and we’d been making a long voyage, she’d have converted me into a kind of poet, and taught me to see beauties even in thick weather and strong head seas.

“Well, sir, by this time there was thick weather enough. It was three o’clock, a gale of wind on the quarter, the sea out of sight half a mile ahead, lost in a haze of rain, and the steamer pitching heavily as she swung over the stormy tumble. Nothing could have been more annoying than the thick weather; the gale was good, the sea did no harm; we were getting an extra two knots out of the ship; but the haze was like your being in a hurry, mounted on a swift horse, with your eyes blindfolded. However, I was determined not to slow down. Despatch is everything nowadays. It is all very well to talk of risk, but if a man’s situation depends upon his pleasing his owners by being sharp, sharp he must be, and take the odds as they come. Better lose a ship and let the owners touch the insurance than make a losing venture by tardy delivery. So, as sailors say, we ‘held on all,’ keeping the canvas aloft and firing up below, and racing through the smother in proper modern fashion. Darker and darker it grew, and the wind came along more fiercely. My poor lass was frightened, and came up to me and asked what made me rush the ship when scarcely her own length was visible. I said we couldn’t stop the vessel; the wind was after her, and she was bound to go. ‘But you may run into another ship,’ said she, ‘and not know she is there until you have struck her.’ ‘Ah, Polly,’ said I, ‘that sort of calculation belongs to a past age. Certificates would be of no use if they were based on such reckoning. All that we skippers have to do is to drive on. If there were to be any trouble over a tardy delivery, do you suppose this thick weather would be taken as an excuse? Others who left, perhaps, after we did, will have arrived before us; and the luck of one is expected to be the luck of others.’

“It stormed up harder after nightfall, and was then as dark as a vault. I was on deck from eight till twelve, going into the chart-house occasionally, but never into the cabin, and at midnight I hauled the log in, and found we had run about a hundred and twenty miles since noon. The course, east by north half north, seemed to me correct. It was as I always steered on this run, and so I held on, putting the log overboard again; and I was going below for a minute to see after my wife, when there was a noise like the explosion of a gun forward, and some one sung out that the fore trysail had blown away. This was a small matter; but it was good as a hint. We took in the other canvas, and went rolling and pitching along under steam, averaging about seven knots, but shipping a good deal of water forward, which washed about the decks and made walking difficult and uncomfortable. At four bells in the middle watch I went below to get some rest, leaving the chief mate in charge. Everything was right, as I supposed; a hand on the look-out on the forecastle, plenty of water under and around us, and nothing to cause anxiety but the haze. My wife was sound asleep. I lay down, completely dressed, on a locker, but could get no rest. This was unusual; a sailor, they say, can sleep anywhere, and amid any sort of disturbance; and I for one in former days have been able to sleep when it was impossible to hear a voice calling the watch, in consequence of the shrieking of the storm on deck and the groaning of the vessel below. I had a foreboding, an uneasiness in my mind; there was nothing to account for it, but it kept me awake, and presently it found me standing looking at my wife, wishing her to wake up, that she might talk to me, yet unwilling to arouse her. At that moment the ship struck—I felt the grind of her forefoot along the stony bottom; she heeled over, with the engines working their hardest, and I knew that she had come to a dead stop, not only by the manner in which I was thrown forward, but by the thunder of the seas breaking over her decks. I rushed up and heard the men shouting. It was still very thick, hailing and raining in torrents. I sung out for the mate, and he came to me, and I told him to get the wheel put hard aport, whilst I bawled down to the engine-room to keep the engines going. No attention was paid to this, for the engineers, firemen, and the others, thinking the vessel was going down, swarmed up on deck, and, without heeding my commands, turned-to to help the rest of the crew to get the boats over. My notion was that all hands meant to abandon the ship, and would leave my wife and me to our fate if we did not bear a hand to join them; so I ran below, and found my poor lass dressing herself and in a terrible fright. I did not wait to answer her questions, but, catching her by the hand, ran on deck with her. Great heaven! what a night, what weather, what a scene for any poor girl to be dragged into! I heard the cries of men alongside, and understood by that that one of the boats had been stove and the men in her thrown out. I shouted, ‘Here is my wife, men; for God’s sake, take her with you if you intend to abandon the ship.’ The chief engineer answered, ‘Bring her here—there’s room in the starboard lifeboat.’ I ran with her to the side, and, looking over, saw the boat with seven or eight men in her. I called to the men to look out, and I then put her over, giving her a kiss as I did so, and bidding her have no fear; and the men caught her, and sung out to me to let go the painter. I answered no, it would be better to let the boat veer astern and ride there whilst I endeavoured to find out the condition of the ship; and they agreeing, I carried the end of the painter aft and made it fast.

“I now called to such as remained on board to join me, but only three men came, amongst them my two mates; all the others had got away, were drowned, or were in the boat with my wife. We could do nothing till daylight came, and sat crouching out of the reach of the water that was flying in heavy masses over the ship. It was as much as I could do to see the boat astern; but every now and again I’d crawl aft to notice if she still lived, and then come back again to the others thankful to the Almighty that she was making good weather of it, and might still save my lass’s life. But how am I to describe my feelings as I reflected upon what she was suffering in that open boat, pelted with the hail and rain, the deadly cold wind penetrating her poor body, tossed like a nutshell upon the roaring seas, and never knowing but that the next moment would find her struggling in the water. Well, sir, the daylight came, and showed us that we were hard and fast upon a dangerous reef off the Jutland coast. We could see the land there looming upon the haze about four or five miles off. The ship was full of water and bound to go to pieces, though she was still holding well together in spite of the terrible pounding of the sea. I went to the stern to hail the boat and say a word of comfort to my wife; and when the men saw me they sung out, ‘Let go the painter, captain. We must take our chance of driving ashore; it’s killing work here.’ My wife put out her arms to me, and I heard her cry, ‘Oh, don’t leave him behind!’ The boat had already as many as she could well carry. Perhaps the men feared that I would try to join my wife, and drag the boat alongside, which might end in sinking her; but I had no thought of that kind, the gig still remaining, and was about to tell them to hold on and keep the shelter of the wreck for a spell, as the weather might moderate presently, when a man in the bows cut the painter. A heavy sea taking the boat as he did this, swung her up and around; she plunged into the hollow, and the water rolling between, prevented me from seeing her. But as it passed it hove up the boat again bottom up, the black keel just showing among a smother of foam, with here and there the upright arms of a drowning man. It was done in a moment; it was all over in a moment; it left me staring like a man struck dead by lightning and holding the posture he was killed in. The chief mate, catching me by the arm, cried out, ‘She’s going to pieces, sir. For Heaven’s sake, let’s get away. We’re doomed men if we linger.’ I broke from the horror and grief in me, and went to work, not so much to save my own life as to help the others to save theirs. Had I been alone I should have thrown myself down and waited for death. The shock I had sustained had driven all instincts of life out of me. Well, sir, we got the gig overboard, and that we were saved you may suppose, as I am here to tell the story. Four other men got ashore besides us, making ten of the crew drowned besides my lass. Oh, sir!” cried the poor fellow, covering his face and speaking amid convulsive sobs, “why did she insist upon accompanying me? Why did she not keep to our little home ashore, and be there to cheer and comfort me when I came back from this shipwreck, a ruined man! My certificate has been suspended—I cannot get a berth—and I have lost the darling of my heart, the truest wife that ever man had. Why did she insist? why did she insist?” he repeated; and, rising like a blind man, he left me speehless in the face of a grief it was not in the power of human sympathy to soften.