Atherfield, “and God
in Heaven bless you, you good man!” “My
dear,” says I, “those words are better for me
than a life-boat.” I held her child in my
arms till she was in the boat, and then kissed
the child and handed her safe down. I now
said to the people in her, “You have got
your freight, my lads, all but me, and I am
not coming yet awhile. Pull away from the
ship, and keep off!”
That was the Long-boat. Old Mr. Rarx
was one of her complement, and he was the
only passenger who had greatly misbehaved
since the ship struck. Others had been a
little wild, which was not to be wondered at,
and not very blameable; but, he had made a
lamentation and uproar which it was dangerous
for the people to hear, as there is
always contagion in weakness and selfishness.
His incessant cry had been that he must
not be separated from the child, that he
couldn’t see the child, and that he and the
child must go together. He had even tried
to wrest the child out of my arms, that he
might keep her in his. “Mr. Rarx,” said I
to him when it came to that, “I have a loaded
pistol in my pocket; and if you don’t stand
out of the gangway, and keep perfectly quiet, I
shall shoot you through the heart, if you have
got one.” Says he, “You won’t do murder,
Captain Ravender?” “No, sir,” says I, “I
won’t murder forty-four people to humour
you, but I’ll shoot you to save them.” After
that, he was quiet, and stood shivering a little
way off, until I named him to go over the
side.
The Long-boat being cast off, the Surf-boat
was soon filled. There only remained aboard
the Golden Mary, John Mullion the man
who had kept on burning the blue-lights (and
who had lighted every new one at every old
one before it went out, as quietly as if he had
been at an illumination); John Steadiman;
and myself. I hurried those two into the
Surf-boat, called to them to keep off, and
waited with a grateful and relieved heart for
the Long-boat to come and take me in, if she
could. I looked at my watch, and it showed
me, by the blue-light, ten minutes past two.
They lost no time. As soon as she was near
enough, I swung myself in to her, and called
to the men, “With a will, lads! She’s reeling!”
We were not an inch too far out of
the inner vortex of her going down, when, by
the blue-light which John Mullion still burnt
in the bow of the Surf-boat, we saw her
lurch, and plunge to the bottom head-foremost.
The child cried, weeping wildly. “O
the dear Golden Mary! O look at her!
Save her! Save the poor Golden Mary!”
And then the light burnt out, and the black
dome seemed to come down upon us.
I suppose if we had all stood a-top of a
mountain, and seen the whole remainder of
the world sink away from under us, we could
hardly have felt more shocked and solitary
than we did when we knew we were alone
on the wide ocean, and that the beautiful
ship in which most of us had been securely
asleep within half an hour was gone for ever.
There was an awful silence in our boat, and
such a kind of palsy on the rowers and the
man at the rudder, that I felt they were
scarcely keeping her before the sea. I spoke
out then, and said, “Let every one here thank
the Lord for our preservation!” All the
voices answered (even the child’s), “We thank
the Lord!” I then said the Lord’s Prayer,
and all hands said it after me with a solemn
murmuring. Then I gave the word “Cheerily,
O men, Cheerily!” and I felt that they were
handling the boat again as a boat ought to be
handled.
The Surf-boat now burnt another blue-light
to show us where they were, and we
made for her, and laid ourselves as nearly
alongside of her as we dared. I had always
kept my boats with a coil or two of good
stout stuff in each of them, so both boats
had a rope at hand. We made a shift, with
much labor and trouble, to get near
enough to one another to divide the blue-lights
(they were no use after that night, for
the sea-water soon got at them), and to get a
tow-rope out between us.