atoms and no more would have been heard of her. It was only by great care in steering and having the proper amount of sail set that she was kept above water. An error in judgement or the neglect of a single point in the handling would have sealed her fate. By the 20th of the month she had got so far north there was little or no daylight; the biting cold was frightful, and there was no prospect of betterness. The long winter nights were spent in pumping, steering and keeping a look out (though it was assumed she was long since out of the track of vessels and no land was near), and the only lights to be seen were the flash of the curling spray dancing on the top of tempestuous billows.
It was during the forenoon of February 21, just after a snow cloud had rushed past, the crew were both surprised and cheered to observe a barque a little on the starboard bow, heading north under two close-reefed topsails. She was low in the water, and making heavy weather of it. The crew were seen in the mizen rigging, frantically waving. A tattered flag was flying beside them, but its nationality could not be discerned. It was impossible to render the assistance that was so eagerly sought for, but even if it had been possible it was too late, for a sea was seen to break right over her stern, and in a few minutes there was another added to the long list of North Atlantic tragedies. Amongst the wreckage passed was a boat full of water, and oars floating on each side of her. Whether this belonged to the latest victim of the remorseless waves or not, no one could tell, though some of the crew thought it might. This melancholy incident was not likely to improve the spirits of the little band of indomitable workers, but they knew if they had to be saved from the same fate they must not give way to sentimental weakness.
The following day the force of the hurricane broke, and on the 24th she had reached 65 degrees north. There were indications of a change of wind. The sky had cleared so that the stars could be seen, and there was a brightness in the N.N.W. that omened the wind coming from that direction. At midnight the change came. Orders were given to let the reefs out of the topsails, but it took a considerable time to do this as the reef points and errings were covered with hard, flinty ice, and it was not until marline spikes were used that any progress was made. The men's hands, already covered with wounds, had their fingers badly cut with the icy ropes and sails in carrying out this order, but it was not until they had been running south for a couple of days that they began to feel the full extent of their sores. Regular watches were now kept, and each time they tumbled out of their hammocks to relieve each other the pain of opening their hands was terrible. Two of the apprentices had both their feet badly frostbitten.
At last the Norwegian land was made, and one fine morning in the month of March she slipped into the beautiful harbour of Stavanger to have the broken pump-stand and shattered rigging and sails put right. The two boys were landed, and the doctors said their feet were in such a state of putrefaction they must be taken off at once. None of the other members of the crew were bitten by frost, but it took many days to heal their raw wounds. The salt of the sea had not only pickled them, but had penetrated into their very bones.
Meanwhile the crew of the Silverspray had been landed at the Tyne by the Yarmouth smack, and they reported that when last they saw the Blake she was hove to, and signalled making a lot of water; and as day after day passed and no news came, grave fears were entertained for her safety; heavy premiums were paid; and the relatives blamed the Silverspray's men for leaving the crew in a leaky ship—an unjustifiable charge, for the sailors of that period were not given to abandoning vessels prematurely. But so long a time had elapsed since she was spoken of that all hope of her safety was given up. At last there appeared in one of the local papers a paragraph stating that it was feared the well-known brig had succumbed, with all aboard, to the terrible storms that raged over the northern latitudes during the early part of February. This put an end to all doubt: newspaper statements were generally believed. But a few days after this announcement a letter, part of which had been written while sailing along the Norwegian coast, in order that it might be posted on arrival, was received in a country village as the first intelligence of her safety. It is quite sailor-like in its composition, and characteristically free from whining. The writer merely deals with facts, and very briefly with them. I have just been shown this greatly valued document, and give it as it is:
"Dear Parents—We expect to arrive to-morrow morning. We have had a devil of a voyage, and saw the Silverspray founder, and asked the skipper of the smack to report us. One pump going all the time nearly. Then the decks were stove in and she nearly foundered before it was discovered. I hope the Spray's crew were safely landed and reported us, as you would be anxious. We had to run north before the hurricane until there was no daylight. She wouldn't lie to. My word, what a sea! It was fearful to look at, and the captain said we hadn't to, while steering. One day we saw a barque founder with all hands. They were in the rigging waving, but we could render no assistance. We got into 65 degrees north, then the wind changed. It was very cold. Excuse bad writing, I am doing it on the galley seat. We are very bad with saltwater boils and cut hands. The two Swedes have their feet frostbitten: they are a sight. Hoping this will find you all well as it leaves me at present, except for the sores. We have had a fearful time. I thought you would like to know soon, so I am writing this before getting into port. Will add something more then. No more at present.
"Your loving son,
"J. Robinson.
"PS.—The doctor says the Swedes will have to have the soles of their feet cut off. Perhaps their feet altogether. I won't go back in her again. If I have to be drowned, I want it to be fair. The other men are leaving as well. We've been on short allowance for a couple of days, the water was spoiled as well. We are going to have a good feed now. Suppose we have to buy it ourselves."
II
CAPTAIN PLUNKER
The Cauducas was a brig of 120 tons dead-weight. She was very old, very rotten, and very leaky, and was constantly employed carrying coals from a north-east coast port to France or London. The crew consisted of the master, mate, cook, and able seaman, and three apprentices, one of whom was cabin-boy. No one cared to inquire as to when and where she was built. Wherever paint and tar could be used to cover up defects it was liberally applied, but that did not prevent the water rushing into her holds, causing the crew to have to carry her with the pumps from port to port, as it were, in their arms. The winter voyages taxed their skill and endurance so that scores of times they were nearly forced to abandon her or allow the sea to cover the vessel and themselves. The old sailors used to say when they saw her making the port that she always "looked far off at a distance," a saying peculiar to that part of the country. And yet she out-lived many of the most handsome, well-built, modern ships of that time.
Captain Bourne, or "Plunker," as he was nicknamed, was a man of much dignity and superior presence, but like many of his contemporaries, he was very illiterate; indeed, I do not believe he could either read or write, and yet he was able to collect his freights and generally to conduct the finances entrusted to him with amazing accuracy. His age was between forty-five and fifty; he stood over six feet, and was finely proportioned. He had a moderately-sized head, broad forehead, strong clean-shaven chin, side board whiskers, and a profile which suggested the higher type of man. Under pronounced, overhanging eyebrows, there glowed a pair of medium-sized dark eyes, which at times were penetrating, and occasionally wore a sad, sympathetic look. His hands and feet betokened that he had sprung from a physical working race, though there was nothing of the animal about him, and in spite of a gruff, uncultured mannerism, he either had it naturally or had acquired almost a grammatical way of addressing people when he wished to assert what he obviously regarded as the dignity of his high calling. This effort to check a natural tendency to the common dialect was very comical, and yet no one ever thought of it as snobbish; the whole thing seemed to belong to him, and he couldn't be different if he wanted to. That was the impression people got of him. In an ordinary way when he was in port he wore a blue pilot morning suit and silk hat. The waistcoat
