water in the hold, and the ship evidently settling fast. Two hours had now passed, and the gale was not so violent; the sea, also, which at the change of wind had been cross, appeared to have recovered its regular run. All was ready; the sailors, once at work again, had, in some measure, recovered their spirits, and were buoyed up with fresh hopes at the slight change in their favour from the decrease of the wind. The two boats were quite large enough to contain the whole of the crew and passengers; but, as the sailors said among themselves (proving the kindness of their hearts), “What was to become of those two poor babbies, in an open boat for days and nights, perhaps?” Captain Ingram had gone down to Mrs Templemore, to impart to her their melancholy prospects; and the mother’s heart, as well as the mother’s voice, echoed the words of the seamen, “What will become of my poor babes?”
It was not till nearly six o’clock in the evening that all was ready: the ship was slowly brought to the wind again, and the boats launched over the side. By this time the gale was much abated; but the vessel was full of water, and was expected soon to go down.
There is no time in which coolness and determination are more required than in a situation like the one which we have attempted to describe. It is impossible to know the precise moment at which a water-logged vessel, in a heavy sea, may go down: and its occupants are in a state of mental fever, with the idea of their remaining in her so late that she will suddenly submerge, and leave them to struggle in the waves. This feeling actuated many of the crew of the Circassian, and they had already retreated to the boats. All was arranged; Oswald had charge of one boat, and it was agreed that the larger should receive Mrs Templemore and her children, under the protection of Captain Ingram. The number appointed to Oswald’s boat being completed, he shoved off, to make room for the other, and laid-to to leeward, waiting to keep company. Mrs Templemore came up with Captain Ingram, and was assisted by him into the boat. The nurse, with one child, was at last placed by her side; Coco was leading Judy, the other nurse, with the remaining infant in her arms, and Captain Ingram, who had been obliged to go into the boat with the first child, was about to return to assist Judy with the other, when the ship gave a heavy pitch, and her forecastle was buried in the wave: at the same time the gunwale of the boat was stove by coming in contact with the side of the vessel. “She’s down, by God!” exclaimed the alarmed seamen in the boat; shoving off to escape from the vortex.
Captain Ingram, who was standing on the boat’s thwarts to assist Judy, was thrown back into the bottom of the boat; and, before he could extricate himself, the boat was separated from the ship, and had drifted to leeward.
“My child!” screamed the mother: “my child!”
“Pull to again, my lads!” cried Captain Ingram, seizing the tiller.
The men, who had been alarmed at the idea that the ship was going down, now that they saw that she was still afloat, got out the oars and attempted to regain her, but in vain—they could not make head against the sea and wind. Further and further did they drift to leeward, notwithstanding their exertions; while the frantic mother extended her arms, imploring and entreating. Captain Ingram, who had stimulated the sailors to the utmost, perceived that further attempts were useless.
“My child! my child!” screamed Mrs Templemore, standing up, and holding out her arms towards the vessel. At a sign from the captain, the head of the boat was veered round. The bereaved mother knew that all hope was gone, and she fell down in a state of insensibility.
Chapter Five.
The Old Maid
One morning, shortly after the disasters which we have described, Mr Witherington descended to his breakfast-room somewhat earlier than usual, and found his green morocco easy-chair already tenanted by no less a personage than William the footman, who, with his feet on the fender, was so attentively reading the newspaper that he did not hear his master’s entrance. “By my ancestor, who fought on his stumps! but I hope you are quite comfortable, Mr William; nay, I beg I may not disturb you, sir.”
William, although as impudent as most of his fraternity, was a little taken aback. “I beg your pardon, sir, but Mr Jonathan had not time to look over the paper.”
“Nor is it required that he should, that I know of, sir.”
“Mr Jonathan says, sir, that it is always right to look over the deaths, that news of that kind may not shock you.”
“Very considerate, indeed.”
“And there is a story there, sir, about a shipwreck.”
“A shipwreck! where, William? God bless me! where is it?”
“I am afraid it is the same ship you are so anxious about, sir,—the—I forget the name, sir.”
Mr Witherington took the newspaper, and his eye soon caught the paragraph in which the rescue of the two negroes and child from the wreck of the Circassian was fully detailed.
“It is indeed!” exclaimed Mr Witherington. “My poor Cecilia in an open boat! one of the boats was seen to go down,—perhaps she’s dead—merciful God! one boy saved. Mercy on me! where’s Jonathan?”
“Here, sir,” replied Jonathan, very solemnly, who had just brought in the eggs, and now stood erect as a mute behind his master’s chair, for it was a case of danger, if not of death.
“I must go to Portsmouth immediately after breakfast—shan’t eat though—appetite all gone.”
“People seldom do, sir, on these melancholy occasions,” replied Jonathan. “Will you take your own carriage, sir, or a mourning coach?”
“A mourning coach at fourteen miles an hour, with two pair of horses! Jonathan, you’re crazy.”
“Will you please to have black silk hatbands and gloves for the coachman and servants who attend you, sir?”
“Confound your shop! no; this is a resurrection, not a death; it appears that the negro thinks only one of the boats went down.”
“Mors omnia vincit,” quoth Jonathan, casting up his eyes.
“Never you mind that; mind your own business. That’s the postman’s knock—see if there are any letters.”
There were several; and amongst the others there was one from Captain Maxwell, of the Eurydice, detailing the circumstances already known, and informing Mr Witherington that he had despatched the two negroes and the child to his address by that day’s coach, and that one of the officers, who was going to town by the same conveyance, would see them safe to his house.
Captain Maxwell was an old acquaintance of Mr Witherington—had dined at his house in company with the Templemores, and therefore had extracted quite enough information from the negroes to know where to direct them.
“By the blood of my ancestors! they’ll be here to night,” cried Mr Witherington; “and I have saved my journey. What is to be done? better tell Mary to get rooms ready: d’ye hear, William? beds for one little boy and two niggers.”
“Yes, sir,” replied William; “but where are the black people to be put?”
“Put! I don’t care; one may sleep with cook, the other with Mary.”
“Very well, sir, I’ll tell them,” replied William, hastening away, delighted at the row which he anticipated in the kitchen.
“If you please, sir,” observed Jonathan, “one of the negroes is, I believe, a man.”
“Well,
