Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1780 page)

Our sufferings from cold and wet were far greater than our sufferings from hunger.  We managed to keep the child warm; but, I doubt if any one else among us ever was warm for five minutes together; and the shivering, and the chattering of teeth, were sad to hear.  The child cried a little at first for her lost playfellow, the Golden Mary; but hardly ever whimpered afterwards; and when the state of the weather made it possible, she used now and then to be held up in the arms of some of us, to look over the sea for John Steadiman’s boat.  I see the golden hair and the innocent face now, between me and the driving clouds, like an angel going to fly away.

It had happened on the second day, towards night, that Mrs. Atherfield, in getting Little Lucy to sleep, sang her a song.  She had a soft, melodious voice, and, when she had finished it, our people up and begged for another.  She sang them another, and after it had fallen dark ended with the Evening Hymn.  From that time, whenever anything could be heard above the sea and wind, and while she had any voice left, nothing would serve the people but that she should sing at sunset.  She always did, and always ended with the Evening Hymn.  We mostly took up the last line, and shed tears when it was done, but not miserably.  We had a prayer night and morning, also, when the weather allowed of it.

Twelve nights and eleven days we had been driving in the boat, when old Mr. Rarx began to be delirious, and to cry out to me to throw the gold overboard or it would sink us, and we should all be lost.  For days past the child had been declining, and that was the great cause of his wildness.  He had been over and over again shrieking out to me to give her all the remaining meat, to give her all the remaining rum, to save her at any cost, or we should all be ruined.  At this time, she lay in her mother’s arms at my feet.  One of her little hands was almost always creeping about her mother’s neck or chin.  I had watched the wasting of the little hand, and I knew it was nearly over.

The old man’s cries were so discordant with the mother’s love and submission, that I called out to him in an angry voice, unless he held his peace on the instant, I would order him to be knocked on the head and thrown overboard.  He was mute then, until the child died, very peacefully, an hour afterwards: which was known to all in the boat by the mother’s breaking out into lamentations for the first time since the wreck — for, she had great fortitude and constancy, though she was a little gentle woman.  Old Mr. Rarx then became quite ungovernable, tearing what rags he had on him, raging in imprecations, and calling to me that if I had thrown the gold overboard (always the gold with him!) I might have saved the child.  “And now,” says he, in a terrible voice, “we shall founder, and all go to the Devil, for our sins will sink us, when we have no innocent child to bear us up!”  We so discovered with amazement, that this old wretch had only cared for the life of the pretty little creature dear to all of us, because of the influence he superstitiously hoped she might have in preserving him!  Altogether it was too much for the smith or armourer, who was sitting next the old man, to bear.  He took him by the throat and rolled him under the thwarts, where he lay still enough for hours afterwards.

All that thirteenth night, Miss Coleshaw, lying across my knees as I kept the helm, comforted and supported the poor mother.  Her child, covered with a pea-jacket of mine, lay in her lap.  It troubled me all night to think that there was no Prayer-Book among us, and that I could remember but very few of the exact words of the burial service.  When I stood up at broad day, all knew what was going to be done, and I noticed that my poor fellows made the motion of uncovering their heads, though their heads had been stark bare to the sky and sea for many a weary hour.  There was a long heavy swell on, but otherwise it was a fair morning, and there were broad fields of sunlight on the waves in the east.  I said no more than this: “I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord.  He raised the daughter of Jairus the ruler, and said she was not dead but slept.  He raised the widow’s son.  He arose Himself, and was seen of many.  He loved little children, saying, Suffer them to come unto Me and rebuke them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.  In His name, my friends, and committed to His merciful goodness!”  With those words I laid my rough face softly on the placid little forehead, and buried the Golden Lucy in the grave of the Golden Mary.

Having had it on my mind to relate the end of this dear little child, I have omitted something from its exact place, which I will supply here.  It will come quite as well here as anywhere else.

Foreseeing that if the boat lived through the stormy weather, the time must come, and soon come, when we should have absolutely no morsel to eat, I had one momentous point often in my thoughts.  Although I had, years before that, fully satisfied myself that the instances in which human beings in the last distress have fed upon each other, are exceedingly few, and have very seldom indeed (if ever) occurred when the people in distress, however dreadful their extremity, have been accustomed to moderate forbearance and restraint; I say, though I had long before quite satisfied my mind on this topic, I felt doubtful whether there might not have been in former cases some harm and danger from keeping it out of sight and pretending not to think of it.  I felt doubtful whether some minds, growing weak with fasting and exposure and having such a terrific idea to dwell upon in secret, might not magnify it until it got to have an awful attraction about it.  This was not a new thought of mine, for it had grown out of my reading.  However, it came over me stronger than it had ever done before — as it had reason for doing — in the boat, and on the fourth day I decided that I would bring out into the light that unformed fear which must have been more or less darkly in every brain among us.  Therefore, as a means of beguiling the time and inspiring hope, I gave them the best summary in my power of Bligh’s voyage of more than three thousand miles, in an open boat, after the Mutiny of the Bounty, and of the wonderful preservation of that boat’s crew.  They listened throughout with great interest, and I concluded by telling them, that, in my opinion, the happiest circumstance in the whole narrative was, that Bligh, who was no delicate man either, had solemnly placed it on record therein that he was sure and certain that under no conceivable circumstances whatever would that emaciated party, who had gone through all the pains of famine, have preyed on one another.  I cannot describe the visible relief which this spread through the boat, and how the tears stood in every eye.  From that time I was as well convinced as Bligh himself that there was no danger, and that this phantom, at any rate, did not haunt us.

Now, it was a part of Bligh’s experience that when the people in his boat were most cast down, nothing did them so much good as hearing a story told by one of their number.  When I mentioned that, I saw that it struck the general attention as much as it did my own, for I had not thought of it until I came to it in my summary.  This was on the day after Mrs. Atherfield first sang to us.  I proposed that, whenever the weather would permit, we should have a story two hours after dinner (I always issued the allowance I have mentioned at one o’clock, and called it by that name), as well as our song at sunset.  The proposal was received with a cheerful satisfaction that warmed my heart within me; and I do not say too much when I say that those two periods in the four-and-twenty hours were expected with positive pleasure, and were really enjoyed by all hands.  Spectres as we soon were in our bodily wasting, our imaginations did not perish like the gross flesh upon our bones.  Music and Adventure, two of the great gifts of Providence to mankind, could charm us long after that was lost.

The wind was almost always against us after the second day; and for many days together we could not nearly hold our own.  We had all varieties of bad weather.  We had rain, hail, snow, wind, mist, thunder and lightning.  Still the boats lived through the heavy seas, and still we perishing people rose and fell with the great waves.

Sixteen nights and fifteen days, twenty nights and nineteen days, twenty-four nights and twenty-three days.  So the time went on.  Disheartening as I knew that our progress, or want of progress, must be, I never deceived them as to my calculations of it.  In the first place, I felt that we were all too near eternity for deceit; in the second place, I knew that if I failed, or died, the man who followed me must have a knowledge of the true state of things to begin upon.  When I told them at noon, what I reckoned we had made or lost, they generally received what I said in a tranquil and resigned manner, and always gratefully towards me.  It was not unusual at any time of the day for some one to burst out weeping loudly without any new cause; and, when the burst was over, to calm down a little better than before.  I had seen exactly the same thing in a house of mourning.

During the whole of this time, old Mr. Rarx had had his fits of calling out to me to throw the gold (always the gold!) overboard, and of heaping violent reproaches upon me for not having saved the child; but now, the food being all gone, and I having nothing left to serve out but a bit of coffee-berry now and then, he began to be too weak to do this, and consequently fell silent.  Mrs. Atherfield and Miss Coleshaw generally lay, each with an arm across one of my knees, and her head upon it.  They never complained at all.  Up to the time of her child’s death, Mrs. Atherfield had bound up her own beautiful hair every day; and I took particular notice that this was always before she sang her song at night, when everyone looked at her.  But she never did it after the loss of her darling; and it would have been now all tangled with dirt and wet, but that Miss Coleshaw was careful of it long after she was herself, and would sometimes smooth it down with her weak thin hands.

We were past mustering a story now; but one day, at about this period, I reverted to the superstition of old Mr. Rarx, concerning the Golden Lucy, and told them that nothing vanished from the eye of God, though much might pass away from the eyes of men.  “We were all of us,” says I, “children once; and our baby feet have strolled in green woods ashore; and our baby hands have gathered flowers in gardens, where the birds were singing.  The children that we were, are not lost to the great knowledge of our Creator.  Those innocent creatures will appear with us before Him, and plead for us.  What we were in the best time of our generous youth will arise and go with us too.  The purest part of our lives will not desert us at the pass to which all of us here present are gliding.  What we were then, will be as much in existence before Him, as what we are now.”  They were no less comforted by this consideration, than I was myself; and Miss Coleshaw, drawing my ear nearer to her lips, said, “Captain Ravender, I was on my way to marry a disgraced and broken man, whom I dearly loved when he was honourable and good.  Your words seem to have come out of my own poor heart.”  She pressed my hand upon it, smiling.

Twenty-seven nights and twenty-six days.  We were in no want of rain-water, but we had nothing else.  And yet, even now, I never turned my eyes upon a waking face but it tried to brighten before mine.  O, what a thing it is, in a time of danger and in the presence of death, the shining of a face upon a face!  I have heard it broached that orders should be given in great new ships by electric telegraph.  I admire machinery as much is any man, and am as thankful to it as any man can be for what it does for us.  But it will never be a substitute for the face of a man, with his soul in it, encouraging another man to be brave and true.  Never try it for that.  It will break down like a straw.

I now began to remark certain changes in myself which I did not like.  They caused me much disquiet.  I often saw the Golden Lucy in the air above the boat.  I often saw her I have spoken of before, sitting beside me.  I saw the Golden Mary go down, as she really had gone down, twenty times in a day.  And yet the sea was mostly, to my thinking, not sea neither, but moving country and extraordinary mountainous regions, the like of which have never been beheld.  I felt it time to leave my last words regarding John Steadiman, in case any lips should last out to repeat them to any living ears.  I said that John had told me (as he had on deck) that he had sung out “Breakers ahead!” the instant they were audible, and had tried to wear ship, but she struck before it could be done.  (His cry, I dare say, had made my dream.)  I said that the circumstances were altogether without warning, and out of any course that could have been guarded against; that the same loss would have happened if I had been in charge; and that John was not to blame, but from first to last had done his duty nobly, like the man he was.  I tried to write it down in my pocket-book, but could make no words, though I knew what the words were that I wanted to make.  When it had come to that, her hands — though she was dead so long — laid me down gently in the bottom of the boat, and she and the Golden Lucy swung me to sleep.

* * * * *

All that follows, was written by John Steadiman, Chief Mate
:

On the twenty-sixth day after the foundering of the Golden Mary at sea, I, John Steadiman, was sitting in my place in the stern-sheets of the Surf-boat, with just sense enough left in me to steer — that is to say, with my eyes strained, wide-awake, over the bows of the boat, and my brains fast asleep and dreaming — when I was roused upon a sudden by our second mate, Mr. William Rames.