Thrilling Adventures by Land and Sea - James O. Brayman
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We were now on the larboard tack, and, for the last half hour, it was
perceived that the tide had turned, and was setting to the northward;
this was our last and only chance, for the rocks were not more than
half a mile under our lee, and as it was necessary to get the ship's
head round on the starboard tack, which could only be done by wearing,
it was certain that much ground would be lost by that evolution. The
anchors were got ready, long ranges of cables were hauled on deck, and
the ends were clinched to the mainmast below; this being done, the axes
were at hand to cut away the masts.
[Illustration: BEFORE THE GALE.]
Captain G. was an old, experienced seaman; and I never saw, before
or since, more coolness, judgment, and seamanship, than were displayed
by him on this trying occasion. In this perilous trial, the most intense
anxiety was manifested by the crew, and then was heard the deep-toned
voice of Captain G., rising above the bellowing storm, commanding
silence. "Take the wheel," said he to me; and then followed the orders,
in quick succession: "Lay aft, and man the braces--see every thing clear
forward, to wear ship--steady--ease her--shiver away the
main-topsail--put your helm up--haul in the weather fore-braces,--gather
in the after-yards." The ship was now running before the wind, for a few
moments, directly for the rocks; the situation and scene were truly
awful, for she was not more than three hundred yards from the breakers.
I turned my head aside--being at the helm--to avoid the terrific sight,
and silently awaited the crisis. I was roused, at this moment, by
Captain G., who shouted, "She luffs, my boys! brace the main-yard sharp
up--haul in the larboard fore-braces--down with the fore-tack, lads, and
haul aft the sheet;--right the helm! steady, so--haul taut the
weather-braces, and belay all." These orders were given and executed in
quick succession. The ship was now on the starboard tack, plunging bows
under at every pitch. Casting a fitful glance over my shoulder, I saw
that we were apparently to leeward of the rocks. Very soon, however, it
was quite perceptible that the tide had taken her on the lee beam, and
was setting her off shore.
The gloom began now to wear away, although it was doubtful whether we
should be able to reach the bank, and, if successful, whether the
anchors would hold on. Orders were given to lay aloft and send down the
top-gallant-yards, masts, &c. The helm was relieved, and I sprung into
the main rigging, the chief mate going up forward. With much difficulty,
I reached the main-topmast cross-trees, and, when there, it was almost
impossible to work, for the ship lay over at an angle of at least
forty-five degrees, and I found myself swinging, not perpendicularly
over the ship's deck, but at least thirty feet from it. It was no time,
however, for gazing. The yard rope was stoppered out on the quarter of
the yard, the sheets, clewlines, and buntlines, cast off, and the shift
slackened, and then simultaneously from both mast-heads the cry was
heard, "Sway, away!" The parrel cut, the yard was quickly topped and
unrigged, and then lowered away on deck. The next duty to be performed,
was sending down the top-gallant masts. After much difficulty and hard
work, this was also accomplished; and, although I felt some pride in the
performance of a dangerous service, yet, on this occasion, I was not a
little pleased when I reached the deck in safety.
By this time, we had gained four miles off shore, and it was evident
that the soundings indicated our approach to the bank. Tackles were rove
and stretched along forward of the windlass, as well as deck-stoppers
hooked on to the ringbolts fore and aft. "Loose the fore-topsail!"
shouted Captain G., "we must reach this bank before the tide turns, or,
by morning, there will not be left a timber head of this ship, nor one
of us, to tell the sad tale of our disaster." The topsail was loosed and
set, and the ship groaned heavily under the immense pressure of canvass;
her lee rail was under water, and every moment it was expected that the
topmast or the canvass would yield. The deep-sea-lead was taken forward
and hove: when the line reached the after-part of the main channels, the
seaman's voice rose high in the air, "By the deep, nine!" It was three
o'clock. "Clew up and furl the fore-topsail!" shouted Captain G. The
topsail furled of itself, for the moment the weather sheet was started,
it blew away from the bolt-rope; the foresail was immediately hauled up
and furled. Relieved from the great pressure of canvass, and having now
nothing on her except the main-topsail and fore-topmast-staysail, she
rode more upright. The main-topsail was clewed up and fortunately saved,
the mizzen-staysail was set. "Stand by, to cut away the stoppers of the
best bower anchor--to let it go, stock and fluke," said Captain G. "Man
the fore-topmast-staysail down-haul; put your helm down! haul down the
staysail." This was done, and the ship came up handsomely, head to wind,
"See the cable tiers all clear--what water is there?" said Captain G.
The leadsman sang out in a clear voice, "And a half-eight!" By this
time, the ship had lost her way. "Are you all clear forward there?" "Ay,
ay, sir!" was the reply. "Stream the buoy, and let go the anchor!"
shouted Captain G. The order was executed as rapidly as it was given;
the anchor was on the bottom, and already had fifty fathoms of cable
run out, making the windlass smoke; and, although the cable was
weather-bitted, and every effort was made with the deck-stoppers and
tackles to check her, all was fruitless. Ninety fathoms of cable had run
out. "Stand by, to let go the larboard anchor," said Captain G.;
"Cheerily, men--let go!" In the same breath he shouted, "Hold on!" for
just then there was a lull, and having run out the best bower-cable,
nearly to the better end, she brought up. No time was now lost in
getting service on the cable, to prevent its chafing. She was now riding
to a single anchor of two thousand weight, with one hundred fathoms of a
seventeen-inch hemp cable. The sea rolled heavily, and broke in upon the
deck fore and aft; the lower yards were got down; the topsail-yards
pointed to the wind; and as the tide had now turned, the ship rode
without any strain on her cable, because it tended broad on the beam.
The next morning presented a dismal scene, for there were more than
fifty sail in-shore of us, some of whom succeeded in reaching the bank,
and anchored with loss of sails, topmasts, &c. Many others were dashed
upon the rocks, and not a soul was left to tell the tale of their
destruction. I shall not forget that, on the second day, a Dutch
galliot was driven in to leeward of us; and although, by carrying on a
tremendous press of canvass, she succeeded in keeping off shore until
five P.M., yet, at sunset she disappeared, and was seen no more. After
our arrival in London, we learned that this unfortunate vessel was
driven on the rocks, and every soul on board perished.
The gale continued four days, at the expiration of which time, it broke.
At midnight, the wind hauled round to the eastward, and the weather
became so excessively cold, that, although we commenced heaving in the
cable at five A.M., yet we did not get the anchor until nine that night.
Close-reefed topsails were set on the ship and we stood over to the
English coast, and anchored to the westward of Dungeness. During the
whole period of this gale, which lasted four days, Captain G. never for
one moment left the deck; and although well advanced in years, yet his
iron constitution enabled him to overcome the calls of nature for rest;
and, notwithstanding the situation of the ship, was, perhaps more
critical than many of those less fortunate vessels which stranded upon
the rocks, yet his coolness, and the seaman-like manner with which the
ship was handled, no doubt were the means of our being saved.
THE HUNTER'S WIFE.
Thomas Cooper was a fine specimen of the North American trapper.
Slightly but powerfully made, with a hardy, weather-beaten, yet handsome
face; strong, indefatigable, and a crack shot--he was admirably adapted
for a hunter's life. For many years he knew not what it was to have a
home, but lived like the beasts he hunted--wandering from one part of
the country to another, in pursuit of game. All who knew Tom were much
surprised when he came, with a pretty young wife, to settle within three
miles of a planter's farm. Many pitied the poor young creature, who
would have to lead such a solitary life; while others said, "If she was
fool enough to marry him, it was her own look-out." For nearly four
months Tom remained at home, and employed his time in making the old hut
he had fixed on for their residence more comfortable. He cleared and
tilled a small spot of land around it, and Susan began to hope that, for
her sake, he would settle down quietly as a squatter. But these visions
of happiness were soon dispelled, for, as soon as this work was
finished, he recommenced his old erratic mode of life, and was often
absent for weeks together, leaving his wife alone, yet not unprotected,
for, since his marriage, old Nero, a favorite hound, was always left at
home as her guardian. He was a noble dog--a cross between the old
Scottish deerhound and the bloodhound, and would hunt an Indian as well
as a deer or bear, which, Tom said, "was a proof they Injins was a sort
o' warmint, or why should the brute beast take to hunt 'em, nat'ral
like--him that took no notice of white men?"
One clear, cold morning, about two years after their marriage, Susan was
awakened by a loud crash, immediately succeeded by Nero's deep baying.
She recollected that she had shut him in the house, as usual, the night
before. Supposing he had winded some solitary wolf or bear prowling
around the hut, and effected his escape, she took little notice of the
circumstance; but a few moments after came a shrill, wild cry, which
made her blood run cold. To spring from her bed, throw on her clothes,
and rush from the hut, was the work of a minute. She no longer doubted
what the hound was in pursuit of. Fearful thoughts shot through her
brain; she called wildly on Nero, and, to her joy, he came dashing
through the thick underwood. As the dog drew near, she saw that he
galloped heavily, and carried in his mouth some large, dark creature.
Her brain reeled; she felt a cold and sickly shudder dart through her
limbs. But Susan was a hunter's daughter, and, all her life, had been
accustomed to witness scenes of danger and of horror, and in this school
had learned to subdue the natural timidity of her character. With a
powerful effort, she recovered herself, just as Nero dropped at her feet
a little Indian child, apparently between three and four years old. She
bent down over him; but there was no sound or motion: she placed her
hand on his little, naked chest; the heart within had ceased to beat: he
was dead! The deep marks of the dog's fangs were visible on the neck;
but the body was untorn. Old Nero stood, with his large, bright eyes
fixed on the face of his mistress, fawning on her, as if he expected to
be praised for what he had done, and seemed to wonder why she looked so
terrified. But Susan spurned him from her; and the fierce animal, who
would have pulled down an Indian as he would a deer, crouched humbly at
the young woman's feet. Susan carried the little body gently in her arms
to the hut, and laid it on her own bed. Her first impulse was to seize
the loaded rifle that hung over the fire-place, and shoot the hound; and
yet she felt she could not do it, for, in the lone life she led, the
faithful animal seemed like a dear and valued friend, who loved and
watched over her, as if aware of the precious charge intrusted to him.
She thought, also, of what her husband would say, when, on his return,
he should find his old companion dead. Susan had never seen Tom roused.
To her he had ever shown nothing but kindness; yet she feared as well as
loved him, for there was a fire in those dark eyes which told of deep,
wild passions hidden in his breast, and she knew that the lives of a
whole tribe of Indians would be light in the balance against that of his
favorite hound.
Having securely fastened up Nero, Susan, with a heavy heart, proceeded
to examine the ground around the hut. In several places she observed the
impression of a small moccasined foot; but not a child's. The tracks
were deeply marked, unlike the usual light, elastic tread of an Indian.
From this circumstance Susan easily inferred that the woman had been
carrying her child when attacked by the dog. There was nothing to show
why she had come so near the hut: most probably the hopes of some petty
plunder had been the inducement. Susan did not dare to wander far from
home, fearing a band of Indians might be in the neighborhood. She
returned sorrowfully to the hut, and employed herself in blocking up
the window, or rather the hole where the window had been, for the
powerful hound had, in his leap, dashed out the entire frame, and
shattered it to pieces. When this was finished, Susan dug a grave, and
in it laid the little Indian boy. She made it close to the hut, for she
could not bear that wolves should devour those delicate limbs, and she
knew that there it would be safe. The next day Tom returned. He had been
very unsuccessful, and intended setting out again, in a few days, in a
different direction.
"Susan," he said, when he had heard her sad story, "I wish you'd left
the child where the dog killed him. The squaw's high sartain to come
back a seekin' for the body, and 'tis a pity the poor crittur should be
disappointed. Besides, the Indians will be high sartain to put it down
to us; whereas, if so be as they'd found the body 'pon the spot, may be
they'd onderstand as 'twas an accident like, for they 're unkimmon
cunning warmint, though they an't got sense like Christians."
"Why do you think the poor woman came here?" said Susan. "I never knew
an Indian squaw so near the hut before?"
She fancied a dark shadow flitted across her husband's brow. He made no
reply; and, on repeating the question, said angrily, "How should I
know? 'Tis as well to ask for a bear's reasons as an Injin's."
Tom only staid at home long enough to mend the broken window, and plant
a small spot of Indian corn, and then again set out, telling Susan not
to expect him home in less than a month. "If that squaw comes this way
agin," he said, "as may be she will, just put out any victuals you've
a-got for the poor crittur; though may be she wont come, for they Injins
be onkimmon skeary." Susan wondered at his taking an interest in the
woman, and often thought of that dark look she had noticed, and of Tom's
unwillingness to speak on the subject. She never knew that on his last
hunting expedition, when hiding some skins which he intended to fetch on
his return, he had observed an Indian watching him, and had shot him,
with as little mercy as he would have shown to a wolf. On Tom's return
to the spot, the body was gone; and in the soft, damp soil was the mark
of an Indian squaw's foot; and by its side, a little child's. He was
sorry then for the deed he had done; he thought of the grief of the poor
widow, and how it would be possible for her to live until she could
reach her tribe, who were far, far distant, at the foot of the Rocky
Mountains; and now to feel, that, through his means, too, she had lost
her child, put thoughts into his mind that had never before found a
place there. He thought that one God had formed the red man as well as
the white--of the souls of the many Indians hurried into eternity by his
unerring rifle; and they, perhaps, were more fitted for their "happy
hunting grounds," than he for the white man's heaven. In this state of
mind, every word his wife had said to him seemed a reproach, and he was
glad again to be alone, in the forest, with his rifle and his hounds.
The afternoon of the third day after Tom's departure, as Susan was
sitting at work, she heard something scratching and whining at the door.
Nero, who was by her side, evinced no signs of anger, but ran to the
door, showing his white teeth, as was his custom when pleased. Susan
unbarred it, when, to her astonishment, the two deerhounds her husband
had taken with him, walked into the hut, looking weary and soiled. At
first she thought Tom might have killed a deer not far from home, and
had brought her a fresh supply of venison; but no one was there. She
rushed from the hut, and soon, breathless and terrified, reached the
squatter's cabin. John Wilton and his three sons were just returned from
the clearings, when Susan ran into their comfortable kitchen; her long,
black hair, streaming on her shoulders, and her wild and bloodshot
eyes, gave her the appearance of a maniac. In a few unconnected words,
she explained to them the cause of her terror, and implored them to set
off immediately in search of her husband. It was in vain they told her
of the uselessness of going at that time--of the impossibility of
following a trail in the dark. She said she would go herself: she felt
sure of finding him; and, at last, they were obliged to use force to
prevent her leaving the house.
The next morning at daybreak, Wilton and his two sons were mounted, and
ready to set out, intending to take Nero with them; but nothing could
induce him to leave his mistress: he resisted passively for some time,
until one of the young men attempted to pass a rope round his neck, to
drag him away: then his forbearance vanished, and he sprang upon his
tormentor, threw him down, and would have strangled him, if Susan had
not been present. Finding it impossible to make Nero accompany them,
they left without him, but had not proceeded many miles before he and
his mistress were at their side. They begged Susan to return; told her
of the inconvenience she would be to them. It was no avail; she had but
one answer,--"I am a hunter's daughter, and a hunter's wife." She told
them that, knowing how useful Nero would be to them in their search,
she had secretly taken a horse and followed them.
The party rode first to Tom Cooper's hut, and there, having dismounted,
leading their horses through the forest, followed the trail, as only men
long accustomed to savage life can do. At night they lay on the ground,
covered with their thick, bear-skin cloaks: for Susan only, they heaped
a bed of dried leaves; but she refused to occupy it, saying, it was her
duty to bear the same hardships they did. Ever since their departure,
she had shown no sign of sorrow. Although slight and delicately formed,
she never appeared fatigued: her whole soul was absorbed in one longing
desire--to find her husband's body; for, from the first, she had
abandoned the hope of ever again seeing him in life. This desire
supported her through everything. Early the next morning they were on
the trail. About noon, as they were crossing a small brook, the hound
suddenly dashed away from them, and was lost in the thicket. At first
they fancied they might have crossed the track of a deer or wolf; but a
long, mournful howl soon told the sad truth, for, not far from the
brook, lay the faithful dog on the dead body of his master, which was
pierced to the heart by an Indian arrow.
The murderer had apparently been afraid to approach on account of the
dogs, for the body was left as it had fallen--not even the rifle was
gone. No sign of Indians could be discovered, save one small footprint,
which was instantly pronounced to be that of a squaw. Susan showed no
grief at the sight of the body: she maintained the same forced calmness,
and seemed comforted that it was found. Old Wilton staid with her to
remove all that now remained of her darling husband, and his two sons
set out on the trail, which soon led them into the open prairie, where
it was easily traced through the tall, thick grass. They continued
riding all that afternoon, and the next morning by daybreak were again
on the track, which they followed to the banks of a wide but shallow
stream. There they saw the remains of a fire. One of the brothers thrust
his hand among the ashes, which were still warm. They crossed the river;
and, in the soft sand on the opposite bank, saw again the print of
small, moccasined footsteps. Here they were at a loss; for the rank
prairie-grass had been consumed by one of those fearful fires so common
in the prairies, and in its stead grew short, sweet herbage, where even
an Indian's eye could observe no trace. They were on the point of
abandoning the pursuit, when Richard, the younger of the two, called his
brother's attention to Nero, who had, of his own accord, left his
mistress to accompany them, an if he now understood what they were
about. The hound was trotting to and fro, with his nose to the ground,
as if endeavoring to pick out a cold scent Edward laughed at his
brother, and pointed to the track of a deer that had come to drink at
the river. At last he agreed to follow Nero, who was now cantering
slowly across the prairie. The pace gradually increased, until, on a
spot where the grass had grown more luxuriantly than elsewhere, Nero
threw up his nose, gave a deep bay, and started off at so furious a
pace, that, although well mounted, they had great difficulty in keeping
up with him. He soon brought them to the borders of another forest,
where, finding it impossible to take their horses further, they tethered
them to a tree, and set off again on foot. They lost sight of the hound,
but still, from time to time, heard his loud baying far away. At last
they fancied it sounded nearer instead of becoming less distinct; and of
this they were soon convinced. They still went on in the direction
whence the sound proceeded, until they saw Nero sitting with his
fore-paws against the trunk of a tree, no longer mouthing like a
well-trained hound, but yelling like a fury. They looked up in the tree,
but could see nothing, until, at last, Edward espied a large hollow
about half way up the trunk. "I was right, you see," he said. "After
all, it nothing but a bear; but we may as well shoot the brute that has
given us so much trouble."
They set to work immediately with their axes to fell the tree. It began
to totter, when a dark object, they could not tell what, in the dim
twilight, crawled from its place of concealment to the extremity of a
branch, and from thence sprung into the next tree. Snatching up their
rifles, they both fired together; when, to their astonishment, instead
of a bear, a young Indian squaw, with a wild yell, fell to the ground.
They ran to the spot where she lay motionless, and carried her to the
borders of the wood, where they had that morning dismounted. Richard
lifted her on his horse, and springing himself into the saddle, carried
the almost lifeless body before him. The poor creature never spoke.
Several times they stopped, thinking she was dead: her pulse only told
the spirit had not flown from its earthly tenement. When they reached
the river which had been crossed by them before, they washed the wounds,
and sprinkled water on her face. This appeared to revive her; and when
Richard again lifted her in his arms to place her on his horse, he
fancied he heard her mutter, in Iroquois, one word,--"revenged!" It was
a strange sight, those two powerful men tending so carefully the being
they had a few hours before sought to slay, and endeavoring to stanch
the blood that flowed from wounds which they had made! Yet so it was. It
would have appeared to them a sin to leave the Indian woman to die; yet
they felt no remorse at having inflicted the wound, and doubtless would
have been better pleased had it been mortal; but they would not have
murdered a wounded enemy, even an Indian warrior, still less a squaw.
The party continued their journey until midnight, when they stopped, to
rest their jaded horses. Having wrapped the squaw in their bear-skins,
they lay down themselves, with no covering save the clothes they wore.
They were in no want of provisions, as, not knowing when they might
return, they had taken a good supply of bread and dried venison, not
wishing to loose any precious time in seeking food while on the trail.
The brandy still remaining in their flasks, they preserved for the use
of their captive. The evening of the following day, they reached the
trapper's hut, where they were not a little surprised to find Susan. She
told them that, although John Wilton had begged her to live with them,
she could not bear to leave the spot where everything reminded her of
one to think of whom was now her only consolation; and that, while she
had Nero, she feared nothing. They needed not to tell their mournful
tale--Susan already understood it but too clearly. She begged them to
leave the Indian woman with her. "You have no one," said she, "to tend
and watch her as I can do; besides, it is not right that I should lay
such a burden on you." Although unwilling to impose on her mind the
painful task of nursing her husband's murderess, they could not allow
but that she was right; and seeing how earnestly she desired it, at last
consented to leave the Indian woman with her.