Back Aa

Wreck of the Golden Mary

The other boat was a source of such anxious interest to all of us that I used to wonder whether, if we were saved, the time could ever come when the survivors in this boat of ours could be at all indifferent to the fortunes of the survivors in that.  We got out a tow-rope whenever the weather permitted, but that did not often happen, and how we two parties kept within the same horizon, as we did, He, who mercifully permitted it to be so for our consolation, only knows.  I never shall forget the looks with which, when the morning light came, we used to gaze about us over the stormy waters, for the other boat.  We once parted company for seventy-two hours, and we believed them to have gone down, as they did us.  The joy on both sides when we came within view of one another again, had something in a manner Divine in it; each was so forgetful of individual suffering, in tears of delight and sympathy for the people in the other boat. I have been wanting to get round to the individual or personal part of my subject, as I call it, and the foregoing incident puts me in the right way.  The patience and good disposition aboard of us, was wonderful.  I was not surprised by it in the women; for all men born of women know what great qualities they will show when men will fail; but, I own I was a little surprised by it in some of the men.  Among one-and-thirty people assembled at the best of times, there will usually, I should say, be two or three uncertain tempers.  I knew that I had more than one rough temper with me among my own people, for I had chosen those for the Long-boat that I might have them under my eye.  But, they softened under their misery, and were as considerate of the ladies, and as compassionate of the child, as the best among us, or among men—they could not have been more so.  I heard scarcely any complaining.  The party lying down would moan a good deal in their sleep, and I would often notice a man—not always the same man, it is to be understood, but nearly all of them at one time or other—sitting moaning at his oar, or in his place, as he looked mistily over the sea.  When it happened to be long before I could catch his eye, he would go on moaning all the time in the dismallest manner; but, when our looks met, he would brighten and leave off.  I almost always got the impression that he did not know what sound he had been making, but that he thought he had been humming a tune. 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. “Let me take a spell in your place,” says he.  “And look you out for the Long-boat astern.  The last time she rose on the crest of a wave, I thought I made out a signal flying aboard her.” We shifted our places, clumsily and slowly enough, for we were both of us weak and dazed with wet, cold, and hunger.  I waited some time, watching the heavy rollers astern, before the Long-boat rose a-top of one of them at the same time with us.  At last, she was heaved up for a moment well in view, and there, sure enough, was the signal flying aboard of her—a strip of rag of some sort, rigged to an oar, and hoisted in her bows. “What does it mean?” says Rames to me in a quavering, trembling sort of voice.  “Do they signal a sail in sight?” “Hush, for God’s sake!” says I, clapping my hand over his mouth.  “Don’t let the people hear you.  They’ll all go mad together if we mislead them about that signal.  Wait a bit, till I have another look at it.” I held on by him, for he had set me all of a tremble with his notion of a sail in sight, and watched for the Long-boat again.  Up she rose on the top of another roller.  I made out the signal clearly, that second time, and saw that it was rigged half-mast high. “Rames,” says I, “it’s a signal of distress.  Pass the word forward to keep her before the sea, and no more.  We must get the Long-boat within hailing distance of us, as soon as possible.” I dropped down into my old place at the tiller without another word—for the thought went through me like a knife that something had happened to Captain Ravender.  I should consider myself unworthy to write another line of this statement, if I had not made up my mind to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—and I must, therefore, confess plainly that now, for the first time, my heart sank within me.  This weakness on my part was produced in some degree, as I take it, by the exhausting effects of previous anxiety and grief. Our provisions—if I may give that name to what we had left—were reduced to the rind of one lemon and about a couple of handsfull of coffee-berries.  Besides these great distresses, caused by the death, the danger, and the suffering among my crew and passengers, I had had a little distress of my own to shake me still more, in the death of the child whom I had got to be very fond of on the voyage out—so fond that I was secretly a little jealous of her being taken in the Long-boat instead of mine when the ship foundered.  It used to be a great comfort to me, and I think to those with me also, after we had seen the last of the Golden Mary, to see the Golden Lucy, held up by the men in the Long-boat, when the weather allowed it, as the best and brightest sight they had to show.  She looked, at the distance we saw her from, almost like a little white bird in the air.  To miss her for the first time, when the weather lulled a little again, and we all looked out for our white bird and looked in vain, was a sore disappointment.  To see the men’s heads bowed down and the captain’s hand pointing into the sea when we hailed the Long-boat, a few days after, gave me as heavy a shock and as sharp a pang of heartache to bear as ever I remember suffering in all my life.  I only mention these things to show that if I did give way a little at first, under the dread that our captain was lost to us, it was not without having been a good deal shaken beforehand by more trials of one sort or another than often fall to one man’s share. I had got over the choking in my throat with the help of a drop of water, and had steadied my mind again so as to be prepared against the worst, when I heard the hail (Lord help the poor fellows, how weak it sounded!)— “Surf-boat, ahoy!” I looked up, and there were our companions in misfortune tossing abreast of us; not so near that we could make out the features of any of them, but near enough, with some exertion for people in our condition, to make their voices heard in the intervals when the wind was weakest. I answered the hail, and waited a bit, and heard nothing, and then sung out the captain’s name.  The voice that replied did not sound like his; the words that reached us were: “Chief-mate wanted on board!” Every man of my crew knew what that meant as well as I did.  As second officer in command, there could be but one reason for wanting me on board the Long-boat.  A groan went all round us, and my men looked darkly in each other’s faces, and whispered under their breaths: “The captain is dead!” I commanded them to be silent, and not to make too sure of bad news, at such a pass as things had now come to with us.  Then, hailing the Long-boat, I signified that I was ready to go on board when the weather would let me—stopped a bit to draw a good long breath—and then called out as loud as I could the dreadful question: “Is the captain dead?” The black figures of three or four men in the after-part of the Long-boat all stooped down together as my voice reached them.  They were lost to view for about a minute; then appeared again—one man among them was held up on his feet by the rest, and he hailed back the blessed words (a very faint hope went a very long way with people in our desperate situation): “Not yet!” The relief felt by me, and by all with me, when we knew that our captain, though unfitted for duty, was not lost to us, it is not in words—at least, not in such words as a man like me can command—to express.  I did my best to cheer the men by telling them what a good sign it was that we were not as badly off yet as we had feared; and then communicated what instructions I had to give, to William Rames, who was to be left in command in my place when I took charge of the Long-boat.  After that, there was nothing to be done, but to wait for the chance of the wind dropping at sunset, and the sea going down afterwards, so as to enable our weak crews to lay the two boats alongside of each other, without undue risk—or, to put it plainer, without saddling ourselves with the necessity for any extraordinary exertion of strength or skill.  Both the one and the other had now been starved out of us for days and days together. At sunset the wind suddenly dropped, but the sea, which had been running high for so long a time past, took hours after that before it showed any signs of getting to rest.  The moon was shining, the sky was wonderfully clear, and it could not have been, according to my calculations, far off midnight, when the long, slow, regular swell of the calming ocean fairly set in, and I took the responsibility of lessening the distance between the Long-boat and ourselves. It was, I dare say, a delusion of mine; but I thought I had never seen the moon shine so white and ghastly anywhere, either on sea or on land, as she shone that night while we were approaching our companions in misery.  When there was not much more than a boat’s length between us, and the white light streamed cold and clear over all our faces, both crews rested on their oars with one great shudder, and stared over the gunwale of either boat, panic-stricken at the first sight of each other. “Any lives lost among you?” I asked, in the midst of that frightful silence. The men in the Long-bout huddled together like sheep at the sound of my voice. “None yet, but the child, thanks be to God!” answered one among them. And at the sound of his voice, all my men shrank together like the men in the Long-boat.  I was afraid to let the horror produced by our first meeting at close quarters after the dreadful changes that wet, cold, and famine had produced, last one moment longer than could be helped; so, without giving time for any more questions and answers, I commanded the men to lay the two boats close alongside of each other.  When I rose up and committed the tiller to the hands of Rames, all my poor follows raised their white faces imploringly to mine.  “Don’t leave us, sir,” they said, “don’t leave us.”  “I leave you,” says I, “under the command and the guidance of Mr. William Rames, as good a sailor as I am, and as trusty and kind a man as ever stepped.  Do your duty by him, as you have done it by me; and remember to the last, that while there is life there is hope.  God bless and help you all!”  With those words I collected what strength I had left, and caught at two arms that were held out to me, and so got from the stern-sheets of one boat into the stern-sheets of the other. “Mind where you step, sir,” whispered one of the men who had helped me into the Long-boat.  I looked down as he spoke.  Three figures were huddled up below me, with the moonshine falling on them in ragged streaks through the gaps between the men standing or sitting above them.  The first face I made out was the face of Miss Coleshaw, her eyes were wide open and fixed on me.  She seemed still to keep her senses, and, by the alternate parting and closing of her lips, to be trying to speak, but I could not hear that she uttered a single word.  On her shoulder rested the head of Mrs. Atherfield.  The mother of our poor little Golden Lucy must, I think, have been dreaming of the child she had lost; for there was a faint smile just ruffling the white stillness of her face, when I first saw it turned upward, with peaceful closed eyes towards the heavens.  From her, I looked down a little, and there, with his head on her lap, and with one of her hands resting tenderly on his cheek—there lay the Captain, to whose help and guidance, up to this miserable time, we had never looked in vain,—there, worn out at last in our service, and for our sakes, lay the best and bravest man of all our company.  I stole my hand in gently through his clothes and laid it on his heart, and felt a little feeble warmth over it, though my cold dulled touch could not detect even the faintest beating.  The two men in the stern-sheets with me, noticing what I was doing—knowing I loved him like a brother—and seeing, I suppose, more distress in my face than I myself was conscious of its showing, lost command over themselves altogether, and burst into a piteous moaning, sobbing lamentation over him.  One of the two drew aside a jacket from his feet, and showed me that they were bare, except where a wet, ragged strip of stocking still clung to one of them.  When the ship struck the Iceberg, he had run on deck leaving his shoes in his cabin.  All through the voyage in the boat his feet had been unprotected; and not a soul had discovered it until he dropped!  As long as he could keep his eyes open, the very look of them had cheered the men, and comforted and upheld the women.  Not one living creature in the boat, with any sense about him, but had felt the good influence of that brave man in one way or another.  Not one but had heard him, over and over again, give the credit to others which was due only to himself; praising this man for patience, and thanking that man for help, when the patience and the help had really and truly, as to the best part of both, come only from him.  All this, and much more, I heard pouring confusedly from the men’s lips while they crouched down, sobbing and crying over their commander, and wrapping the jacket as warmly and tenderly as they could over his cold feet.  It went to my heart to check them; but I knew that if this lamenting spirit spread any further, all chance of keeping alight any last sparks of hope and resolution among the boat’s company would be lost for ever.  Accordingly I sent them to their places, spoke a few encouraging words to the men forward, promising to serve out, when the morning came, as much as I dared, of any eatable thing left in the lockers; called to Rames, in my old boat, to keep as near us as he safely could; drew the garments and coverings of the two poor suffering women more closely about them; and, with a secret prayer to be directed for the best in bearing the awful responsibility now laid on my shoulders, took my Captain’s vacant place at the helm of the Long-boat. This, as well as I can tell it, is the full and true account of how I came to be placed in charge of the lost passengers and crew of the Golden Mary, on the morning of the twenty-seventh day after the ship struck the Iceberg, and foundered at sea. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.