The Survivors of the Chancellor: Chapter 27

Chapter 27

CHAPTER XXVII.

DECEMBER 6th.--I must have fallen asleep for a few hours, when at
four o'clock in the morning, I was rudely aroused by the roaring
of the wind, and could distinguish Curtis's voice as he shouted
in the brief intervals between the heavy gusts.

I got up, and holding tightly to the purlin--for the waves made
the masts tremble with their violence--I tried to look around and
below me.  The sea was literally raging beneath, and great masses
of livid-looking foam were dashing between the masts, which were
oscillating terrifically.  It was still dark, and I could only
faintly distinguish two figures on the stern, whom, by the sound
of their voices, that I caught occasionally above the tumult, I
made out to be Curtis and the boatswain.

Just at that moment a sailor, who had mounted to the main-top to
do something to the rigging, passed close behind me.

"What's the matter?"  I asked,

"The wind has changed," he answered, adding something which I
could not hear distinctly, but which sounded like "dead against
us."

Dead against us!  then, thought I, the wind had shifted to the
south-west, and my last night's forebodings had been correct.

When daylight at length appeared, I found the wind although not
blowing actually from the south-west, had veered round to the
north-west, a change which was equally disastrous to us, inasmuch
as it was carrying us away from land.  Moreover, the ship had
sunk considerably during the night, and there were now five feet
of water above deck; the side netting had completely disappeared,
and the forecastle and the poop were now all but on a level with
the sea, which washed over them incessantly.  With all possible
expedition Curtis and his crew were labouring away at their raft,
but the violence of the swell materially impeded their
operations, and it became a matter of doubt as to whether the
woodwork would not fall asunder before it could be properly
fastened together.

As I watched the men at their work M. Letourneur, with one arm
supporting his son, came and stood by my side.

"Don't you think this main-top will soon give way?"  he said, as
the narrow platform on which we stood creaked and groaned with
the swaying of the masts.

Miss Herbey heard his words, and pointing towards Mrs. Kear, who
was lying prostrate at her feet, asked what we thought ought to
be done.

"We can do nothing but stay where we are," I replied.

"No;" said Andre "this is our best refuge; I hope you are not
afraid."

"Not for myself," said the young girl quietly "only for those to
whom life is precious."

At a quarter to eight we heard the boatswain calling to the
sailors in the bows.

"Ay, ay, sir," said one of the men--O'Ready, I think.

"Where's the whale boat?"  shouted the boatswain.

"I don't know, sir.  Not with us," was the reply.

"She's gone adrift, then!"

And sure enough the whale-boat was no longer hanging from the
bowsprit; and in a moment the discovery was made that Mr. Kear,
Silas Huntly, and three sailors,--a Scotchman and two Englishmen,
--were missing.  Afraid that the "Chancellor" would founder
before the completion of the raft, Kear and Huntly had plotted
together to effect their escape, and had bribed the three sailors
to seize the only remaining boat.

This, then, was the black speck that I had seen during the night.
The miserable husband had deserted his wife, the faithless
captain had abandoned the ship that had once been under his
command.

"There are five saved, then," said the boatswain.

"Faith, an it's five lost ye'll be maning," said O'Ready; and the
state of the sea fully justified his opinion.

The crew were furious when they heard of the surreptitious
flight, and loaded the fugitives with all the invectives they
could lay their tongues to.  So enraged were they at the
dastardly trick of which they had been made the dupes, that if
chance should bring the deserters again on board I should be
sorry to answer for the consequences.

In accordance with my advice, Mrs. Kear has not been informed of
her husband's disappearance.  The unhappy lady is wasting away
with a fever for which we are powerless to supply a remedy, for
the medicine chest was lost when the ship began to sink.
Nevertheless, I do not think we have anything to regret on that
score, feeling as I do, that in a case like Mrs. Kear's, drugs
would be of no avail.

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