University of Virginia Library

NED SUMMERS, THE CABIN-BY.

By Amerel.

A LARGE vessel, gliding calmly upon the placid
waters of a southern sea, is a beautiful object; and
when those on board, gathered within a little world of
their own, associate in groups upon the deck, telling

tales of home, or gazing upon the waste of waters,
the picture seems too lovely and romantic for a scene
of real life.

The afternoon sun of a summer day, on the seas of
India, shone on such a scene. Captain Charles
Giddings, with a full crew and several passengers,
was returning from a voyage to Calcutta. The ship
scarcely moved upon the waters, and all the softness
of a tropical clime, pervaded the quiet air. Every
one was upon deck—some reading, some leaning
over the ship's side, looking into the waters, some
collected in groups, talking or reclining silently on
couches. The captain, the first mate, and the cabin-boy
were together, regulating the compass, which had
been injured by a fall. In an arm-chair, not far from
these three, sat the mate's daughter, a young woman
of nineteen, reading. Between this young lady and
the cabin-boy an intimacy had sprung up during the
voyage, which appeared in a fair way to ripen into a
feeling stronger than mere affection. This the father
had not discouraged, but, on the contrary, had often
been heard to say, that of all the young men whom
he knew, none was more esteemed by him than Ned
Summers, the cabin-boy.

This was the first time that Mary Harper, the
mate's daughter, had been at sea. The interests of
her mother's family had alone induced her to undertake
it; for her only brother had been lost in a storm
some five years before; since which she had entertained
an instinctive dread of the ocean. Her unexpected
acquaintance with Ned had, however, tended

to modify this dread, and, in his company she forgot
the dangers of the watery element, or the memory of
frightful tales concerning storms and shipwrecks.
During the afternoon she had amused her companion
by reading from a collection of tales and poetry; and,
soon as he was relieved from the task of arranging
the compass, he again seated himself beside her on
a broken cask, and listened while she resumed a half-finished
tale. They were interrupted by the tones
of some one singing.

“Let us listen,” said Mary, closing her book.

Ned would have rather heard her read the tale;
but as she arose, he joined her, and walked towards
the ring which the passengers had formed around
the singer.

“I know that song,” said Mary; “brother and I
used to sing it together.”

Ned turned towards her, and saw that a shade of
sorrow had gathered round her former playful features.
Wishing to change the conversation, he replied—

“Let us listen—he is going to sing again.”

“I do not wish to hear any more,” she answered,
turning away. “Do you never feel afraid upon the
sea, Ned?”

“No, I do not. During more than four years I have
acted as cabin-boy; and now I am as much at home
in a ship as on land.”

“I wish I could say so,” Mary answered; “but I
am a foolish creature about water. I would die of
mere fright in a storm—that I know well. Besides,

Ned, something seems to tell me that this voyage
will not be a lucky one. Who knows but that after
coming so far to seek a fortune, I may find only a
grave?'

There was something so sad in these words that
Ned, for some moments, could not reply. But at last,
while a shade of sympathy passed over his rough
features, he answered—

“I am not afraid of that, Mary. What chance is
there of a storm, when the weather has been fine
for so many weeks? Even if there should be one,
our ship was never in better condition, nor our officers
more vigilant.”

“But you told me yourself, Ned, that a storm is
always more violent after a long calm.”

“So I did, Mary; but—” He paused, and
looked at her in hesitation.

“Well, never mind, Ned,” she said; in a livelier
tone. “I am timid and foolish, that I know; but as
you are a better sailor than I am, I will trust in your
skill.”

Ned was about to reply, when the mate called him.
Mary resumed her seat in the chair, and occupied the
time in watching the operations of the crew. She
was interrupted by her father's voice.

“Why, captain, the barometer is falling!”

“Falling, sir?” replied Captain Giddings.

“Yes, sir—and rather rapidly, too.”

“I was afraid of it,” whispered the captain, as he
approached. “A storm has been gathering for several
days, exactly as it did this time last year, while

we were bearing west from Java Let the boatswain
call all hands to duty.”

In a moment every thing was in activity, where
formerly there was languid indifference. The passengers
retired to the cabins, the sails were taken in,
and the rigging made fast and trim for weathering
the storm. As if by magic, the ship was divested of
its gallant appearance, and lay a motionless hull, with
bare spars, upon the still bosom of the ocean. There
was something sublime in the calmness with which
each man stood at his post, and, without speaking,
gazed over the waters for the coming of the hurricane.

“How is the barometer now, sir?” inquired the
captain.

“Risen, slightly,” replied the mate.

“Well, don't let's wait for danger. And by-the-by,
a little brandy will do us no harm, whether the
storm comes or not.” He walked towards his desk
as he spoke, and raising the lid, brought out a decanter.
Pouring out a glass full, he offered it to the
mate.

When sober, Captain Giddings was an able officer,
and a kind man; when intoxicated, he was obstinate,
passionate, and brutal. He could, however, indulge
moderately in drink, without its affecting materially
his disposition or his official skill; but, unfortunately,
after taking liquor, he often went beyond the bounds
of moderation, and became either helplessly, or
brutally drunk. The mate knew this well; and,
though he was himself addicted to drinking, he recoiled
from the thought of indulging his appetite, on

the eve of a tropical storm. He respectfully declined
the proffered glass.

“Nonsense!” said the captain. “You will feel
the want of it in a dashing sea.”

“Excuse me, captain,” the mate replied. “We
shall want clear heads if the storm is like the one we
had last year.”

“Then I suppose,” said the captain, laughing, “you
would advise me not to drink.”

“I would, sir, with all respect. There will be time
to drink to-morrow.”

“Well, mate,” replied the captain, “I don't know
what ails you; but as to myself, I have no fears of
the wildest storm that ever raged in the Indian sea.
This ship will weather it—that I feel certain of. So
here is to your health.” As he spoke, he swallowed
the brandy.

Still the storm delayed. The men resumed their
gaiety, jesting with each other, or singing among the
shrouds. The cabin-boy found a spare moment to run
below deck; and from every face, save that of the
mate, the previous anxiety had departed. The captain
emptied another glass of brandy. Then, turning
to Ned, who had just returned to the deck, he
exclaimed—

“Ned, are you afraid of the storm?”

“No, indeed, sir,” replied the cabin-boy. “With our
good ship and our good captain, I think we may
brave it.”

“There!” rejoined the captain, turning to the

mate, “that's the language I like to hear from my
crew!”

The mate nodded, without speaking; but in his
features was a shade of mortified dignity. Turning
to the cabin-boy, he whispered a few words in his
ear.

“I don't know what ails her, sir,” Ned replied in
a low tone. “It worries me to hear her speak of her
brother, and then of the coming storm, as though
there was some connection between them. I tried to
comfort her, but couldn't.”

“We must do our duty to night,” said the mate,
with a solemn voice.

Ned looked at him with astonishment. Neither of
them spoke again; but the impression of those few
words, whose meaning was deeper than their utterance,
remained with him throughout the night. The
captain swallowed another half-pint of brandy.

The storm still delayed—all at once Captain Giddings
exclaimed—

“What's the use in waiting so long for a blow!
Hoist the topsails!”

Every one started.

“For heaven's sake, not now, captain!” said the
mate, touching his hat.

“Sir!” said the other, “I am master of this vessel!
We have been waiting here like fools, for nearly
two hours, just because somebody bewitched the
barometer.”

“Let me entreat you—”

“Hoist the topsails, I say!”

“Only delay one hour, sir,” implored the mate.

The captain stamped his foot upon the deck, and,
with an oath, repeated the command. It was obeyed.

“Now let the storm come!” said the half drunken
man.

There was a deep pause. Old sailors cast ominous
looks towards the west, where the sun was just setting;
and the mate, folding his arms, walked thoughtfully
backward and forward, with his eyes fixed upon
the deck. An oppressive stillness was in the air;
low, moaning sounds came, at times, across the
waters; and from the bank of clouds which lay piled
upon each other near the horizon, red hazy mists
shot up, which seemed to spread like a shroud of
blood over the whole face of the sky. The sea
seemed molten glass, and the ship was buoyed up
upon its surface.

But the storm was coming. Though the sun went
down in fire, the sky was rapidly disappearing behind
the clouds, and the air suddenly grew black as midnight.
Any one who has been in the Indian seas, or
even among the groups of the Western archipelago,
know what such changes portend. The mate, rousing
from his revery, cast one glance across the water, and
then hurried towards the captain.

“For heaven's sake, captain, order the sails to be
handed!”

Scarcely were the words uttered, when a rustling
sound, like that of a deep wood, stirred by the wind,
was heard. The mate clenched his hands with a
look of agony; and sailors who had grown gray

among the tropics, held their breath, and grasped
with convulsive energy a rope or a mast. In the
next moment, sails and rigging were whirled into the
clouds; and the ship, as though struck by a battery
of guns, went careering on over the waters, cracking
and starting at every seam. For a few moments all
was still. Then came another blast, tearing and
shrieking among the cordage; and before the men
could utter a cry of horror, a third one struck the
devoted ship, bearing away the main topmast, and
causing the mizen mast, to crack like the report of a
cannon. Every eye was raised, with an expression
of horror, towards the tottering spar. It swayed for an
instant, with the motion of the ship; but the next,
with a fearful crash, it came down over the vessel's
side. Then for the first time arose wailings of agony
as strong men, clenching still the ropes which had
deceived them, were hurried on through the foaming
waters.

During this scene the captain was hopelessly drunk.
His orders were of the most contradictory nature,
and he seemed to have lost all the clear-sighted skill
which distinguished him at other times. The sailors
soon perceived his condition. Every eye was directed
towards the mate as a last resource. He ventured
to assume the command. The hands obeyed
with alacrity; and very soon the broken mast had
been cut away, the other spars strengthened, and
every shred of sail removed.

But the storm had only commenced. As it gathered
darker and wilder around the devoted ship one after

another of the crew was swept away, and the masts
creaked fearfully while the hurricane swept by them.
Before nine o'clock, the rudder was broken, and the
vessel became unmanageable. Then the scene became
a terrible one. The once gallant bark, with its
freight of human souls, rushing headlong before the
storm; the hoarse words of command; the shrieks
of some wretch, hurried from his post to a watery
grave; the din of voices from the cabin; the cracking
of spars; the howlings of the storm—rose amid
that night's gloom, like the revel of the spirits, who,
as is fabled, exult over the miseries of mankind.

But a wilder scene was to follow. Hitherto the
passengers had remained below. Now they rushed
together upon the deck, shrieking, wringing their
hands, and praying for help. Some were induced to
retire, but the remainder running from place to place
with frenzied gestures, mingled their cries for help
with the noise of the tempest. Sometimes a wave
broke over the deck and bore with it one of their
number; but the survivors merely crowded closer together,
thus rendering their own destruction more
easy. A few clasped the captain's knees and begged
him to save them; strong men seized a rope or a
spar, and clung to it with looks of despair; women
rolled helplessly over the heaving deck, or hung
shrieking round the forms of those they loved.

Over this uproar, a loud voice was heard,

“The ship has sprung a leak!”

All hands were called to the pumps. Men who
had been nursed in Oriental luxury, bared their arms,

and worked with the energy of life; even women at
times assisted. The mate moved from group to group
encouraging them by his voice and example. The
water in the hold decreased; and as a few trusty
hands endeavoured to repair the breach, the mate exclaimed
in a voice of hope:—

“Work merrily, lads! If we can arrest the leak
all may go well, our ship is still strong!”

They worked as men do, when they toil for life.
Amid the excitement of partial success, the noise of
the storm was for a while unheeded, and each seemed
inspired with new life. Suddenly a terrific crash
was heard; the ship pitched almost upon her larboard
side; and through the started planks came the surge,
like a cataract, flooding the hold, overthrowing and
stifling those nearest to it, and rendering all effort at
the pumps useless. Then, strong hearts, which had
braved all previous danger without shrinking, rushed
on deck, and flinging their arms towards heaven,
shrieked a prayer for mercy.

The mainmast had fallen.

“Let down the boats!” cried the mate.

The first boat was soon on the waves. Men and
women crowded into it, falling over each other, and
pushing weaker ones to a watery grave. Though it
was in a moment filled to suffocation, others held in
agony to the ropes, till rude hands flung away their
arms, and severing the cords, launched into the deep.
At that moment another voice arose.

“We are among breakers!”

It was so. The boat, with all its freight, was

sucked within the foaming vortex, spun round and
round, and sunk.

“The ship has struck!” shouted another.

Then arose once more the maddening cry of despair,
and each clutched, as he could, some fragment
which might buoy him on the waves, after the ship
should go down.

“The life-boat! the life-boat!” was now the cry, and
many rushed towards it.

And where, amid these scenes, was Mary Harper?
There are a few among the walks of life, who,
though usually weak and timid, yet, in the hour of
danger, display a calmness and heroism, which appear
miraculous to persons of ordinary courage
Mary was one of these. She had dreaded the storm
before it approached; but when it was around her,
she heard, without shrieking, the wind, the falling
timbers, and the uproar on deck. Her thoughts were
on her father and on Ned. When the ship struck
the cabin-boy was by her side. His words could not
be heard amid the uproar, but he grasped her form
tightly with one arm, while with the other he held
to the remaining mast.

“Come to the life-boat,” she at length heard him
say.

They sprang forward. It was full, but some held
out their arms for the girl. She drew back, and
looked at Ned.

“Cut the ropes!” shouted those in the boat.

“Go, Mary,” said Ned, “there is not room for
both.”

“And must you stay here?”

“Do not think of me, Mary.—Wait, oh, wait one
moment!” he shouted to the men.

Mary turned away. “I will stay with you, Ned,”
she whispered, as the boat was hurried off. “I am
not afraid to die!”

By this time the ship was fast sinking. Those who
remained on board had lashed themselves to large
pieces of timber as their only chance for safety. The
mate, unable to find his daughter, and thinking that
both she and Ned had been cast away, seized a part
of the mainmast. The cabin-boy still held to Mary,
clasping her waist with one arm, and with his other

hand holding one of hers. For a little while, no voice
was heard. It was the silence of men, sternly waiting
the approach of death.

A huge wave broke over the deck. Some went
with it into the ocean, others were thrown down, or
rolled over the sides, which they grasped and clung
to. Ned was thrown senseless against the stump of
one of the masts. When he arose, the wave had
passed. He called on the name of Mary, but she had
gone to mingle with the many who, during that fearful
night, were called from health and happiness to a
grave in the ocean. Ignorant of her fate, he ran
wildly along the deck, calling upon her name, and
searching every part that the water had not flooded.
Then a stupor came over his feelings, his limbs relaxed
their energy, and he sunk helplessly upon the
deck. The front part of the ship, on which Ned lay,
had become jammed among the rocks, and was, of
course, immoveable. It was repeatedly washed by
huge waves, but being protected by the rocks, did
not go to pieces. Before morning, the hinder portion
was broken off and swept away. Most of those who
had remained on board went with it. The mate was
among them. Three or four saved themselves by
being tied to spars; the rest perished.

And where, during this time, was the man whose
intemperate indulgence of his appetite had thus
trifled so fearfully with life?—he who had engaged
to carry his vessel safely through the wildest storm
of the Indian seas. He had been struck by the mainmast
in its fall, and knocked senseless into the sea.

Two days afterwards, Ned and five companions
were relieved by a vessel, bound for England from
Calcutta. He never resumed his occupation as cabin-boy
afterwards. When the temperance movement began
he engaged in it with his whole soul, and with an
enthusiasm which seemed almost like madness; he
laboured among those whose labours were among the
waters. One evening, at a temperance meeting, he
heard an aged man tell of a shipwreck in which he
had been a sufferer. Two of his children, the old
sailor said, had found watery graves, and in both instances
because the captain had been intoxicated.
When, in continuing, he told that one of them had
been a daughter, the pride of the family, Ned sprang
to his feet.

“Was her name Mary, sir?” he exclaimed.

“That was her name,” said the old man.

“Mary Harper?”

“Yes; my name is Harper.”

“And do you remember the cabin-boy, whom you
told to do his duty that night?”

The old man trembled. There was excitement
among the spectators too intense and breathless for
utterance.

“I am that cabin-boy,” added Ned. “And, sir, I
did do my duty. I stood by Mary till stunned by
the wave which bore her away. I would have plunged
after her, but there was no strength left me. Oh! it
is dreadful! dreadful!” and he seemed again amid
the scene of that night's storm. “I see no pleasure
now,” he continued, turning to those around him;

“my heart is cold and blighted, but I would live a little
longer, that I might behold this cause in which we
are engaged flourish, until none will be found to oppose
it.”

He rushed towards the speaker's stand, and before
he had relaxed the grasp of the old man's hand, many
had come forward and enrolled their names on the
temperance pledge.