Kabanata Kabanata 11 · EMIL'S THANKSGIVING

Chapter 11. EMIL'S THANKSGIVING

The Brenda was scudding along with all sail set to catch the rising

wind, and everyone on board was rejoicing, for the long voyage was

drawing towards an end.

'Four weeks more, Mrs Hardy, and we'll give you a cup of tea such as you

never had before,' said second mate Hoffmann, as he paused beside two

ladies sitting in a sheltered corner of the deck.

'I shall be glad to get it, and still gladder to put my feet on solid

ground,' answered the elder lady, smiling; for our friend Emil was

a favourite, as well he might be, since he devoted himself to the

captain's wife and daughter, who were the only passengers on board.

'So shall I, even if I have to wear a pair of shoes like Chinese junks.

I've tramped up and down the deck so much, I shall be barefooted if

we don't arrive soon,' laughed Mary, the daughter, showing two shabby

little boots as she glanced up at the companion of these tramps,

remembering gratefully how pleasant he had made them.

'Don't think there are any small enough in China,' answered Emil, with a

sailor's ready gallantry, privately resolving to hunt up the handsomest

shoes he could find the moment he landed.

'I don't know what you would have done for exercise, dear, if Mr

Hoffmann had not made you walk every day. This lazy life is bad for

young people, though it suits an old body like me well enough in calm

weather. Is this likely to be a gale, think ye?' added Mrs Hardy, with

an anxious glance at the west, where the sun was setting redly.

'Only a capful of wind, ma'am, just enough to send us along lively,'

answered Emil, with a comprehensive glance aloft and alow.

'Please sing, Mr Hoffmann, it's so pleasant to have music at this

time. We shall miss it very much when we get ashore,' said Mary, in

a persuasive tone which would have won melody from a shark, if such a

thing were possible.

Emil had often blessed his one accomplishment during these months, for

it cheered the long days, and made the twilight hour his happiest

time, wind and weather permitting. So now he gladly tuned his pipe, and

leaning on the taffrail near the girl, watched the brown locks blowing

in the wind as he sang her favourite song:

'Give me freshening breeze, my boys,

A white and swelling sail,

A ship that cuts the dashing waves,

And weathers every gale.

What life is like a sailor's life,

So free, so bold, so brave?

His home the ocean's wide expanse,

A coral bed his grave.'

Just as the last notes of the clear, strong voice died away, Mrs Hardy

suddenly exclaimed: 'What's that?' Emil's quick eye saw at once the

little puff of smoke coming up a hatchway where no smoke should be, and

his heart seemed to stand still for an instant as the dread word 'Fire!'

flashed through his mind. Then he was quite steady, and strolled away

saying quietly:

'Smoking not allowed there, I'll go and stop it.' But the instant he

was out of sight his face changed, and he leaped down the hatchway,

thinking, with a queer smile on his lips: 'If we are afire, shouldn't

wonder if I did make a coral bed my grave!'

He was gone a few minutes, and when he came up, half stifled with smoke,

he was as white as a very brown man could be, but calm and cool as he

went to report to the captain.

'Fire in the hold, sir.'

'Don't frighten the women,' was Captain Hardy's first order; then both

be stirred themselves to discover how strong the treacherous enemy was,

and to rout it if possible.

The Brenda's cargo was a very combustible one, and in spite of the

streams of water poured into the hold it was soon evident that the ship

was doomed. Smoke began to ooze up between the planks everywhere, and

the rising gale soon fanned the smouldering fire to flames that began

to break out here and there, telling the dreadful truth too plainly for

anyone to hide. Mrs Hardy and Mary bore the shock bravely when told to

be ready to quit the ship at a minute's notice; the boats were hastily

prepared, and the men worked with a will to batten down every loophole

whence the fire might escape. Soon the poor Brenda was a floating

furnace, and the order to 'Take to the boats!' came for all. The women

first, of course, and it was fortunate that, being a merchantman, there

were no more passengers on board, so there was no panic, and one after

the other the boats pushed off. That in which the women were lingered

near, for the brave captain would be the last to leave his ship.

Emil stayed by him till ordered away, and reluctantly obeyed; but it was

well for him he went, for just as he had regained the boat, rocking far

below, half hidden by a cloud of smoke, a mast, undermined by the

fire now raging in the bowels of the ship, fell with a crash, knocking

Captain Hardy overboard. The boat soon reached him as he floated out

from the wreck, and Emil sprung into the sea to rescue him, for he was

wounded and senseless. This accident made it necessary for the young man

to take command, and he at once ordered the men to pull for their lives,

as an explosion might occur at any moment.

The other boats were out of danger and all lingered to watch the

splendid yet awesome spectacle of the burning ship alone on the wide

sea, reddening the night and casting a lurid glare upon the water, where

floated the frail boats filled with pale faces, all turned for a last

look at the fated Brenda, slowly settling to her watery grave. No one

saw the end, however, for the gale soon swept the watchers far away and

separated them, some never to meet again till the sea gives up its dead.

The boat whose fortunes we must follow was alone when dawn came up,

showing these survivors all the dangers of their situation. Food and

water had been put in, and such provision for comfort and safety as time

allowed; but it was evident that with a badly wounded man, two women,

and seven sailors, their supply would not last long, and help was sorely

needed. Their only hope was in meeting a ship, although the gale, which

had raged all night, had blown them out of their course. To this hope

all clung, and wiled away the weary hours, watching the horizon and

cheering one another with prophecies of speedy rescue.

Second mate Hoffmann was very brave and helpful, though his unexpected

responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders; for the captain's state

seemed desperate, the poor wife's grief wrung his heart, and the blind

confidence of the young girl in his power to save them made him feel

that no sign of doubt or fear must lessen it. The men did their part

readily now, but Emil knew that if starvation and despair made brutes of

them, his task might be a terrible one. So he clutched his courage with

both hands, kept up a manly front, and spoke so cheerily of their good

chances, that all instinctively turned to him for guidance and support.

The first day and night passed in comparative comfort, but when the

third came, things looked dark and hope began to fail. The wounded man

was delirious, the wife worn out with anxiety and suspense, the girl

weak for want of food, having put away half her biscuit for her mother,

and given her share of water to wet her father's feverish lips. The

sailors ceased rowing and sat grimly waiting, openly reproaching their

leader for not following their advice, others demanding more food, all

waxing dangerous as privation and pain brought out the animal instincts

lurking in them. Emil did his best, but mortal man was helpless there,

and he could only turn his haggard face from the pitiless sky, that

dropped no rain for their thirst, to the boundless sea where no sail

appeared to gladden their longing eyes. All day he tried to cheer and

comfort them, while hunger gnawed, thirst parched, and growing fear lay

heavy at his heart. He told stories to the men, implored them to bear up

for the helpless women's sake, and promised rewards if they would pull

while they had strength to regain the lost route, as nearly as he could

make it out, and increase their chance of rescue. He rigged an awning

of sailcloth over the suffering man and tended him like a son, comforted

the wife, and tried to make the pale girl forget herself, by singing

every song he knew or recounting his adventures by land and sea, till

she smiled and took heart; for all ended well.

The fourth day came and the supply of food and water was nearly gone.

Emil proposed to keep it for the sick man and the women, but two of the

men rebelled, demanding their share. Emil gave up his as an example, and

several of the good fellows followed it, with the quiet heroism which so

often crops up in rough but manly natures. This shamed the others,

and for another day an ominous peace reigned in that little world of

suffering and suspense. But during the night, while Emil, worn out with

fatigue, left the watch to the most trustworthy sailor, that he might

snatch an hour's rest, these two men got at the stores and stole the

last of the bread and water, and the one bottle of brandy, which was

carefully hoarded to keep up their strength and make the brackish water

drinkable. Half mad with thirst, they drank greedily and by morning one

was in a stupor, from which he never woke; the other so crazed by

the strong stimulant, that when Emil tried to control him, he leaped

overboard and was lost. Horror-stricken by this terrible scene, the

other men were submissive henceforth, and the boat floated on and on

with its sad freight of suffering souls and bodies.

Another trial came to them that left all more despairing than before. A

sail appeared, and for a time a frenzy of joy prevailed, to be turned

to bitterest disappointment when it passed by, too far away to see

the signals waved to them or hear the frantic cries for help that rang

across the sea. Emil's heart sank then, for the captain seemed dying,

and the women could not hold out much longer. He kept up till night

came; then in the darkness, broken only by the feeble murmuring of the

sick man, the whispered prayers of the poor wife, the ceaseless swash of

waves, Emil hid his face, and had an hour of silent agony that aged him

more than years of happy life could have done. It was not the physical

hardship that daunted him, though want and weakness tortured him; it was

his dreadful powerlessness to conquer the cruel fate that seemed hanging

over them. The men he cared little for, since these perils were but a

part of the life they chose; but the master he loved, the good woman who

had been so kind to him, the sweet girl whose winsome presence had made

the long voyage so pleasant for them all--if he could only save these

dear and innocent creatures from a cruel death, he felt that he could

willingly give his life for them.

As he sat there with his head in his hands, bowed down by the first

great trial of his young life, the starless sky overhead, the restless

sea beneath, and all around him suffering, for which he had no help, a

soft sound broke the silence, and he listened like one in a dream. It

was Mary singing to her mother, who lay sobbing in her arms, spent with

this long anguish. A very faint and broken voice it was, for the poor

girl's lips were parched with thirst; but the loving heart turned

instinctively to the great Helper in this hour of despair, and He heard

her feeble cry. It was a sweet old hymn often sung at Plumfield; and as

he listened, all the happy past came back so clearly that Emil forgot

the bitter present, and was at home again. His talk on the housetop

with Aunt Jo seemed but yesterday, and, with a pang of self-reproach, he

thought:

'The scarlet strand! I must remember it, and do my duty to the end.

Steer straight, old boy; and if you can't come into port, go down with

all sail set.'

Then, as the soft voice crooned on to lull the weary woman to a

fitful sleep, Emil for a little while forgot his burden in a dream of

Plumfield. He saw them all, heard the familiar voices, felt the grip of

welcoming hands, and seemed to say to himself: 'Well, they shall not be

ashamed of me if I never see them any more.'

A sudden shout startled him from that brief rest, and a drop on his

forehead told him that the blessed rain had come at last, bringing

salvation with it; for thirst is harder to bear than hunger, heat, or

cold. Welcomed by cries of joy, all lifted up their parched lips, held

out their hands, and spread their garments to catch the great drops that

soon came pouring down to cool the sick man's fever, quench the agony of

thirst, and bring refreshment to every weary body in the boat. All night

it fell, all night the castaways revelled in the saving shower, and took

heart again, like dying plants revived by heaven's dew. The clouds broke

away at dawn, and Emil sprung up, wonderfully braced and cheered by

those hours of silent gratitude for this answer to their cry for help.

But this was not all; as his eye swept the horizon, clear against the

rosy sky shone the white sails of a ship, so near that they could see

the pennon at her mast-head and black figures moving on the deck.

One cry broke from all those eager throats, and rang across the sea, as

every man waved hat or handkerchief and the women stretched imploring

hands towards this great white angel of deliverance coming down upon

them as if the fresh wind filled every sail to help her on.

No disappointment now; answering signals assured them of help; and in

the rapture of that moment the happy women fell on Emil's neck,

giving him his reward in tears and blessings as their grateful hearts

overflowed. He always said that was the proudest moment of his life,

as he stood there holding Mary in his arms; for the brave girl, who had

kept up so long, broke down then, and clung to him half fainting; while

her mother busied herself about the invalid, who seemed to feel the

joyful stir, and gave an order, as if again on the deck of his lost

ship.

It was soon over; and then all were safely aboard the good Urania,

homeward bound. Emil saw his friends in tender hands, his men among

their mates, and told the story of the wreck before he thought of

himself. The savoury odour of the soup, carried by to the cabin for the

ladies, reminded him that he was starving, and a sudden stagger

betrayed his weakness. He was instantly borne away, to be half killed by

kindness, and being fed, clothed, and comforted, was left to rest. Just

as the surgeon left the state-room, he asked in his broken voice: 'What

day is this? My head is so confused, I've lost my reckoning.'

'Thanksgiving Day, man! And we'll give you a regular New England dinner,

if you'll eat it,' answered the surgeon heartily.

But Emil was too spent to do anything, except lie still and give thanks,

more fervently and gratefully than ever before, for the blessed gift of

life, which was the sweeter for a sense of duty faithfully performed.