Tales of terror
raging mountains of water, and the steadiness of a ship is turned into
violent pitching and tossing that renders walking to all but the most
experienced a matter of great difficulty. At such times soup plates
will perform somersaults into your lap, and joints of meat evince a
decided objection to remain in their proper positions. While, as for
poultry, wine bottles, &c., they suddenly acquire an agility for flying
through the air, so that what with dodging these missiles, and holding
on like grim death to the table or the back of the settee, one’s life
at meal time on board of a ship in stormy weather is by no means as
comfortable as it might be in a well-appointed dining-room on shore.
Within a week of Christmas it became manifest that the ‘Sirocco’ was
destined to encounter some bad weather. There had been sullen calms
succeeded by fitful bursts of storm, but the good ship had crept on
and on until she had reached the verge of the Bay of Biscay. The bay,
although it bears such a bad character, is suggestive of nearing home
to those who come from afar, and consequently the passengers were
high-spirited, notwithstanding that it was pretty certain that a good
deal of knocking about was in store for them.
One night during the middle watch a furious squall suddenly burst upon
the vessel, and as she had all sail set she heeled over almost on
to her beam ends. Several sails were rent to fragments by the force
of the wind, and the long strips flying out in the tempest made a
tremendous cracking like the cracking of stock whips. ‘All hands’ were
called on deck, and there were all the noise, and shouting, and uproar
incidental to a sudden squall in the dead of night. To the timid and
the inexperienced this is particularly alarming, for as the ship flies
along on her side the waters hiss in a strange manner, the shouting and
tramp of the sailors, the orders given hastily and in stentorian tones,
the cracker-like reports of the torn sails, the groaning and creaking
of the rudder chains, the indescribable howling of the wind, and the
extreme angle of the vessel, are sufficiently alarming to produce
nervousness even in those whose acquaintance with the sea is not of
recent date. And this is more particularly the case when such a squall
occurs at night; then the sky is inky in its blackness, and nothing can
be seen save the spectral-like outlines of the rigging and the masts,
and such objects as are immediately near the spectator. When this
particular squall struck the ship it happened that the Red Lily’s cabin
was on the weather side, and so suddenly did the ship heel over that
Lily narrowly escaped being thrown from her bunk. Although this was not
her first experience of a squall at night she felt unusually alarmed,
for the vessel was lying over at such an unusual angle, and there was
so much noise on deck.
Hastily throwing on a few articles of clothing, and covering them with
a dressing-gown, she encased her feet in slippers, and rushed over to
her mother’s cabin, which was on the lee side. Undisturbed by the shock
Mrs. Hetherington was sleeping soundly, and so, not wishing to wake
her, the first impression of alarm having passed away, Lily closed the
cabin door gently, and then went up the companion-way and peeped out
into the darkness. The white waters were flying past, and the vessel
was lying over almost to her lee scuppers. Lily stepped on to the deck,
holding on to the handle of the companion-way door. There was a babel
of mingled sounds, and the wind was blowing a perfect hurricane. She
had stood there but a few minutes when suddenly she became aware that
Cornell was standing beside her. He was superintending the stowing
of the mizzen to’gallant sail. He was evidently surprised to see her
there. She was about to descend again, for his presence brought back
all her old fears, when he caught her arm, and with gentle force
restrained her.
‘This is fortunate,’ he said. ‘The opportunity I have longed for this
squall has at last given me.’
‘Let me go,’ she exclaimed, ‘or I will scream.’ She was trembling with
fear and excitement, but he still held her.
‘You dare not,’ he answered in a strange tone. Then, after a pause, he
added, ‘You have been cruel to me, but you must be so no longer or I
shall die. I cannot live without you.’
‘Are you mad?’ she said with a shudder.
‘Perhaps I am. If I am you have made me so.’ He passed his arm round
her waist and held her closely.
She struggled to free herself, but she was powerless in his strong
grasp. The mysterious influence he exercised over her now kept her
tongue tied so that she could not scream, could not cry out. He bent
low and pressed his lips to hers, and yet that did not break the spell
which bound her.
‘You are to be married on Christmas Day,’ he said in a whisper. ‘I hope
before then _he_ or I will be dead. If I live you shall become _my_
wife. Do you hear? my wife. You may think I am talking mere words, but
you will see.’
He released her and she found herself in her cabin. How she got down
she did not know. She was burning with indignation and shame. His
polluting lips had touched hers, and she shivered as she thought of it.
She rubbed her lips with her handkerchief as though he had left some
stain which she was trying to wipe away. She yearned to go at once to
Fenton’s cabin and tell him all, but a deadly fear of Cornell withheld
her, the spell of his extraordinary power was upon her, and she felt
that she _dare not_ open her mouth to tell aught of what had occurred.
The man’s influence, whatever it was, was paramount. She feared and
hated him, and yet dare not denounce him. Of course she was weak, but
then he was no ordinary man. His strength of will was enormous, and
subdued her.
During the rest of the night she could not sleep, and she longed for
Christmas Day to come, so that, as Dick’s wife, she might be free from
the persecutions of the mysterious Cornell.
When the morning broke the storm had died away, leaving a gentle wind
that wafted the ship along at about eight knots an hour.
‘We shall have steady weather now,’ the captain observed at breakfast
time, as he examined the barometer that swung over the cabin table.
His prognostication proved correct. The wind increased day by day until
it was blowing a strong gale, but as it was favourable a large spread
of canvas was carried upon the ship.
The day preceding Christmas Day arrived; the ‘Sirocco’ was in the
Bay of Biscay, off the inhospitable Cape Finisterre. By Christmas
Eve the wind had increased very much, so that the ship was ‘snugged
down.’ Extra lookouts were kept, for a great number of outward and
homeward bound vessels were in the Bay. The night promised to be a
very ‘dirty one,’ but there was merriment on board, and many a toast
to ‘Sweethearts and Wives’ was drunk, both in the cabin and in the
forecastle, for a liberal allowance of grog had been served out to the
crew.
The preparations for the wedding were all complete. The saloon was
gaily decorated, and it was arranged that the marriage ceremony was
to be performed at eleven o’clock in the morning. But before eleven
o’clock strange things were to happen.
The night waned, and as eight bells sounded Dick Fenton went on deck to
smoke a cigar before turning in. The ladies had all retired, and only
a single night lamp burned in the saloon. The wind had drawn ahead a
good deal, and the vessel could only carry close-reefed main-topsail
and fore-topsail, so that she was making very little way, simply
‘forging,’ as sailors say, at the rate of about two knots an hour. A
favourite seat with Dick when he went on deck to smoke his cigar was on
the rail near the mizzen shrouds. There he was under the shelter of the
captain’s gig, which was slung outside on davits, and his feet rested
on a hencoop that ran along the poop. Sitting there now pensively
dreaming of his Red Lily, and the happiness that awaited him on the
morrow when she would become his wife, he had no thought of danger.
There was music in the rush of the wild waters and the screaming sweep
of the wind. The vessel had that short, jerky motion which a ship has
in a rough sea when under reefed topsails.
Suddenly there rose up before Dick’s vision the dark figure of a man.
‘Hallo! is that you, captain?’ exclaimed Dick.
‘No,’ was the answer, and in the gruff voice Dick recognised the second
mate.
‘Oh, it’s you, Cornell,’ he said. ‘This is a wild night. Do you think
the wind will free at all before the morning?’
‘It may, and may not,’ was the somewhat surly answer, and in the husky
tones Cornell betrayed that he was the worse for liquor. ‘I suppose you
were thinking of the Red Lily,’ he remarked.
‘Really, Mr. Cornell, you are a little familiar,’ Dick said, not
unkindly, for he was willing to make every allowance at such a time.
‘Bah, why am I familiar?’ sneered the second mate. ‘I suppose the night
before his marriage every man thinks of the woman who is to be his
wife.’
‘I suppose he does,’ Dick answered curtly, for he was not anxious to
prolong the conversation seeing the strange humour Cornell was in.
‘You have quite made up your mind that she is to be your wife?’ asked
Cornell.
‘Well, please God that nothing happens between now and the morning,
Miss Hetherington will certainly become Mrs. Fenton.’
‘But it is destined that _something_ shall happen,’ Cornell exclaimed,
‘and you will never see the morrow.’
The words were spoken rapidly, and with a lightning-like movement he
threw the whole weight of his body against Dick, who, unprepared for
such an assault, was pressed backwards, and falling between the boat
and the side of the vessel was lost in the dark, hissing waters.
‘A man overboard!’ cried the second mate with all the power of his
lusty lungs, and instantly the dreadful cry was taken up, and the watch
came rushing aft. The captain, who was in his cabin, tore on deck, and
in a moment all was confusion.
‘Who is it, who is it?’ exclaimed the captain.
‘Mr. Fenton, I think, for I saw him sitting on the rail a few minutes
before,’ said Cornell.
‘Clear away the boat, men, quick!’ cried the captain. Then he and
Cornell cut away lifebuoys and cast them into the sea.
‘I will try and save him, sir,’ said Cornell, as he divested himself of
his heavy sea boots and his oil skins.
Divining his motives the captain laid hold of his arm and said:
‘Are you mad, man? It is enough that one life should be sacrificed.’
But Cornell, making no reply, shook himself free, mounted the rail, and
dived headlong into the black waters.
The excitement was now intense. Everyone on board knew what had
happened, but everyone did not know that it was Dick who had gone. The
Red Lily was in this state of blissful ignorance, though she with the
other ladies crowded up the companion-way, and waited in breathless and
painful anxiety.
The boat was manned and lowered. Lamps were brought and held up so as
to throw a light as far as possible over the sea. The boat was away
about an hour. It was a fearful agony of suspense that hour. The ship
was hove to, and everything done that could be done. The searchers
returned at last, bringing with them the second mate in an exhausted
condition, but not Dick; he had gone, and as nothing more could be
done, sail was again set, and the ‘Sirocco’ went upon her way with one
soul less.
Christmas morning dawned. The gaiety was changed to sorrow, and the
marriage decorations were taken down and signs of mourning appeared.
Tenderly and gently the sad news was broken to the Red Lily, and those
who told her did not fail to tell how ‘nobly’ the second mate had
risked his life to try and save that of her lover. Tenderly as the news
was broken, the shock stunned her, and for days she lay in a state of