From time to time, I would creep up into the companion, always in the hopes of finding the lights of a ship close to, but nothing came of our rockets, whilst I doubt if the little blast the quarter-deck pop-gun delivered was audible half a mile away to windward. But though the night remained a horrible black shadow the blacker for the phantasmal sheets of foam which defined, without illuminating it, the wind about this time somewhere between four and five o’clock had greatly moderated. Yet at dawn it was blowing hard still, with an iron-grey, freckled sea rolling hollow and confusedly, and a near horizon thick with mist.

There was nothing in sight. The yacht looked deplorably sodden and wrecked as she pitched and wallowed in the cold, desolate, ashen atmosphere of that daybreak. The men, too, wore the air of castaway mariners, fagged, salt-whitened, pinched; and their faces, even the boy’s, looked aged with anxiety.

I called to Caudel. He approached me slowly, as a man might walk after a swim that has nearly spent him.

“Here is another day, Caudel. What is to be done?”

“What can be done, sir?” answered the poor fellow, with the irritation of exhaustion and of anxiety but little removed from despair. “We must go on pumping for our lives, and pray to the Lord that we may be picked up.”

“Why not get sail upon the yacht, put her before the wind, and run for the French coast?”

“If you like sir,” he answered languidly, “but it’s a long stretch to the French coast, and if the wind should shift ” he paused, and looked as though worry had weakened his mind a little and rendered him incapable of deciding swiftly and for the best.

The boy Bobby was pumping, and I took notice of the glass-like clearness of the water as it gushed out to the strokes of the little brake. The others of my small crew were crouching under the lee of the weather bulwark. I looked at them, and then said to Caudel:

“Shall we call a council? Something must be done. Those men have lives to save, and I should like to have their opinion.”

He at once halloaed to them, and they grouped themselves about me as I stood in the companion way. Every man’s voice was hoarse with fatigue, and the skin of the poor fellows’ faces had a puffed, pale appearance that made one think of drowned bodies.

I asked them what they thought of my proposal of running for the French shore under all the sail we could spread; but after some discussion they were unanimous in opposing the scheme.

“Who’s to tell,” said Crew, “how fur off the French coast is? And what port are we agoing to make? We’re nearer the English coast now than we are to France, and if there should come a shift,” he added, casting his moist, blood-shot eyes at the sky, and then fixing them upon the pump, “we might be able to stagger into Plymouth or some port near it.”

“This yacht,” exclaimed Foster, “isn’t agoing to keep afloat long, sir. If then it’s to come to that there boat,” indicating with a jerk of his chin the little boat that we carried, “we’d better launch her here than furder out.”

“Depend upon it, Mr. Barclay,” exclaimed Caudel, “there’s nothen for it but to keep all on as we are, and wait for the weather to improve. There are plenty of ships knocking about. Let it come clear enough for us to be seen and we shall be picked up.”

In this way ran the little debate we held, but as I am not a sailor I am unable to repeat more of it than I have set down.

Before returning to Grace I looked at our little boat she was just a yacht’s dinghy and thought of the chance the tiny ark would provide us with of saving our lives seven souls in a boat fit to hold five, and then only in smooth water! And yet she was the only boat we had, and there was absolutely nothing else by which we might preserve ourselves scarce any materials that I could think of or see, out of which the rudest craft could be manufactured, though the mere thought of it coming to a raft turned me sick and faint, when I glanced at the green slopes of the hurling hills of water, and marked the frothing of their heads and the fathom-thick surface of yeast they shot from their surcharged summits.

Grace was awake when I had gone on deck at daybreak, though she had slept for two or three hours very soundly, never once moving when the cannon was discharged, frequent as the report of it had been. On my descending she begged me to take her on deck.

“I shall be able to stand if I hold your arm,” she said, “and the air will do me good.”

But I had not the heart to let her view the sea nor the wet, broken, shipwrecked figure the yacht made with water flying over the bow, and water gushing from the pump, and the foam flashing amongst the rigging that still littered the deck as the brine roared from side to side.

“No, my darling,” said I; “for the present you must keep below. The wind, thank God, is fast moderating, and the sea will be falling presently. But you cannot imagine, until you attempt to move, how violently the Spitfire rolls and pitches. Besides, the decks are full of water, and a single wild heave might throw us both and send us flying overboard.”

She shuddered and said no more about going on deck.

Spite of her having slept, her eyes seemed languid. Her cheeks were colourless, and there was an expression of fear and expectation that made my heart mad to behold in her sweet young face, that, when all was well with her, wore a most delicate bloom, whilst it was lovely with a sort of light that was like a smile in expressions even of perfect repose. I had brought her to this! Before another day had closed her love for me might have cost her her life! I could not bear to think of it I could not bear to look at her and I broke down burying my face in my hands.

She put her arm round my neck, pressed her cheek to mine, but said nothing, until the two or three dry sobs, which shook me to my very inmost soul, had passed.

“Anxiety and want of sleep have made you ill,” she said. “I am sure all will end well, Herbert. The storm, you say, is passing, and then we shall be able to steer for the nearest port. You will not wait now to reach Penzance?”

I shook my head, unable to speak.

“We have both had enough of the sea,” she continued, forcing a smile that vanished in the next breath she drew; “but you could not have foretold this storm. And even now, would you have me anywhere else but here?” said she, putting her cheek to mine again. “Rest your head on my shoulder and sleep. I feel better and will instantly awaken you if there is any occasion to do so.”

I was about to make some answer, when I heard a loud and, as it appeared to me, a fearful cry on deck. Before I could spring to my feet someone heavily thumped the companion-hatch, flinging the sliding cover wide open an instant after, and Caudel’s voice roared down:

“Mr. Barclay! Mr. Barclay! there’s a big ship close aboard us! She’s rounding to. Come on deck, for God’s sake, sir, that we may larn your wishes.”

Bidding Grace remain where she was, I sprang to the companion steps, and the first thing I saw on emerging was a large, full-rigged ship, with painted ports, under small canvas, and in the act of rounding with her main topsail-yard slowly swinging aback. Midway the height of our little mizzenmast streamed the ensign which Caudel or another of the men had hoisted the union down but our wrecked mast, and the fellow labouring at the pump must have told our story to the sight of that ship, with an eloquence that could gather but little emphasis from the signal of distress streaming like a square of flame half-mast high at our stern.

It was broad daylight now, with a lightening in the darkness to windward that opened out twice the distance of sea that was to be measured before I went below. The ship, a noble structure, was well within hail, rolling somewhat heavily, but with a majestical, slow motion. There was a crowd of sailors on her forecastle staring at us, and I remember even in that supreme moment, so tricksy is the human intelligence, noticing how ghastly white the cloths of her topmast-staysail or jib showed by contrast with the red and blue shirts and other coloured apparel of the mob of seamen, and against the spread of dusky sky beyond. There was also a little knot of people on the poop, and a man standing near them, but alone; as I watched him he took what I gathered to be a speaking-trumpet from the hand of the young apprentice or ordinary seaman who had run to him with it.

“Now, Mr. Barclay,” cried Caudel, in a voice vibratory with excitement, “there’s yours and the lady’s hopportunity, sir. But what’s your instructions? What’s your wishes, sir?”

“My wishes? How can you ask? We must leave the Spitfire. She is already half-drowned. She will sink when you stop pumping.”

“Right, sir,” he exclaimed, and without another word posted himself at the rail in a posture of attention with his eyes upon the ship.

She was apparently a vessel bound to some Indian or Australian port, and seemingly full of passengers, for even as I stood watching, the people in twos and threes arrived on the poop, or got upon the main-deck bulwark-rail to view us. She was a long iron ship, red beneath the water-line, and the bright streak of that colour glared out over the foam, dissolving at her sides like a flash of crimson sunset, as she rolled from us. Whenever she hove her stern up, gay with what might have passed as gilt quarter badges, I could read her name in long, white letters “CARTHUSIAN, LONDON.”

“Yacht ahoy!” now came in a hearty tempestuous shout through the speaking trumpet, which the man I had before noticed lifted to his lips.

“Halloa!” shouted Caudel in response.

“What is wrong with you?”

“Wessel’s making water fast, and ye can see,” shrieked Caudel, pointing at our wrecked and naked masts, “what our state is. The owner and a lady’s aboard, and want to leave the yacht. Will you stand by till you can receive ’em, sir?”

The man with the speaking trumpet lifted his hand in token of having heard, which somewhat astonished me, for though Caudel’s lungs were very powerful and piercing, we were not only to leeward of the ship, but the wind, pouring dead on to us from her, was full of whistlings and yells, and the clamour of colliding and breaking seas.

The man with the speaking trumpet appeared to consult with another figure that had drawn to his side. He then took a long look round at the weather, and afterwards put the tube again to his mouth.

“Yacht ahoy!”

“Halloa!”

“We will stand by you; but we cannot launch a boat yet. Does the water gain rapidly upon you?”

“We can keep her afloat for some hours, sir.”

The man again elevated his hand, and crossed to the weather side of his ship to signify, I presume, that there was nothing more to be said.

“In two or three hours, sir, you and the lady’ll be safe aboard,” cried Caudel; “the wind’s failing fast, and by that time the sea’ll be flat enough for one of that craft’s fine boats.”

I re-entered the cabin, and found Grace standing, supporting herself at the table. Her attitude was full of expectancy and fear.

“What have they been crying out on deck, Herbert?” she exclaimed.

“There is a big ship close beside us, darling,” I answered; “the weather is fast moderating, and by noon I hope to have you safe on board of her.”

“On board of her!” she cried, with her eyes large with wonder and alarm. “Do you mean to leave the yacht?”

“Yes; I have heart enough to tell you the truth now, Grace; she has sprung a leak and is taking in water rapidly, and we must abandon her.”

She dropped upon the locker with her hands clasped.

“Do you tell me she is sinking, Herbert?”

“We must abandon her,” I cried; “put on your hat and jacket, my darling. The deck is comparatively safe now, and I wish the people on board the ship to see you.”

She was so overwhelmed, however, by the news, that she appeared incapable of motion. I procured her jacket and hat, and presently helped her to put them on, and then, grasping her firmly by the waist, I supported her to the companion steps, and carefully, and with difficulty, got her on deck, making her sit under the lee of the weather bulwark, where she would be visible enough to the people of the ship at every windward roll of the yacht, and I crouched beside her with her arm linked in mine.

There was nothing to do but to wait. Some little trifle of property I had below in the cabin, but nothing that I cared to burthen myself with at such a time. All the money I had brought with me, bank-notes and some gold, was in the pocket-book I carried. As for my sweetheart’s wardrobe, what she had with her, as you know, she wore, so that she would be leaving nothing behind her. But never can I forget the expression of her face, and the exclamations of horror and astonishment which escaped her lips, when, on my seating her under the bulwark, she sent a look at the yacht. The soaked, stained, mutilated appearance of the little craft persuaded her she was sinking even as we sat together gazing. At every plunge of the bows she would tremulously suck in her breath and bite upon her under-lip with nervous twitchings of her fingers, and a recoil of her whole figure against me.

“Oh, Herbert,” she cried, “when shall we leave? We shall be drowned.”

I answered her that there was no fear of that. “Though,” said I, “but for that ship heaving into sight and standing by us, our fate might have been sealed before the close of the day.”

“But how are we to get into the ship?” she cried, straining her eyes, brilliant with emotion, at the vessel that hung, rolling stately, so close by that I could distinguish the features of the crowds of people who lined the rails staring at us.

I explained that the gale was slackening, that fair weather was at hand, as one might tell by the gradual opening of the horizon, and the clarification of the stuff that had been hanging in soot for hours and hours low down over our splintered, withered-looking mast-head, and that, in a short time, the sea would be sufficiently quiet to enable the ship to lower one of the large white quarter-boats which were hanging by davits inboards over the poop.

“The sea runs too high yet,” said I, “not for a boat to live in, but to take us off. She might be swamped, stove, sunk alongside of us; and there is time, plenty of time, my darling. Whilst that ship keeps us in view we are safe.”

But though there might have been plenty of time, as I told her, the passage of it was of a heart-subduing slowness. It was some half-hour or so after our coming on deck, that Caudel, quitting the pump at which he had been taking a spell, approached me and said:

“You’ll onderstand, of course, Mr. Barclay, that I, as master of this yacht, sticks to her?”

“What!” cried I, “to be drowned?”

“I sticks to her, sir,” he repeated, with the emphasis of irritability in his manner that was not at all wanting in respect either. “I dorn’t mean to say if it should come on to blow another gale afore that there craft,” indicating the ship, “receives ye, that I wouldn’t go too. But the weather’s amoderating; it’ll be tarning fine afore long, and I’m agoing to sail the Spitfire home.”

“I hope, Caudel,” said I, astonished by this resolution in him, “that you’ll not stick to her on my account. Let the wretched craft go and ” I held the rest behind my teeth.

“No, sir. There’ll be nothen to hurt in the leak if so be as the weather gets better, and it’s fast getting better as you can see. What? Let a pretty little dandy craft like the Spitfire go down merely for the want of pumping? All of us men are agreed to stick to her and carry her home.”

Grace looked at me; I understood the meaning her eyes conveyed, and exclaimed:

“The men will do as they please. They are plucky fellows, and if they carry the yacht home, she shall be sold, and two-thirds of what she fetches divided amongst them. But I have had enough of her, and more than enough of yachting. I must see you, my pet, safe on board some ship that does not leak!”

“I could not live through another night in the Spitfire,” she exclaimed.

“No, miss, no,” rumbled Caudel, soothingly; “nor would it be right and proper that you should be asked to live through it. They’ll be sending for ye presently; though, of course, as the vessel’s outward bound ” here he ran his eyes slowly round the sea, “ye’ve got to consider that onless she falls in soon with something that’ll land you, why then, of course, you both stand to have a longer spell of seafaring than Mr. Barclay and me calculated upon when this here elopement was planned.”

“Where is she bound to, I wonder?” I said, viewing the tall, noble vessel, with a yearning to be aboard her with Grace at my side; the desperate seas which still stormily tossed between her and us safely traversed.

“To Australia, I allow,” answered Caudel. “Them passengers ye sees forrads and along the bulwark rail ain’t of the sort that goes to Chaney or the Hindies.”

“We can’t go to Australia, Herbert,” said Grace, surveying me with startled eyes.

“My dear Grace, there are plenty of ships betwixt this Channel and Australia plenty hard by, rolling up Channel, and willing to land us for a few sovereigns, would their steersmen only shift their helm and approach within hail.”

But though there might be truth in this for aught I knew, it was a thing easier to say than to mean, as I felt when I cast my eyes upon the dark-green, frothing waters, still shrouded to within a mile or so past the ship by the damp and dirty grey of the now fast expiring gale that had plunged us into this miserable situation. There was nothing to be seen but the Carthusian rolling solemnly and grandly to windward, and the glancing of white heads of foam arching out of the thickness and running sullenly, but with weight too, along the course of the wind.

“Will not that ship put into an English port before she leaves for good?” asked Grace.

“She has left for good, miss,” answered Caudel. “There’s no English port for her unless she ups hellum and tries back’ards again.”

“Where are we, then?” cried Grace, with a wild stare over the lee rail.

“In what they call the Chops, miss,” replied Caudel.

“In the mouth of the English Channel,” I explained.

“I calculate, Mr. Barclay,” said Caudel, “that our drift’s been all three mile an hour since, it first came on to blow. The wind’s hung about nothe, nothe-east, and I don’t think it’s shifted a point since it first busted down upon us.”

“You seriously believe, Caudel, that you can make the land, seeing where we are, in this leaky, mast-wrecked craft?”

“Ay, sir, as easy as lighting a pipe.”

“For heaven’s sake, consider before it is too late! There’s no obligation to stick to the vessel. Give us time to get out of her and you have my consent to let her go,” and I pointed downwards.

“No, sir, that’s not to be the Spitfire’s road. The weather’s going to come settled, and I trust that when you get ashore ye’ll find the yacht safe and snug in harbour, and me in readiness to wait upon your honour’s further commands.”

I could see in his face, and by the looks he directed at his mates who stood within ear-shot of us, that his mind was made up. Argument or remonstrance would have been idle. He and the others were sailors, and must be allowed to know what they were about when their resolution dealt with their own calling. No doubt, if fine weather followed this gloom and wind, the danger of navigating the yacht would be trifling. The water in the hold was to be kept under, as was proved by our salvation, when the yacht was labouring furiously and taking in whole thunderstorms of wet over the bows; the vessel then was surely to be easily kept afloat should the weather clear up; there were spare sails below, a spare gaff, and other materials for rigging the broken height of mast; and there was also plenty of fresh water and provisions. But those were considerations to weigh with men bred to the sea life; they would not in the least degree have influenced me even had I been alone.

In truth, I had had enough of the yacht; I should have cursed myself for my folly had we parted company with the ship and then met with bad weather again; it was impossible to hear the clanking of the pump, and glance at the coil of cold bright water gushing from it without a shudder that penetrated to my inmost being. And to keep my sweetheart in this perilous craft, rendered leaky and ricketty by storm; to go on subjecting her to the brain-addling convulsive pitching and tossing of the poor, mutilated hooker; to risk with her another passage of violent winds, merely to preserve a vessel which I was now quite willing to let quietly go to the bottom!

“Not for a million!” said I aloud. “No, my darling,” I continued, as I fondled her hand, “my business is to see you safe first of all. There is safety yonder,” said I, pointing to the Carthusian, “but none here. We must take our chance of being trans-shipped from her as speedily as may be, of being put on board some passing steamer that will carry us home swiftly and comfortably. But sooner than miss the chance that vessel yonder provides us with, I would be content to make the whole round voyage in her, with you by my side, though she should occupy three years in completing it.”

We had been waiting, and watching the weather for about an hour, when my eye was suddenly taken by a cloud of extraordinary shape, sailing up the sky out of the north and east, whence the wind was still blowing. It was of the colour of sulphur, and was the exact representation of a huge hand, the forefinger outstretched, the thumb curved backwards as it would be in life, the remaining fingers clenched. As it came along it seemed to project from the dirty grey surface of vapour under which it sailed; it was as though some Titan, lying hid past the clouds, had thrust his hand through the floor of vapour with the finger pointing towards the mighty Atlantic.

By the time it was over the yacht its shape had changed, and it passed away to leeward formless, a mere rag of yellowish vapour. But it had lingered long enough as a compacted colossal hand, pointing seawards, to astonish and even to awe me. It might have been that my brain was a little weakened by what we had passed through, and by want of rest; it is certain, anyway, that the spectacle of that hand of vapour touched and stirred every superstitious instinct in me. Grace, as well as Caudel and the others, had stared up at it with wonder, Job Crew agape, and the boy Bobby squeezing his knuckles into his eyes again and again as though to make sure. As it changed its form and floated away, I exclaimed to my sweetheart:

“It was the finger of Heaven pointing out our road to us, and telling us what to do.”

“It was a wonderfully shaped cloud,” said she.

“Grace, after that sign,” I cried excitedly, “I would not remain in this yacht though her leak were stopped, all sail made upon her, and Penzance as far off as you can see,” said I, pointing.

She looked, awed by the effect of the apparition of the cloud upon me, and held my hand in silence with her eyes fixed on my face.

The ship having canvas upon her, settled slowly upon our bow at a safe distance, but our drift was very nearly hers, and during those weary hours of waiting for the sea to abate, the two crafts fairly held the relative positions they had occupied at the outset. The interest we excited in the people aboard of her was ceaseless. The line of her bulwarks remained dark with heads, and the glimmer of the white faces gave an odd pulsing look to the whole length of them, as the heave of the ship alternated the stormy light. They believed us on our own report to be sinking, and that might account for their tireless gaze and riveted attention.

I could well imagine the deplorable figure our yacht made, as she soared and sank, time after time plunging into some hollow that put her out of sight to the ship, leaving nothing showing but the splintered masthead above the clear emerald green or frothing summit of the swollen heap of water. At such times the spectators aboard the Carthusian might well have supposed us gone for ever.