Michael Penguyne | Page 2

"My wife, who is gone to heaven, Nelly's mother, and I, never had
another child but her. Your father, Michael, as true-hearted a seaman as
ever stepped, had been my friend and shipmate for many a long year.
We were bred together, and had belonged to the same boat fishing off

this coast till we were grown men, when at last we took it into our
heads to wish to visit foreign climes, and so we went to sea together.
After knocking about for some years, and going to all parts of the world,
we returned home, and both fell in love, and married. Your mother was
an orphan, without kith or kin, that your father could hear of--a good,
pretty girl she was, and worthy of him.
"We made up our minds that we would stay on shore and follow our
old calling and look after our wives and families. We had saved some
money, but it did not go as far as we thought it would, and we agreed
that if we could make just one more trip to sea, we should gain enough
for what we wanted.
"You were about two years old, and my Nelly was just born.
"We went to Falmouth, where ships often put in, wanting hands, and
masters are ready to pay good wages to obtain them. We hadn't been
there a day, when we engaged on board a ship bound out to the West
Indies. As she was not likely to be long absent, this just suited us. Your
father got a berth as third mate, for he was the best scholar, and I
shipped as boatswain.
"We made the voyage out, and had just reached the chops of the
Channel, coming back, bound for Bristol, and hoping in a few days to
be home again with our wives, when thick weather came on, and a
heavy gale of wind sprang up. It blew harder and harder. Whether or
not the captain was out of his reckoning I cannot say, but I suspect he
was. Before long, our sails were blown away, and our foremast went by
the board. We did our best to keep the ship off the shore, for all know
well that it is about as dangerous a one as is to be found round England.
"The night was dark as pitch, the gale still increasing.
"`Paul,' said your father to me as we were standing together, `you and I
may never see another sun rise; but still one of us may escape. You
remember the promise we made each other.'
"`Yes, Michael,' I said, `that I do, and hope to keep it.'

"The promise was that if one should be lost and the other saved, he who
escaped should look after the wife and family of the one who was lost.
"I had scarcely answered him when the look-out forward shouted
`Breakers ahead!' and before the ship's course could be altered, down
she came, crashing on the rocks. It was all up with the craft; the seas
came dashing over her, and many of those on deck were washed away.
The unfortunate passengers rushed up from below, and in an instant
were swept overboard.
"The captain ordered the remaining masts to be cut away, to ease the
ship; but it did no good, and just as the last fell she broke in two, and
all on board were cast into the water, I found myself clinging with your
father to one of the masts. The head of the mast was resting on a rock.
We made our way along it; I believed that others were following; but
just as we reached the rock the mast was carried away, and he and I
found that we alone had escaped.
"The seas rose up foaming around us, and every moment we expected
to be washed away. Though we knew many were perishing close
around us we had no means of helping them. All we could do was to
cling on and try and save our own lives.
"`I hope we shall get back home yet, Michael,' I said, wishing to cheer
your father, for he was more down-hearted than usual.
"`I hope so, Paul, but I don't know; God's will be done, whatever that
will is. Paul, you will meet me in heaven, I hope,' he answered, for he
was a Christian man. `If I am taken, you will look after Mary and my
boy,' he added. Again I promised him, and I knew to a certainty that he
would look after my Nelly, should he be saved and I drowned.
"When the morning came at last scarcely a timber or plank of the wreck
was to be seen. What hope of escape had either of us? The foaming
waters raged around,