The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon | Page 9

shell-fish had fastened about it, and
long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew?
Their struggle has long been over--they have gone down amidst the
roar of the tempest--their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the
deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no
one can tell the story of their end. What sighs have been wafted after
that ship! what prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home!
How often has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily
news, to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep! How
has expectation darkened into anxiety--anxiety into dread--and dread
into despair! Alas! not one memento may ever return for love to cherish.
All that may ever be known, is that she sailed from her port, "and was
never heard of more!"
The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal anecdotes.
This was particularly the case in the evening, when the weather, which
had hitherto been fair, began to look wild and threatening, and gave
indications of one of those sudden storms that will sometimes break in
upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light of
a lamp, in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, everyone had
his tale of shipwreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with a short
one related by the captain:
"As I was once sailing," said he, "in a fine, stout ship, across the banks
of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs that prevail in those parts
rendered it impossible for us to see far ahead, even in the daytime; but
at night the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish any

object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and
a constant watch forward to look out for fishing smacks, which are
accustomed to anchor oo the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking
breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the water. Suddenly
the watch gave the alarm of `a sail ahead!'--it was scarcely uttered
before we were upon her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, with her
broadside toward us. The crew were all asleep, and had neglected to
hoist a light. We struck her just amidships. The force, the size, and
weight of our vessel, bore her down below the waves; we passed over
her and were hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking
beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches,
rushing from her cabin; they just started from their beds to be
swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry mingling
with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears, swept us out of all
further hearing. I shall never forget that cry! It was some time before
we could put the ship about, she was under such headway. We returned,
as nearly as we could guess, to the place where the smack had anchored.
We cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. We fired
signal-guns, and listened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors:
but all was silent--we never saw or heard any thing of them more."
I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my fine fancies. The
storm increased with the night. The sea was lashed into tremendous
confusion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves and
broken surges. Deep called unto deep. At times the black volume of
clouds overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning which
quivered along the foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness
doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters,
and were echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the
ship staggering and plunging among these roaring caverns, it seemed
miraculous that she regained her balance, or preserved her buoyancy.
Her yards would dip into the water; her bow was almost buried beneath
the waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared ready to
overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of the helm
preserved her from the shock.
When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still followed me. The

whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded like funereal
wailings. The creaking of the masts; the straining and groaning of
bulkheads, as the ship labored in the weltering sea, were frightful. As I
heard the waves rushing along the side of the ship, and roaring in my
very ear, it seemed as if Death were raging around this floating prison,
seeking for his prey: the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam,
might give him entrance.
A fine day, however, with