The Coxswain's Bride; also, Jack Frost and Sons; and, A Double Rescue

“A lectur’ on the ‘Lifeboat,’ no less! But it aint our lifeboat sarvice: it’s the American one, cause it’s to be given by that fine young fellow, Dr Hayward, who looks as if suthin’ had damaged his constitootion somehow. I’m told he’s a Yankee, though he looks uncommon like an Englishman.”

“He’s tall an’ ’andsome enough, anyhow,” remarked Massey.

“Ay, an’ he’s good enough for anything,” said Nellie, with enthusiasm. “You should see the kind way he speaks to poor Ian when he comes to see him—which is pretty much every day. He handles him, too, so tenderly—just like his mother; but he won’t give him medicine or advice, for it seems that wouldn’t be thought fair by the ship’s doctor. No more it would, I suppose.”

“D’ee know what’s the matter wi’ him?” asked Mitford, who had joined the group.

“Not I,” returned Massey. “It seems more like gineral weakness than anything else.”

“I can tell you,” said a voice close to them. The voice was that of Tomlin, who, although a first-class passenger, was fond of visiting and fraternising with the people of the fore-cabin. “He got himself severely wounded some time ago when protecting a poor slave-girl from her owner, and he’s now slowly recovering. He is taking a long voyage for his health. The girl, it seems, had run away from her owner, and had nearly escaped into Canada, where of course, being on British soil, she would be free—”

“God bless the British soil!” interrupted little Mrs Mitford, in a tone of enthusiasm which caused a laugh all round; but that did not prevent some of the bystanders from responding with a hearty “Amen!”

“I agree with you, Mrs Mitford,” said Tomlin; “but the owner of the poor slave did not think as you and I do. The girl was a quadroon—that is, nearly, if not altogether, white. She was also very beautiful. Well, the owner—a coarse brute—with two followers, overtook the runaway slave near a lonely roadside tavern—I forget the name of the place—but Dr Hayward happened to have arrived there just a few minutes before them. His horse was standing at the door, and he was inside, talking with the landlord, when he heard a loud shriek outside. Running out, he found the girl struggling wildly in the hands of her captors. Of course, he demanded an explanation, though he saw clearly enough how matters stood.

“‘She’s my slave,’ said the owner, haughtily. He would not, perhaps, have condescended even with that much explanation if he had not seen that the landlord sympathised with the doctor.

“This was enough, however, for Hayward, who is a man of few words and swift action. He was unarmed, but carried a heavy-handled whip, with this he instantly felled the slave-owner and one of his men to the ground before they had time to wink, but the third man drew a pistol, and, pointing it straight at the doctor’s head, would have blown out his brains if the landlord had not turned the weapon aside and tripped the man up. Before he could recover Hayward had swung the girl on his horse, leaped into the saddle, and dashed off at full speed. He did not draw rein till he carried her over the frontier into Canada, and had placed her beyond the reach of her enemies.”

“Brayvo! the doctor,” exclaimed Slag, heartily.

“Then he found,” continued Tomlin, “that he had been wounded in the chest by the ball that was meant for his head, but made light of the wound until it was found to be serious. The ball was still in him, and had to be extracted, after which he recovered slowly. The romantic part of it is, however, that he fell in love with Eva—that was the girl’s name—and she with him, and they were married—”

“Ah, poor thing,” said Mitford; “then she died and he married again?”

“Not at all,” returned Tomlin, “she did not die, and he did not marry again.”

“How—what then about that splendid wife that he’s got in the after-cabin now?” asked Mitford.

“That’s her. That’s Eva, the quadroon. She’s not only as white as Mrs Massey or Mrs Mitford there, but she’s been educated and brought up as a lady and among ladies, besides having the spirit of a real lady, which many a born one hasn’t got at all.”

There were many fore-cabin passengers who “crossed the line” that night in order to hear the gallant American lecture, but chiefly to see the beautiful lady who had been so romantically rescued from slavery.

“Not a drop of black blood in her body!” was Mrs Mitford’s verdict after the lecture was over.

“An’ what if there was?” demanded Slag, in a tone of indignation. “D’ee think that white blood is worth more than black blood in the eyes o’ the Almighty as made ’em both?”

The lecture itself was highly appreciated, being on a subject which Bob and Joe had already made interesting to the steerage passengers. And the lecturer not only treated it well, but was himself such a fine, lion-like, yet soft-voiced fellow that his audience were quite charmed.

Soon the Lapwing was gliding through the warm waters of the equatorial seas, and those of the passengers who had never visited such regions before were immensely interested by the sight of dolphins, sharks, and especially flying-fish.

“I don’t believe in ’em,” said Mrs Mitford to Mrs Massey one day as they stood looking over the side of the ship.

“I do believe in ’em,” said Mrs Massey, “because my Bob says he has seen ’em.”

Not long after this double assertion of opinion there was a sudden cry that flying-fish were to be seen alongside, and Mrs Mitford actually beheld them with her own eyes leap out of the sea, skim over the waves a short distance, and then drop into the water again; still she was incredulous! “Flyin’” she exclaimed, “nothin’ of the sort; they only made a long jump out o’ the water, an’ wriggled their tails as they went; at least they wriggled something, for I couldn’t be rightly sure they ’ad tails to wriggle, any more than wings—never ’avin’ seen ’em except in pictures, which is mostly lies. Indeed!”

“Look-out!” exclaimed Slag at the moment, for a couple of fish flew over the bulwarks just then, and fell on deck almost at Mrs Mitford’s feet. When she saw them there floundering about, wings and all, she felt constrained to give in.

“Well, well,” she said, raising her hands and eyes to heaven, as though she addressed her remarks chiefly to celestial ears, “did ever mortal see the likes? Fish wi’ wings an’ no feathers! I’ll believe anything after that!”

Peggy Mitford is not the first, and won’t be the last woman—to say nothing of man—who has thus bounded from the depths of scepticism to the heights of credulity.

Story 1 – Chapter 5

Dr Hayward, who had given great satisfaction with his lecture, possessed so much urbanity and power of anecdote and song, that he soon became a general favourite alike with steerage and cabin passengers.

One sultry forenoon Terrence O’Connor, the assistant steward, went aft and whispered to him that Ian Stuart, the sick boy, wanted very much to see him.

“I think he’s dying, sor,” said Terrence, in a low tone.

“Has the doctor seen him this morning?” asked Hayward, as he rose quickly and hurried forward.

“He’s seed him twice, sor,” said Terrence, “an’ both times he shook his head as he left him.”

It was evident that the steerage passengers felt death to be hovering over them, for they were unusually silent, and those who were in the fore-cabin at the time Hayward passed cast solemn glances at him as he descended and went to the berth of the poor boy. It was a comparatively large berth, and, being at the time on the weather side of the ship, had the port open to admit fresh air.

“My poor boy, do you suffer much?” said the doctor, in soothing tones, as he sat down beside Ian, and took his hand.

It was obvious that Ian suffered, for an expression of weariness and pain sat on his emaciated countenance, but on the appearance of Hayward the expression gave place to a glad smile on a face which was naturally refined and intellectual.

“Oh, thank you—thanks—” said Ian, in a low hesitating voice, for he was almost too far gone to speak.

“There, don’t speak, dear boy,” said the doctor, gently. “I see you have been thinking about our last conversation. Shall I read to you?”

“No—no. Jesus is speaking—to me. His words are crowding on me. No need for—reading when He speaks; ‘Come—unto Me—I will never—leave—’”

His breath suddenly failed him, and he ceased to speak, but the glad look in his large eyes showed that the flow of Divine words, though inaudible, had not ceased.

“Mother—father,” he said, after a short pause, “don’t cry. You’ll soon join me. Don’t let them cry, Dr Hayward. The parting won’t be for long.”

The Doctor made no reply, for at that moment the unmistakable signs of dissolution began to overspread the pinched features, and in a few minutes it became known throughout the ship that the “King of Terrors” had been there in the guise of an Angel of Light to pluck a little flower and transplant it into the garden of God.

Hayward tried to impress this fact on the bereaved parents, but they would not be comforted.

They were a lowly couple, who could not see far in advance of them, even in regard to things terrestrial. The last words of their child seemed to have more weight than the comfort offered by the doctor.

“Cheer up, David,” said the poor wife, grasping her husband’s hand, and striving to check her sobs, “Ian said truth, it won’t be long afore we jine him, the dear, dear boy.”

But even as she uttered the words of cheer her own heart failed her, and she again gave way to uncontrollable grief, while her husband, dazed and motionless, sat gazing at the face of the dead.

The funeral and its surroundings was as sad as the death. Everything was done to shroud the terrible reality. The poor remains were tenderly laid in a black deal coffin and carried to the port side of the ship by kind and loving hands. A young Wesleyan minister, who had been an unfailing comforter and help to the family all through the boy’s illness, gave a brief but very impressive address to those who stood around, and offered up an earnest prayer; but nothing could blind the mourners, especially the parents, to the harsh fact that the remains were about to be consigned to a never resting grave, and that they were going through the form rather than the reality of burial, while, as if to emphasise this fact, the back fin of a great shark was seen to cut the calm water not far astern. It followed the ship until the hollow plunge was heard, and the weighted coffin sank into the unknown depths of the sea.

An impression that never faded quite away was made that day on some of the more thoughtful and sensitive natures in the ship. And who can say that even amongst the thoughtless and the depraved no effect was produced! God’s power is not usually exerted in visibly effective processes. Seeds of life may have been sown by that death which shall grow and flourish in eternity. Certain it is that some of the reckless were solemnised for a time, and that the young Wesleyan was held in higher esteem throughout the ship from that day forward.

Some of the passengers, however, seemed very soon to forget all about the death, and relapsed into their usual frames of mind. Among these was Ned Jarring. For several days after the funeral he kept sober, and it was observed that the Wesleyan minister tried to get into conversation with him several times, but he resisted the good man’s efforts, and, when one of his chums laughingly remarked that he, “seemed to be hand and glove wi’ the parson now,” Black Ned swung angrily round, took to drinking again, and, as is usually the case in such circumstances, became worse than before.

Thus the little world of ship-board went on from day to day, gradually settling down into little coteries as like-minded men and women began to find each other out. Gradually, also, the various qualities of the people began to be recognised, and in a few weeks—as in the greater world—each man and woman was more or less correctly gauged according to worth. The courageous and the timid, the sensible and the vain, the weak and the strong, the self-sacrificing and the selfish, all fell naturally into their appropriate positions, subject to the moderate confusion resulting from favouritism, abused power, and other forms of sin. It was observable also that here, as elsewhere, all the coteries commented with considerable freedom on each other, and that each coterie esteemed itself unquestionably the best of the lot, although it might not absolutely say so in words. There was one exception, namely in the case of the worst or lowest coterie, which, so far from claiming to be the best, openly proclaimed itself the worst, gloried in its shame, and said that, “it didn’t care a button,” or words, even more expressive, to the same effect.