CHAP. IV. A FIRE AT SEA.

The mid-day meal had concluded in the chief cabin, and its partakers were grouped round a table in the centre of the apartment, assisting with conversation the enjoyment of the wines and delicacies of which they were partaking. The cabin was elegant in its decorations, but they were marked by a more valuable quality than mere elegance: the pictures and other ornaments, possessing features of peculiar interest to persons engaged in traffic, for they represented, or were connected in some way with the objects, the pleasures, and the advantages of commerce; some weapons arranged in a picturesque manner, and placed amongst them by Oriel Porphyry, were the only things there seen that did not partake of the peaceful character of the appearance of the room.

“The only thing I can see in nature,” said Captain Compass, as he sat at one end of the table opposite Oriel Porphyry, re-filling his glass, “and the only thing I think worth seeing is glory. May I sink to the bottom of the sea in the next gale, if there’s any thing else a fellow should wish to possess. What do you say, master Porphyry?”

“Why, I must acknowledge it has extraordinary attractions,” replied the young merchant. “It is generally difficult to obtain,—its pursuit is usually attended with much hazard, but then there is such an excitement in the effort made to possess it, and such a splendour accompanying its possession, that difficulties and dangers ought not to be considered by those by whom it is sought.”

“Exactly,” responded the captain, with more than usual cordiality; “and they only can obtain glory who express such sentiments.”

“But it is uncertain as yet what definition you give to the idea you call glory,” remarked the oldest member of the party,—a man rather above the medium height, and considerably beyond the middle age, with a large head, nearly bald, prominent nose, and deep-set eyes, well shaded by a pair of thick grisly eyebrows. His features were somewhat stern in their expression, apparently more from the result of continual reflection than from want of kindly feeling; and although they indicated considerable mental power, a consciousness of superiority betrayed itself quite as conspicuously. It may easily be imagined that this was the learned Professor Fortyfolios. “The consideration of any abstract idea,” continued the professor, who, it will be observed, having been a public lecturer in the university of Columbus, had acquired a more important manner of expressing his sentiments than was usual in conversation. “The consideration of any abstract idea, appears under different circumstances in the minds of different individuals, but this is as much the result of an habitual tendency to certain associations in the person who considers the subject, as the consequence of the variety of organisations that exist in society. Scarcely any two persons are to be met with whose reflective faculties pursue the progress of ratiocination exactly in the same manner,—because no two individuals being exactly alike, and the mind being a portion of the self, partaking of its individuality, as in a mirror, the shadow is a resemblance of the features, each must receive its own separate impressions, and consider them in its own peculiar manner. It follows, as a natural consequence, that the thoughts of the speaker will partake of his individual habitude, and that his conception of glory, or any other abstract idea, will be coloured by his particular way of life.”

“Well, I don’t know in what latitude abstract ideas may be found,” said the captain, a little puzzled by the professor’s explanation; “but I think any body knows the landmarks of glory. If I saw a little ship manned by a few brave spirits, fight a ship double its size, or may be two ships or may be three, defended by a crew as superior in numbers; and after raking her fore and aft, smashing every thing to splinters, and cutting every thing to rags, pipe all hands to board, and sweep away the enemy from their own decks into the sea, and after that sail away with the prize, I should call that glory.”

“The action is glorious no doubt,” observed Oriel Porphyry, “but it does not realise my conception of glory. I imagine a man, in the truest sense of the word, living in a country groaning under the despotism of a tyrant, and having that spirit of freedom in his nature, which must always accompany greatness; and that uncontrollable energy of valour in his character, which is its element, pointing out to his fellow-sufferers the cause of their slavery, stirring in their hearts an unconquerable love of independence, and after gathering them together by twos and threes, then by hundreds and thousands, and lastly, by resistless multitudes, at their head attacking the hordes of armed plunderers by whom their subjugation had been effected; driving them from the tented field to the battlemented wall, and from the battlemented wall to the grave; and when not a trace of tyranny remained throughout the land, I imagine that man the liberator of his country, and the emancipator of its people, honoured as he ought to be, and possessed with the power with which their gratitude should invest him, conducting the nation he had enfranchised to the highest degree of prosperity and greatness—and I call that glory.”

“Then my notion of the same idea differs materially from those you have given,” said the professor. “In the first place, there are two antagonist principles, from which all good and ill emanate—intelligence and ignorance; and only according to the predominance of the former can we judge of the extent of the excellence of any thing. As we know that all which is beneficial proceeds from intelligence, and that without intelligence nothing good can arise, and that without good there can be no such thing as glory, it must be evident that he who produces intelligence acquires the truest and greatest glory. The philosopher who spends laborious days in amassing knowledge by observation and study, which he distributes to the whole world, and whose labours continue to the end of time to ennoble and refine mankind; in the fame with which his name must be inseparably connected among all generations, and wherever civilisation exists, realises, in my opinion, the only true idea of glory the human mind can conceive.”

“I beg leave to differ from you all,” cried a stout little man (whose round, rosy face bore the perfect expression of good humour), sitting opposite the professor, and whose professional conversation proclaimed him to be Dr. Tourniquet, “I beg leave to differ from you all, don’t you see. I cannot imagine glory to belong to anything that does not tend to alleviate the sufferings or remove the diseases of the human frame, don’t you see. Life is subject to a multitude of maladies—from the cradle to the grave there is a constant succession of aches and pains, and few escape without experiencing disorders more or less dreadful. Now my idea is, that evil and good are but other names for pain and pleasure, don’t you see; that he who lessens the quantity of evil is alone entitled to the name of benefactor, which brings with it the greatest degree of glory it is possible to possess, don’t you see; and that, consequently, the man who devotes his life to procure others the enjoyment of health—who boldly ventures among the most malignant contagions to study their effects, and origins—who carefully examines every morbid structure in the living and the dead, at the greatest personal risk and inconvenience, till he becomes familiar with all its appearances and discovers its creating cause; and by long study of the properties of different medicinal substances, of external circumstances that tend to produce health or disease, and by his intimate acquaintance with the human body in every state in which it can be seen;—in my opinion, that man, who by knowledge thus acquired, and thus applied, through his example made public, being enabled to save or prolong the lives of millions of his fellow-creatures, and multiply the blessings of existence, in the admiration with which his name must always be regarded, is the only perfect conception of glory that can be entertained, don’t you see.”

“Pooh, pooh!” exclaimed the captain, somewhat contemptuously. “What glory can there be in giving a fellow a dose of physic?”

“Unless there be some ennobling sentiment in the mind, which is developed in great actions such as I have described, glory cannot exist,” said Oriel Porphyry.

“Strife must always be a bad means to whatever end it may lead,” observed his tutor; “and as nothing but ignorance can make men endeavour to destroy each other, strife can never be productive of true glory.”

“The amount of pain, resulting from battles either on sea or land, is immense,” remarked the doctor. “Gunshot wounds, fractures, contusions, ruptures, laceration, inflammation, suppuration, mortification, and death; and, therefore, he who creates so much pain, cannot, by his actions, be said to achieve anything like glory, don’t you see. As for philosophy and its qualifications for being considered the only thing that is most glorious, if the philosopher cannot set a broken bone, or remove a disease, pain must exist in spite of such philosophy; and therefore, the philosopher, who is enabled to prevent or remove pain, has the best reason to glory in his philosophy, don’t you see.”

“But pain cannot, on many occasions, be either removed or prevented,” replied the professor, seemingly preparing himself for an argument. “Pain is frequently produced by accidents which cannot be foreseen, and therefore cannot be prevented; and these frequently assume shapes on which science is exerted in vain, and therefore they cannot be removed: in these cases, where surgery and medicine are perfectly useless, philosophy is triumphant; for it will enable the sufferer to be regardless of his pain, and to look upon his dissolution with indifference.”

“What is the use of your philosophy to the insane?” asked the doctor, who seemed to take considerable delight in opposing the professor.

“I should imagine it would be about as serviceable as your medical treatment,” retorted the other.

“Nothing of the kind,” replied his antagonist with a chuckle of triumphant congratulation. “A knowledge of the anatomy of the brain, its functions, and operations, with sufficient information as to the patient’s history, general habits and mode of thinking, applied by an experienced practitioner, may often effect a cure, don’t you see.”

“May often, but how often?” inquired Fortyfolios, with some appearance of sarcasm. “To one restored to sanity, there will be found fifty incurables—so where’s your remedy?”

“To one philosopher there will be discovered a thousand fools, don’t you see—so where’s your philosophy?” responded the other in a similar tone.

“Dr. Tourniquet,” replied the professor with a look of offended dignity, “I trust my philosophy will be found whenever it is required.”

“Professor Fortyfolios,” said the doctor, evidently desirous of pushing matters with his antagonist as far as possible, “if you wait till it’s required, perhaps you may have to wait a long time, don’t you see.”

“No Sir, I don’t see!” cried the now angry Professor with much warmth. “And allow me to add, Dr. Tourniquet—allow me to add, I say——”

“The wine, if you please,” cried Oriel Porphyry, who, with the captain, had enjoyed the discussion till he thought it necessary to interfere.

“Ay, the wine, Professor Fortyfolios,” repeated the doctor, with his usual good humour. “It is the most admirable addition to your excellent arguments you could have conceived; and, therefore, as a mark of sincere respect for your superior learning, allow me to propose your health, don’t you see.”

The professor recovered his dignity immediately. “I agree completely,” said he, after having properly acknowledged the compliment he had received, “I agree completely with the opinion of my accomplished friend, as to the great degree of pain produced by warfare, and——”

“Froth and moonshine!” exclaimed the captain, interrupting him. “Why we must all die some day or other, and it is quite as agreeable to strike your colours to a bullet or a sword thrust, as to old age or the gout. In my opinion, a fellow who lives past his strength, is like a ship that isn’t sea-worthy,—he ought to be destroyed as useless. As for fighting being unnatural, it’s the most natural thing in nature. In the sea, the big fish destroy the little fish; in the air, the great birds prey upon the smaller ones; and on the land, the more powerful animals devour those of less strength. Every thing has to fight for its existence, and so does man.”

“But man alone preys upon his own species,” remarked the professor.

“You’re out of your reckoning there, most decidedly, Mister Professor,” replied Captain Compass hastily: “cocks, quails, pheasants, bulls, deer, dogs, and cats fight each other, as long as they’ve got a leg to stand upon; and the sow devours her own farrow, and the rabbit her own litter, without any sort of compunction.”

“There can at least be no apology for the ferocity with which man in a state of civilisation, pursues his fellow-creatures to the death, don’t you see,” said the doctor.

“Ferocity!” exclaimed the captain fiercely. “Who are so ferocious as philosophers?”

The professor and the doctor uttered a simultaneous exclamation of surprise.

“Did you ever hear of fellows the most ready for fighting,” continued the other, “filling the veins of live animals with poison,—maiming and torturing poor dumb creatures, in every way ingenuity could devise, merely for the sake of experiment; and then, after having indulged themselves with the sight of such cruelty, sitting down quietly to describe in the most minute manner, the agonies they have inflicted? No, it’s only the philosopher does these things,—the philosopher, who shudders at the idea of a man killing those who seek to kill him, but counts how many seconds an unoffending animal is in dying, after having its brain scooped out, or its heart torn from its breast. Scrunch me, if I wouldn’t at once be the man who kills whoever opposes him, a thousand times, than such a cowardly, calculating, inhuman miscreant.”

What the reply to these observations might have been, it is impossible to say, as the party were disturbed just at that moment by a knock at the cabin door, and entrance being given, in walked the ungracious villain Scrumpydike.

“Well, what news?” inquired the captain.

“Ship a fire, Sir,” said the man, composedly.

“The ship on fire!” loudly exclaimed all at once, as they suddenly rose from their seats with different degrees of alarm expressed on their several countenances.

“Yes Sir, ship a fire, about half a mile off,” replied the sailor, looking as if he would have laughed if he had dared at the consternation he had created.

It was wonderful to observe the change which took place on hearing the last announcement. The idea of being roasted alive, would be sufficiently terrible to scare the stoutest heart; and on this occasion even the bold spirit of Oriel Porphyry quailed at the sudden and frightful danger. It is a mistake to imagine, that the brave never feel an emotion of fear; dangers that they have contemplated, may be met without the slightest feeling of dread; but a new danger, for which they are unprepared, is sure to leave upon the bravest of the brave some impression of affright. The alarm, however, that had been created was but momentary, and as soon as it was erased, the whole party hastened upon deck to observe the conflagration. Scrumpydike had been left alone; so seeing the coast clear, and the table covered with tempting viands, he hastily proceeded to cram his mouth with preserves and fruits; and was just raising a bottle to his lips, to wash them down with a good draught of exquisite wine, when he beheld in the shadow of the room, what he thought to be, two flaming eyes, fixed upon him, flashing glances of scorn and indignation: the bottle fell from his hands into a thousand pieces, his forbidding features expressed the most intense horror, and with a piercing yell he fled from the room trembling with all the terrors of an evil and superstitious nature, and leaving Zabra more than usually gratified by the impression he had made.

The night was dark as the grave. There was no moon, and no stars. One immense cloud hung over the broad surface of the ocean, like a mighty pall, and the constant gusts of wind that hurried with their melancholy voices through the sails of the ship, might be supposed to be the lament of nature at the funeral of the world. The waters swept up to the vessel, like waves of boiling pitch. The air was burthened with an impenetrable gloom. An intense blackness enveloped the whole untrackable length of way over which the ship had passed. Looking back from the vessel all was like the prospect of the dead. Looking upward, it seemed as if the eyes of heaven had been put out, and that a deep and awful blindness had blasted the vision of the universe. Save at a considerable distance ahead, all was a chaos of darkness—a visible nothingness—an infinite void; but when the eye looked in that direction, flames appeared to shoot out of the pitchy sea, licking the darkness, and writhing, darting, twisting through the smoke like serpents in the agonies of death. As the light became stronger, part of the hull and rigging of a ship could be discerned, and hurrying to and fro, minute forms, readily discovered to be human figures, became visible. Now a shower of blazing sparks rushed as from a volcano, up, up, high into the gloomy cloud, piercing its black depths with their lurid beams, and immediately the flame seemed dulled; a moment after, they burst out again, with a fiercer fury, and with a doubled volume; fragments of burning timber were hurled into the air with a giant’s strength; flames red, blue, and yellow, and vapours of every conceivable colour from white to black, rose and fell, and mingled and separated, like an army of many nations fighting for mastery; and now that the whole extent of the vessel was evidently one mass of resistless fire, its fierce rays were reflected over the vast surface of the surrounding ocean, making visible dark figures, that looked like despairing men struggling in the drowning waves, and scorching rafters hissing and smoking around them. Presently when the glare of light was at the strongest, and the ship was seen blazing to the water’s edge, a sudden movement was observed, the fire sunk into the wave beneath it,—a tall column of thick grey smoke rose in its place, and in a moment all was again swallowed up in deep, utter, and boundless darkness.

It appeared as if the contemplation of this spectacle had hitherto kept every one on board the Albatross from any consideration for the sufferers; but a suggestion having been made, immediately each person seemed to exceed the other in anxiety to render them assistance.

“Burn a blue light at the mast head!” exclaimed the captain.

“Ay, ay, Sir,” responded Hearty.

“Set up every stitch of canvass she’ll bear,” continued the captain.

“Ay, ay, Sir,” repeated the other.

“Put her machine to the fullest speed!”

“Ay, ay, Sir!” was again the ready exclamation.

“And bear right down upon the spot where the flames were last seen.”

“Ay, ay, Sir.”

In a moment the deck, the sails, and rigging were enveloped in a bright blue flame, that gave the vessel and its crew the appearance of the ship of death freighted with spectres; and the Albatross was rushing through the waves with the velocity of lightning.

“There seems great danger, while going at such extraordinary speed, of passing over the people who may have escaped from the burning vessel, don’t you see,” remarked Dr. Tourniquet.

“Never fear,” replied the captain. “If they can’t keep a sharp look out it’s their own fault; and if they don’t hail us when they see us, they can’t blame us for the consequences.”

“Ship, ahoy! Starboard your helm!” cried a voice; and immediately a shriek of piercing agony arose from under the ship’s bows as the swift vessel passed right over a large boat crammed full of men.

“Ease her! Stop her!” exclaimed a dozen voices at once, as soon as the accident was discovered.

“There! I told you how ’t would be, don’t you see,” said the doctor.

“Out with the galley and pick ’em up!” shouted Captain Compass, surlily; and the men hastened to obey the command.

“Take two or three blue lights with you, and stow them in the stern sheets,” he continued.

“Gently with her,” cried Hearty, as he and some of his messmates lowered the boat into the sea, and the first who leapt into her was Oriel Porphyry.

“Now, boys, pull away!” exclaimed the young merchant, as he laid hold of an oar, “and you shall be rewarded for every man you save.”

The sailors, however, wanted no such stimulus. They exerted themselves bravely, and were quickly in the midst of between twenty or thirty swimmers, struggling in the waves and shouting for assistance. The light in the boat not only showed to the drowning men the near approach of the aid they required, but directed its crew to the places where they could be of most service.

“Help! help!” screamed one, with the water gurgling in his throat.

“Save me, or I sink!” cried another, nearly exhausted by his struggles.

“Here! here! here!” shouted a dozen voices in different directions. Among the most active in the rescue was Oriel Porphyry, who was so fortunate as to save many who were on the very point of sinking; and being well seconded, with great difficulty and at considerable risk they succeeded in hauling into their boat fifteen, many of whom were more dead than alive; but the rest they saw engulphed in the waters before they could reach them.

“Hollo!” exclaimed Hearty, in a tone of wonder and disappointment, as the crew were about to return. “Where’s the ship?”

Not a vestige of the Albatross was visible, and nothing was seen before or around them but impenetrable darkness.

“May I be food for fishes, if this arn’t a pleasant look out,” observed Climberkin.

“Surely they’ll burn a light,” said Oriel Porphyry.

“I’ve my misgivings on that ’ere head,” muttered Hearty.

“But how can we get back to the ship without?” inquired the merchant’s son.

“There’d be no difficulty about that, Sir,” here remarked Boggle, “if we knowed her whereabouts; but a man as is blind can’t see, and nobody can point out a thing in the dark if they has no notion where it is.”

“You’re a conjuror,” replied Oriel.

“No, not quite so clever as that, Sir,” rejoined the man. “But I likes to have a notion o’ things in general, as every man as is a man, and thinks like a man, should.”

“Well, I wish, among your notions of things in general, you could find one that will lead us to the ship,” said master Porphyry. “I don’t like the idea of these poor fellows in their wet jackets passing the night here, nor have I any great desire for remaining here myself.”

“That’s not the worst we’ve got to expect, Sir,” said Hearty; “for if the ship holds on her course, when we can see our way in the mornin’, she’ll be far enough out o’ sight, and here we shall be—nearly thirty on us—crammed together in a open boat out at sea, where there’s no land within more nor five hundred miles on us; without never a compass, or a bit o’ biscuit, or a drop o’ water.”

“Surely, Captain Compass has forgotten we cannot find our way back without seeing the vessel,” said Oriel Porphyry, now beginning to feel some anxiety for the fate of himself and his associates. “But we cannot be much above a hundred yards from the ship. Shout as loud as you can, and that will put them in mind of our existence.”

“Ahoy!—Ahoy!—Ahoy!—Hoy!—Hoy! Oy!” Every one who was able shouted as loud as he could, and then waited in perfect silence for a reply.

“Yeho!—Yeho!—Yeho! Yho!—Ho!—O!” was replied by voices at a short distance.

“That’s some on ’em,” exclaimed Hearty, steering the boat towards the place from whence the sounds came.

“Hulloo! Hulloo! Ulloo! Loo! Oo!” was heard in another direction.

“Well if this arn’t a most considerable cruel puzzlement, I’ll be transmogrified,” observed Boggle. The men again rested on their oars, some with perplexity, others with superstitious fear.

“There’s the Albatross!” cried they, joyfully, all at once, as a blue flame was seen to rise in the midst of the darkness, and disclose the well-known figure of their beautiful vessel, at rather more than a hundred yards from them.

“Pull away, mates!” shouted Hearty; and the oarsmen, straining every muscle, soon brought their boat alongside the ship.