her. He was on deck at the time
and tried to get down into the cabin to rescue his wife, but the rush
of water prevented him. She was drowned almost before his eyes, and her
body went down with the vessel. Some of the crew who were aft managed
with the assistance of the captain to get the gig disentangled from the
wreck, but he refused to save himself and had to be dragged into the
boat by force. Others of the crew clung to floating spars, and were
either killed or drowned, and only one survived until succour came. The
day following the casualty, those that took to the boat were picked up.
A day later a passing vessel saw some wreckage ahead, and as they drew
towards it they discovered a boy clinging to a spar which was being
tossed about by the motion of the sea. The vessel was at once hove to
and a boat went to his rescue. The only clothing he had on was a light
flannel shirt and a pair of drawers. The poor little fellow had tried
to lash himself to the spar with a piece of rope. When they got close
to where he was his feeble voice whispered from it a few words of
touching thanks; and then, as though a supernatural force had been
given him, he said in a tone that seemed to have been flashed from
another world: "It is too late. I am about to pass on to where my
mother is. I feel my stomach is chafed through." His face, it was said,
wore a spiritual air, and his eyes had an expression of quiet, resigned
sadness. They cast off the rope that bound him to the spar, took him
gently from it and placed his disembowelled body in the boat. His
remains were sewn up in a hammock, heavy weights were put at his feet,
and at the dead hour of the night the mourners, with uncovered heads
bowed in hallowed manifestation of pity, listened to the harrowing
words that came throbbing from the captain's lips as substituted for
the written funeral service. When he had finished, orders were
whispered to lower the body in silence down the side of the vessel, and
then the waters covered him over. Many weeks elapsed before it was
known that it was Mary Routledge's boy.

Nothing could exceed the genuine sympathy that was shown to the poor
distracted Kenneth Burnside, but all attempts at consolation were
received by him with a sad smile that conveyed the idea of an unhealing
wound. He lived the life of a recluse and never went to sea again.

VII

FORECASTLE LIFE

The modern sailor can have no idea of the hardships and discomforts of
h