The sea was still rough from the after effects of the storm, and,
although the waves had somewhat subsided, yet they were high enough to
tumble over one another--forming white-caps and streamers of spray when
caught by the wind. All hands on board who had no definite posts of
duty had their eyes fixed upon the boat ahead, and the boys were taking
turns in looking through a marine glass which they had borrowed from
the Chairman. The lifeboat must have been about five miles off when
first sighted by the lookout, and it was not long before they could
distinguish, by help of the glasses, a number of people in the boat.
There seemed to be eight or ten men, and the boat appeared to be about
twenty feet long. In the stern was a pile of what looked like bundles
or sacks with some one lying down and partly supported by them. The
light was still good, and the declining sun shed its rays full upon the
object of their attention. When they had come within about a mile of
the boat, they observed that it was an old man, probably weak or ill
from exhaustion, who lay in the stern.
She was shipping some water forward, although not very much, and one of
the men was busy bailing her out a little aft of amidships.
“Maybe she’s leaking a little,” suggested the mate. “These lifeboats
often get shrunken seams from not being in the water for a long time.
But it wouldn’t take more than twenty-four hours in the water to swell
her up tight; and, if that’s why she’s leaking, they can’t have been
away from their ship more than a day and a night.”
“Maybe it’s only the surface spray that’s filled her up,” answered the
Captain.
The men in the boat were rowing against the wind; and, as they
evidently had only one pair of oars on board, they were making very
slow headway. As the _Bright Wing_ approached, they slackened their
efforts and, putting both oars on the leeward side, merely kept the
boat’s head up into the wind. The Captain meantime had been making up
his mind how best to approach them, and decided to give the _Bright
Wing_ a good “full” to starboard and then to luff up and shoot into the
wind so that the lifeboat would be to leeward of the _Bright Wing_ on
the starboard side. He timed his little manœuvre with great skill so
that the ship’s headway, counteracted by the wind as she shot up with
her sails shaking, was just enough to bring her to a standstill at
about ten yards to windward of the boat.
“Boat ahoy!” called out the Captain. “Can you row up alongside?”
The oars were immediately adjusted and dipped into the water; and, in
a few strokes, the boat had come up to within ten feet.
The sea had still enough motion to make it a somewhat delicate matter
to handle the boat so that there would be no bumping or unnecessary
jar in getting the people aboard. The mate and Perkins had the largest
fenders hanging close to the side-ladder; and Bertie Young threw out
a line toward the bow of the boat, while Ellsworth threw out another
toward the stern. These were immediately made fast, but the Captain
ordered them kept fastened with some slack, so as to allow enough free
play between the boat and the vessel to prevent unnecessary strain.
One man, who seemed to be the Skipper, was giving directions on the
lifeboat, which kept rising and falling with the waves, alongside the
_Bright Wing_.
The man lying in the stern was old and sick; but his eye watched what
was going on, though his body remained motionless. As soon as the lines
were made fast, the Skipper on the lifeboat signed to one of the
younger men to get aboard the ship; and this one, watching his chance,
waited until the boat had risen on the top of a wave,--and then,
grasping one of the stays of the _Bright Wing_, lightly stepped on to
the rail, and down upon the deck. He then stood holding out his arms
over the side-ladder toward the crew of the boat, while the Skipper
held up a small boy of about twelve, who was lifted on deck without any
difficulty.
After that, five able-bodied men jumped on board, each watching his
chance, until only the Skipper and the sick man were left. Meantime the
Captain leaned over the rail and asked the Skipper whether he had any
tackle by which the invalid could be raised, as he was evidently unable
to walk; the Skipper shook his head, and the Captain then threw him
a swimming belt and line which had been used on the _Bright Wing_ in
exceptional cases, to teach beginners to swim.
The bowline was then hauled in until the lifeboat drew close to the
boat boom, which had been let down by the Captain’s orders. The Skipper
then hauled on the boom lines until the stern of the lifeboat lay close
to the tip end of the boom. He then strapped the belt around the old
man’s waist and fastened the line attached to it with a bowline knot to
the end of the boom.
As soon as the patient had been properly strapped up, the Captain gave
the signal, and his frail old body was hoisted into the air slightly
above the height of the rail. Then the boat boom was swung over the
rail, and, as soon as the bent body of the old man had passed over the
side, hanging, with a slight swinging motion, about two feet above the
deck, Mr. Wentworth took him in his arms and Jack Perkins unfastened
the belt. Then they carried him to the day bunk, and the boys supported
him with pillows, while Mr. Wentworth and Jack went back to help haul
the lifeboat alongside the ship. The Skipper passed up several cases
containing a sextant, compass, and chronometer,--also a long tin tube
in which was a roll of charts,--and then, in his turn, he stepped on to
the deck.
Meantime the old man had been left on the day bunk in charge of
Tom, Dick and Chippie, who happened to be the boys nearest at hand,
when--suddenly--they noticed that he had turned deadly pale and had
evidently fainted.
“Take the pillows from under his head, Tom,” said Dick. “We’ll lay
him perfectly flat, and, Chippie, you unbutton his shirt and free his
throat and chest. I’ll take off his boots and rub his legs upward.”
“Now, Tom, go below and get some fresh water and a towel.”
The boys worked so quietly together--without any excitement or
haste--that hardly any one else knew that the old gentleman was
unconscious until gradually the other boys gathered around the day
bunk, when Tom said:
“Stand back, fellows, you’re cutting off the air from him; one of you
run and report to Mr. Miller what has happened.”
In another minute Mr. Miller was looking over the heads of some of the
smaller scouts at the patient on the day bunk, and smiled his approval
of the way in which the three boys were working. Just then the old man
opened his eyes, and Mr. Miller leaned over to feel his pulse.
“It’s fairly good, and I think we can put back the pillows now, and
he’ll feel more comfortable. But we’ve got to keep him warm, Smith, so
run down below and get a couple of blankets. We’ll let him stay up in
the fresh air as long as we can.”
While all this had been going on, hardly a word had been spoken,
excepting by the Captain and the Skipper and the boys at the day bunk;
and the sense of relief from suspense--when the Skipper finally stepped
aboard--was so great that a cheer arose, beginning at the forecastle
and taken up by the boys, to vent their feelings of happiness at the
rescue.
Finally the lifeboat itself was fastened astern while the cook began
busily preparing hot coffee and broth, and bread and butter.
After the old man had rested for half an hour or so, and had taken a
few sips of broth, he was carried down into the officers’ cabin and put
into Mr. Wentworth’s bunk; and to Mr. Wentworth the care of the patient
was assigned. It was also arranged that there should be a Sea Scout
attached to him as special attendant, to be relieved every three hours,
and Dick Gray, who was the first to whom this duty was allotted, sat
down on the cabin locker next the old man’s bunk with mingled feelings
of sympathy and pride.
The watch on duty had stuck to their post admirably during these
exceptional circumstances, and now the Captain ordered the sails close
hauled and pointed the ship as nearly as possible into the wind while
waiting instructions as to their future course.
While taking his coffee in the cabin, the Skipper explained that they
were bound for Boston, having lost their ship, the _Monmouth_ from
Cardiff, by fire, about fifty miles from the coast.
“There is another lifeboat still adrift, as far as I know,” said he,
“which abandoned the ship some hours before we did, but I believe it
is likely to have been picked up by some coastwise vessel, just as our
own boat has been picked up by the _Bright Wing_. The _Monmouth_ was a
tramp ocean steamer of about two thousand tons, laden with Welsh cannel
coal, for Boston. Now the first thing I want to do, after thanking
you, gentlemen, for saving our lives, is to get into communication, if
possible, with the crew of the other lifeboat; and I suppose the best
way to do this would be to get to a telegraph office and communicate
directly with the nearest wireless station, or with the British Consul
in Boston, or both.”
The Chairman at once sent for the Captain; and, considering the
direction of the wind, which had slightly veered to the northward, it
was decided to keep on their original course to Vineyard Haven and
send out telegrams of inquiry from there. As they were only about
thirty miles away, they would probably drop anchor in the Haven in
about three or four hours, and before the closing of the telegraph
office. After this decision the Captain returned on deck and gave the
order to slacken sheets; and in another five minutes the _Bright Wing_
had gathered herself together and was sliding along in a straight line
for Vineyard Haven.
It was necessary to detail an extra helper for the cook; and, at
half-past five, the regular supper time, all the crew of the lifeboat,
with the exception of the sick man and the Skipper, were given seats
at the boys’ table; while the Skipper as the guest of the Chairman sat
at the officers’ table; eight of the boys had their supper separately,
after the others.
During the meal the talk, of course, turned on the shipwreck and fire
at sea.
“We discovered the fire,” said the Skipper, “two days before we left
the ship. Some of the coal had caught fire in the hold and had gained
sufficient headway, before being discovered, to make it impossible to
quench it by water. The heat, of course, was intense; and the harder
we worked with the pumps at one end, the more the fire seemed to gain
in intensity at the other. Finally I gave the order to batten down
all the hatches and try to smother it; while, at the same time, we
put on full steam in the hope of making Boston Harbor in time to save
the ship, although her cargo would, in any case, be a dead loss. But,
unfortunately, the great heat in the hold not only made it impossible
to stay in the engine room and fire room, but also interfered with the
working of the machinery; and it soon became evident that there was
nothing to do but to let her burn, so I gave orders for all hands to
try and save what they could of their personal belongings.
“One of the stokers was overcome by the heat and would have burned to
death at his post if the Chief Officer and I had not got him out of
the fire room just in time to avoid being suffocated by the fumes
ourselves. There were only two lifeboats aboard, and we lowered the
stoker who had so nearly lost his life into the first one.
“Six men and the two assistant engineers took their places in the first
lifeboat in charge of the Chief Officer, and were equipped with three
pairs of oars, a compass, three cases of food, and two jugs of water.
I estimated that they could live for three days, by great economy, and
they all felt confident that they would be picked up long before the
three days were up.
“It was a relief to me to feel that at least half of the crew were
in a fair way to be rescued. The old gentleman in the cabin is my
father-in-law, who is on his way out West to join a married daughter,
living in Vincennes, Indiana; and the boy is his grandson, whose
parents have recently died, and who is going with the old man to find a
new home on American soil. I preferred,” said he, “to keep the members
of my family with me, although it might possibly have been safer for
them to get away in the first lifeboat; but there were still a number
of things for me to do before leaving the ship.
“The northeast storm was just about at its tag-end when lifeboat Number
1 left the _Monmouth_. The wind was in her favor, in a general way,
and the water, though still rough, was gradually calming down. After
seeing them off and waving my hat as they drew away from the vessel,
I went over in my mind all the things that should be got together and
put into the second boat. The belongings of the crew did not fill more
than three or four sea-bags and were quickly gathered. The cash, the
instruments, and the ship’s papers were carefully deposited in the
bottom and covered with oilskin; and now, when we were all ready to
step aboard, the Second Officer reported that he could find _only one
pair of oars_! There was a mast, but no sail; and we would have to be
very careful not to break or lose either of the two oars upon which so
much depended.
“But the sky was clearing, and we were all delighted to leave the heat
and desolation of the burning ship. It was six o’clock in the evening
as we left her; and, although we were obliged to travel slowly, our
course lay toward the pleasant gleams of the setting sun--which meant a
friendly shore and the beginning of a new chapter.”
While the Skipper was telling his story at the supper table, every man
and boy stopped to listen with bated breath; and, as soon as supper was
over and the boys had scrambled on deck, Tom, Dick, and Chippie found
one another, as if by magnetic attraction, and with the same idea in
their minds.
“Did you notice the Skipper was the last man to leave the ship?” said
Chippie.
“You bet!” answered Dick and Tom in a single breath. “After you,
Pilot!”