THE SURF–BOY.
The bright colors of October had faded out of the landscape, and the
soft shades of November followed. With November, came the festival
of “All Saints’,” reminding us of another life, and of those who are
with Christ. Not only are those eminent in the Church suggested to
us,—“apostles,” “martyrs,” “confessors,” the constellations in the
sky, recognized by all,—but how many separate stars better known to us
personally, look down through the shadows of death’s night, and cheer
us in our pilgrim journey! These are our own beloved dead, whose bright
faces smile upon us, and assure us that we are not forgotten. May we
not forget them, and may we prove our memory in our better lives.
“All Saints’” passed, and the sharper days of November arrived at The
Harbor.
Walter’s duties at his Uncle Boardman’s had been steadily continued,
varied by occasional gaps of leisure; and these he had filled up with
home visits. Sunday also was a big, blessed gap of leisure, and each
Sunday night had brought its service at the Hall. The attendance had
been good. Mr. Raynham was earnest, while reverent in his conduct of
the service; and the “choir”—how that had distinguished itself! The
“Cantate Domino,” “Benedic, anima mea,” and other chants, they took up
enthusiastically, and lifted them very high on their soaring wings of
song.
“They make nothin’ of singin’ ’em,” affirmed Aunt Lydia; which
translated meant that they made _something_ of them; for promptness and
heartiness are never without a result, though the melody may not be the
sweetest.
Sunday over, Walter went again to his usual duties in the store.
One Monday morning, there was an unusual call at Uncle Boardman’s.
“Jotham Barney, I do declare!” said Aunt Lydia, looking out of a
kitchen window into the yard. “Here he comes up to the back door. I
wonder what he wants here.”
A lifting of the outside door latch was now heard, and a heavy step was
planted on the floor of the little entry. Then the inside door swung
open, and the keeper of the life saving station entered Aunt Lydia’s
sanctum.
“Good mornin’, Mis’ Blake.”
“That you, Jotham? Set down, do.”
“Much obleeged, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. Where’s your husband?”
“He’s down in the mash field clearin’ up.”
“I s’pose I could see him, and I’ll go down.”
“He will be glad to see you, Jotham; but I guess you’ll have to go
down, for Boardman’s that kind, he wouldn’t leave his work, for the
king.”
“That is all right, and that’s why he is so forehanded.”
“Forehanded!” remarked Aunt Lydia, shaking her head ominously when the
keeper had left the house. “I don’t know, I don’t know! I expect that
Belzebub’s a–swallerin’ up Boardman’s property fast as he can gulp it
down.” This reference to Baggs did not have a soothing effect on her
feelings, and she wisely changed her thoughts by going to the window
that faced the orchard. She watched the keeper, as he took a path
that followed an old stone wall. Soon leaping this, he hurried across
a narrow field that was dotted with the yellow stubs of cornstalks.
Beyond this, was the lot which Aunt Lydia had designated as the “mash
field.” It bordered the broad, flat marsh, beyond which flashed the
blue, bright river. It was a variety field in its crops, yielding a
little corn, more potatoes, and beans mostly. “Clearin’ up” was no
small task, as it meant the removal of bean–poles, and an indefinite
quantity of vines. The latter went no farther than a bonfire in one
corner of the field: and up to it Boardman Blake was now venturing at
intervals, thrusting into its smoke and flames immense armfuls of dead
vines. At the time that the keeper of the station made his appearance,
Boardman was stoutly tugging at a row of very obstinate bean–poles, and
every moment he grew redder in the face, while his scanty breath issued
in warm little puffs.
“Glad—to see ye,—Jothum. How—dy’e—do?” ejaculated Boardman, still
tugging away.
“Well as usual, thank ye. Got some tough customers there?”
“We—e—ll,—yes!” said Boardman.
“Think—”
The world lost that last precious thought. Here a provoking bean–pole
that he had grasped, suddenly broke, and in a great, fat heap, over
went Boardman, cutting Chauncy Aldrich’s figure when in the boat–race
he “caught a crab.”
“Hurt—ye?” cried the keeper, rushing forward and offering his
assistance.
“Oh—no!” said Boardman laughing, and rolling over as easily as Miss P.
Green’s butter firkin, on the day of the fatal boat–race. “The pesky
pole got the better of me.”
“Let me help you,” said the keeper, his vigorous muscle quickly
hoisting into an upright attitude this “fallen merchant,” as Chauncy
would have called him.
“There!” puffed Boardman, resolutely resuming work, and tugging at the
stub of the broken pole. “Now I’m ready for business, if I can help
you.”
“I wanted to see you about Walter.”
“Walter, my nephew?”
“Yes.”
“Hope he has done nothing out of the way. His folks would feel dreadful
bad.”
“Oh, no—no! jest the opposite. Fact is, I want him at the station.”
Boardman looked up, and wiped his broad, benevolent face.
“You don’t say! I thought Walter couldn’t have been up to anything out
of the way, for he is as well meanin’ a boy as you often see. And you
want him at the station? Indeed!”
“You see, Squire”—a title the people gave Boardman when they
wished to be specially attentive, and it was always acceptable to
Boardman—“you see, Silas Fay, one of my men, is not very well; but I
want to hold on to him as he is a powerful feller, and a good boatman.
I thought if Silas took a rest, a month say, he would be able to come
back and pull through the winter. I thought for that month, I might get
your Walter.”
“Is he strong enough?”
“He has a good deal of strength for one of his years, and every day he
will be a–gainin’. Jest look at him! I have watched him a good deal. He
is a good oarsman too. They say he pulled fustrate at the race. Then I
thought he might like the money, and also that you might spare him, as
work at the saw–mill is slack, and I knew you didn’t have to be there
so much, and could be more at the store. Then that colored boy is with
you, isn’t he?”
“Yes, yes, and I think I could get along. We are not doing—well, you
might say, we—we—are doing—not a thing at mill. Baggs has gone out
West to look after some business.”
Boardman looked very despondent.
“Squire, look here.”
The keeper here dropped his voice, though there was no occasion for it,
as the only being that heard him was a musk–rat stealing along in the
shadow of the wall of a ditch near by. In low, confidential tones, the
keeper remarked,—
“I think that—I don’t want to hurt your feelin’s, but I must say it—I
think Baggs will bear a good deal of watchin’. Did you know the men at
the station had been lettin’ him have their money?”
“Why, no.”
“But they have. He said he could give ’em more per cent than the bank
would, and so a number of ’em, when paid off, took their cash to Baggs.
He’s a sly old crittur. One time, he purtended he wasn’t particular
’bout havin’ any more, and one of ’em as good as begged him to take his
money, and Baggs made a good deal of the fact that he calc’lated he was
the ‘poor man’s friend,’ and on the whole, though he didn’t want it,
yet he would ‘’commodate’ him; and that’s the last the feller has seen
of it.”
“Doesn’t Baggs pay interest?”
“Oh, it was in the agreement that the int’rest should stay and
‘’cumulate,’ he called it. He’s a knowin’ one, that Baggs! Squire, I
wouldn’t resk too much.”
Boardman did not enjoy such advice, but he was accustomed to it, as
Aunt Lydia administered frequent doses. There was always a dose
the first thing in the morning, like the sulphur and molasses some
unfortunate children are obliged to take; and other administrations
during the day, might be expected.
“Wall, let that go for what it is worth. To go back, Squire, as I was
a–sayin’ about Walter, I thought you might spare him, this month, say.”
“Oh—yes—yes. I think I can.”
“Then, I’ll speak to him. You see one reason why I’d rather have
him in Silas’ place a month—of course, I don’t s’pose he could be
spared mebbe, any longer time than that—one reason, as I said, is
that I think I can depend on him. I heard him, one mornin’ before the
boat–race, say to Baggs’ nephew a thing—something or other—wasn’t
right, and he wouldn’t have anything to do with it. I liked that in
him. I told the sup’rintendent of our station deestrick who was on, all
’bout Walter, and that I thought he would do as a substitute, and I
mentioned that leetle circumstance. The sup’rintendent said it had the
right ring. So, Squire, if you are ’greeable, I’ll speak to Walter.”
“I’m willing, Jotham, and I’m obliged to you for your good opinion of
my nephew.”
Not only was Boardman “‘greeable,” but so was every one who was
involved in the matter. Aunt Lydia assented, though she declared she
should “miss him.” Don Pedro gave a solemn smile, and said he would do
all he could. Walter’s parents were willing; and as for Walter—he just
sprang for the chance. He met the proposition with all the enthusiasm
of his nature. That yellow building near the beach fascinated him. The
sea beyond was a mystery that awed, and yet ever attracted him. He had
been reading about the life saving service, and he wished with his own
eyes to look inside—not inside of a book, simply, but the service
itself. He went home to pass “Thanksgiving,” that delightful family
festival; and after his return, one brilliant but chilly November
morning, he climbed up into his Uncle Boardman’s high red wagon, and
took his seat by Don Pedro, who had been commissioned to take Walter,
and an old blue chest, down to the station. Walter had found this chest
up in the garret, packed away under the dusky eaves.
“It looks more sailor like than my trunk,” reasoned Walter, “and I
will ask the folks if I can’t take it. Good! It has rope handles,
sailor–fashion. Just the thing!”
The “folks” were willing, and without obtaining the leave of the chest
itself, this was dragged out into the light, upset, dusted, pounded
on every side, and dusted again; and after this rough, unceremonious
treatment, lugged down into Walters chamber. There, it was neatly
packed, and then removed to the red wagon. Before it reaches the
station, there will be time enough to say something about the late work
of that department of Government employ, into which Walter Plympton for
awhile has gone.
By the report of the life saving service for 1885, there were 203
stations planted on the edge of that great kingdom of water whose
violence must so often be fought. Of these stations, 38 were on the
Lakes, 7 on the Pacific, 157 on the Atlantic, and 1 at the Falls of the
Ohio, Louisville, Kentucky.
These stations are grouped into districts: those in Maine and New
Hampshire, constituting the first district; in Massachusetts, the
second; on the coast of Rhode Island and Long Island, the third; and
the New Jersey coast makes the fourth. There is a large number of
stations in the last two districts, for they offer a dangerous coast
on which to trip up the great commerce hurrying into and out of New
York. As we go farther south, the coast from Cape Henlopen to Cape
Charles lies in the fifth district; and that from Cape Henry to Cape
Fear River in the sixth. The eastern coast of Florida, with the coast
of Georgia and South Carolina, is in the seventh, the Gulf coast in the
eighth. Lakes Erie and Ontario make the ninth district; Lakes Huron
and Superior the tenth; Lake Michigan the eleventh; and the Pacific
coast constitutes the twelfth. Each district is in the care of a
superintendent, and over all is the General Superintendent, Hon. Sumner
I. Kimball, whose headquarters are at Washington. The service also has
its Inspector, Capt. J. H. Merryman, and there are twelve Assistant
Inspectors, for the twelve districts. Let us now get up high enough
in imagination to look down on our rough coast, and watch the vessels
struggling with storm and surf while the surfmen gallantly push out to
their relief. 371 disasters were recorded at these stations, and in the
periled vessels, were 2,439 persons; and only eleven were lost. Now
let us look at the property involved in these disasters. The vessels
and their cargoes were estimated to be worth $4,634,380, and of this
amount, there was a saving of $3,379,583. There were 56 vessels totally
lost. This is the last published report. The work at a life saving
station is of varied nature. There are not only wrecks to be visited,
but vessels coming too near shore in the night time must be warned off
by the faithful patrolman’s signal light. A vessel may be stranded,
and need to be “worked off.” If a fisherman’s dory, or a millionaire’s
yacht, should meet with any kind of a disaster, if some unlucky
traveler by the sea may tumble into the water from his little craft, if
any party of mariners, disabled for any reason, may need shelter and
refreshment, it is the life saving station that is expected to furnish
help for all the above cases.
Let us now pack into a nutshell the results of the work of these men,
since this system was inaugurated in 1871. There have been 2,918
disasters that involved property worth $51,763,694, and there was a
saving of $36,277,929. Out of a total of 25,693 persons involved in
these disasters, 25,236 were saved; and the department claims that
it was not responsible for the loss of 197. In the latter cases, the
stations were not open, or service was hindered by distance. 4,829
persons were aided at stations, and the days of relief afforded these
were 13,313. I would add that, the seventh district is peculiar. It
takes in the eastern coast of Florida. Stations here are “provisioned
houses of refuge” in the care of keepers, but without any crew. The
coast is singular, and if a vessel be stranded, the escape of the crew
is as a rule, comparatively easy. In the case of such a disaster as the
above, to a crew, their special peril is from hunger and thirst, when
they have reached a shore very scantily inhabited. Guide posts are set
up for the benefit of such castaways, directing them to the station or
lighthouse that may be nearest.
[Illustration: “_Whose noble mission it is to fight the sea_” (p.
191).]
The vast field of work occupied by the life saving service, let us try
to grasp with our thoughts. Recall once more the stations established;
the figures, too, that represent the life and property already saved;
and think also of the vast interests still at stake in the ships that
are sailing, and the crews that are climbing their rigging. The boy
who sits in the red wagon by the side of Don Pedro, is coming to help
with his young, strong muscles, and nimble wits, that force of about
fifteen hundred, to–day, whose noble mission it is to fight the sea,
and rescue the life and property it would destroy. The red wagon bumps
and jolts over the rough little lane winding down to the station, and
finally halts, as Don Pedro shouts to the horses, “Whoa, dah!” The
blue chest with its clumsy rope handles is lowered to the ground, and
then obediently accompanies Walter and Don Pedro into the station.