Young Michael sat all alone in his boat, tossed about by the foaming
seas. His anchor held, so there was no fear of his drifting. But that
was not the only danger to which he was exposed. At any moment a sea
might break on board and wash him away, or swamp the boat.
He looked round him, calmly considering what was best to be done. No
coward fear troubled his mind, yet he clearly saw the various risks he
must run. He thought of heaving his ballast overboard and trying to
ride out the gale where he was, but then he must abandon all hope of
reaching the harbour by his own unaided efforts. He might lash himself
to a thwart, and thus escape being washed away; still the fierce waves
might tear the boat herself to pieces, so that he quickly gave up that
idea. He was too far off to be seen from the shore, except perhaps by
the keen-sighted coast-guard men; but even if seen, what boat would
venture out into the fast-rising sea to his rescue. He must, he felt,
depend upon himself, with God's aid, for saving his life.
Any longer delay would only increase his peril. The wind and tide would
prevent him gaining any part of the coast to the northward. He would
therefore make sail and run for Landewednach, for not another spot where
he had the slightest prospect of landing in safety was to be found
between the Gull Rock and the beach at that place. He very well knew,
indeed, the danger he must encounter even there, but it was a choice of
evils. He quickly made up his mind.
He at first set to work to bail out the boat, for already she had
shipped a good deal of water. He had plenty of sea room, so that he
might venture to lift his anchor. But it was no easy work, and the sea,
which broke over the bows again and again, made him almost relinquish
the effort, and cut the cable instead. Still he knew the importance of
having his anchor ready to drop, should he be unable to beach the boat
on his arrival at the spot he had selected, so again he tried, and up it
came. He quickly hauled it in, and running up his sail he sprang to the
tiller, hauling aft his main-sheet.
Away flew the boat amid the tumbling seas, which came rolling in from
the westward. He held the sheet in his hand, for there was now as much
wind as the boat could look up to, and a sudden blast might at any
moment send her over. That, too, Michael knew right well. On she flew
like a sea-bird amid the foaming waves, now lifted to the summit of one,
now dropping down into the hollow, each sea as it came hissing up
threatening to break on board; now he kept away to receive its force on
his quarter; now he again kept his course.
The huge Gull Rock rose up under his lee, the breakers dashing furiously
against its base; then Kynance Cove, with its fantastically-shaped
cliffs, opened out, but the sea roared and foamed at their base, and not
a spot of sand could he discover on which he could hope to beach his
boat, even should he pass through the raging surf unharmed. Meantale
Point, Pradanack, and the Soapy Rock appeared in succession, but all
threatened him alike with destruction should he venture near them.
He came abreast of a little harbour, but he had never been in there, and
numerous rocks, some beneath the surface, others rising but just above
it, lay off its entrance, and the risk of running for it he considered
was too great to be encountered. Those on shore might have seen his
boat as she flew by, but, should they have done so, even the bravest
might have been unwilling to risk their lives on the chance of
overtaking her before she met that fate to which they might well have
believed she was doomed.
Michael cast but a glance or two to ascertain whether any one was
coming; he had little expectation of assistance, but still his courage
did not fail him.
The rocks were passed; he could already distinguish over his bow the
lighthouses on the summit of the Lizard Point. Again he kept away and
neared the outer edge of a line of breakers which roared fiercely upon
it. He must land there notwithstanding, or be lost, for he knew that
his boat could not live going through the race to the southward of the
Lizard.
When off the Stags he could distinguish people moving along the shore.
He had been seen by them he knew, and perhaps a boat might be launched
and come to his rescue. There was no time, however, for consideration.
What he had to do must be promptly done.
The water in the bay was somewhat smoother than it had hitherto been.
In a moment his sail was lowered and his anchor let go. The rain came
down heavily.
"The wind is falling," he thought; "I will wait till the turn of the
tide, when, perhaps, there will be less surf on."
He could see the people on the shore watching him, but no attempt was
made to launch a boat; indeed he knew that no boat could pass that
foaming barrier in safety. He sat down with folded arms, waiting the
progress of events. His mind was occupied for a time rather with those
at home than about himself; he thought of little Nelly and of Dame
Lanreath, and of the kind friend of his youth who had, though he knew it
not at that time, left this world of toil and trouble. He had a simple
faith in the merits of One Who had died for him, and he had perfect
trust, not in his own honesty and uprightness, but in the merits and
all-sufficient atonement of that loving Saviour Who died for him. He
could therefore, young as he was, calmly contemplate the probability of
being unable after all to reach the shore. Still he would not allow
himself to dwell long on that matter.
He was soon aroused indeed to exertion by finding the seas breaking into
his boat. He bailed away as fast as they came on board. But he saw
that he must abandon all hope of remaining where he was. Should he stay
much longer the boat might be swamped; the surf, too, might increase,
and more effectually than at present bar his progress to the shore.
Another huge sea rolling in half filled his boat. Undaunted, he bailed
it out. A second of like size might sink her.
Evening was coming on; he must dare the fearful passage through the
breakers, or perish where he was. He stood up, holding on to the mast,
that he might survey the shore. He was abreast of the best place for
landing, although he was convinced there were rocks to the north and
south of him, their black heads appearing every now and then amid the
snow-white foam. In a moment, should his boat touch them, they would
dash her to fragments.
Promptly Michael made up his mind what to do. Hoisting his foresail he
carried the main-sheet aft, and felt that the tiller was securely fixed.
Taking out his knife, he held it in his teeth--he had sharpened it
afresh the previous evening. With one hand holding the main halyards,
with a stroke he severed the cable, then as the boat paid off up went
his mainsail and he sprang aft to the helm. The sheet was eased off.
The hissing seas followed fast astern. In another minute he would be
among the raging breakers, and then safe on shore, or, what was too
probable, whirled and tossed and tumbled over and over as he and the
fragments of his boat were carried back in their cruel embrace.
Mr and Mrs Tremayne and their daughter had reached the little hotel at
the Lizard Head, when they heard that a small boat had been seen in a
fearfully perilous position anchored at a short distance outside the
breakers. They hastened down to the beach, where some of the
coast-guard men and several other persons were collected.
They made inquiries as to the probability of the boat reaching the shore
in safety.
"Not the slightest hope through such a surf as this," was the answer.
"Who is on board?" asked Mr Tremayne.
"It seems to be a young lad, as far as we can make out," said a
coast-guard man. "His best chance is to hold on till low water, when,
as there will be a pretty broad piece of sand, if the wind goes down, he
may happen to get in without being swamped."
"But if the wind does not go down, and the weather still looks
threatening, what can he do?"
"His fate will be that of many another poor fellow," said the man. "He
is a brave young chap, though, or he would not have brought up in the
way he did. I have not once seen him waving his arms or seeming to be
crying out for help, as most would be."
"Can he be young Michael Penguyne, of whom we have just heard!"
exclaimed Mrs Tremayne. "Oh, can nothing be done to save him?"
"Will none of you fine fellows launch a boat and go out and try and
bring in the boy?" asked Mr Tremayne. "I will give twenty pounds to
the crew of the boat which brings him in."
"I am sorry, sir, that I cannot allow my men to go out," said the
officer of the coast-guard, who heard the offer made. "We should not
have waited for a reward if it could be done, but the best boat we have
would be swamped to a certainty, and the lives of all her crew
sacrificed. I much regret being compelled to say this; there is not a
man here who would not do his best to save the life of the lad if it
were possible."
"Are none of the fishermen's boats better fitted for the purpose?" asked
Mr Tremayne. "I will give twenty-five pounds to the boat which saves
the lad. Surely if so small a boat as his can live, a large
fishing-boat would run but comparatively little risk."
The officer explained that the danger would be incurred in passing
through the breakers, and that once outside, although the sea was very
heavy, a boat properly handled would keep afloat.
"I have," he added, "sent to a little harbour to the north of this, but
the boats there are small, and I doubt whether any of the fishermen will
venture so near the breakers as that boat has brought up. I will,
however, send again with your generous offer, though some time must
elapse before a boat can be got ready, even if a crew can be found
willing to risk their lives in the service."
"I will go myself to urge them to undertake it if you can devise no
other means of saving the lad," said Mr Tremayne.
"The distance is considerable, and it will be night before you can reach
the place," answered the officer. "I would advise you, sir, not to make
the attempt. They will trust to my promise, as I will send one of my
own men."
"Tell them you will give them twenty-five pounds if they will start at
once," exclaimed Mrs Tremayne, eagerly; "surely men will not stand
calmly by and allow the poor boy to perish in their sight."
"I will do as you wish," answered the officer.
Just as they were speaking, however, there was a cry from those looking
on.
"He has cut his cable--he has hoisted his sail--he is going to venture
it," exclaimed several people simultaneously.
The boat's head was turned towards the shore. Onward she came. Now she
rose to the summit of a huge wave, now plunged downwards. For an
instant the sail flapped, becalmed by another sea which rolled up
astern.
A cry escaped the spectators: "She will be swamped! she will be
swamped!"
But no; again the sail filled and on she came. The young boy was seen
seated in the stern of his boat grasping the tiller with one hand and
the main-sheet with the other. Over she heeled to the blast--again she
rose, and again sunk down, and now she was among the hissing, roaring,
foaming breakers. The waters bubbled up, tumbling into her on either
side; but still the boy held firm hold of his tiller. Again the sail
flapped--there was a sudden lull.
"She is lost, she is lost!" was the cry. "The next sea must swamp her;"
but the wind came faster than the wave--the sail bulged out, and on she
flew.
For another moment she seemed to hang in the midst of a breaker as it
rushed backwards from the shore, but another lifted her, and, carried
forward on its crest, she came like a thing of life escaping from her
savage pursuers towards the beach.
A dozen stout hands, incited by the address of Mr Tremayne, rushed
forward to grasp the boat, regardless now of their own safety, for the
work was one of no little danger; ere they could seize the boat's
gunwale she might be dashed against them, or be swept out by the
receding wave as it went hissing backwards in a sheet of foam. But they
were well accustomed to the duty they had undertaken.
Michael to the last kept his seat, steering his boat stem on to the
beach. As he felt the keel touch the sand he sprang forward and was
grasped by the sturdy arms of one of those who had gone to his rescue,
and carried in triumph out of the reach of the foaming breaker, which
came roaring up as if fierce at the escape of its prey.
With difficulty those who had gone down to seize the boat made their way
after their companion, and she, before they could haul her up, was
thrown on the beach and rolled over and over with her sides crushed in.
"Oh, the boat, the boat! what will poor father and those at home do?"
exclaimed Michael, as he saw what had happened. "I thought to have
saved her."
"Never mind the boat," answered a stout lad, one of those who had gone
down to his rescue, wringing him by the hand. "We are right glad to
have you safe. I only got here just in time to see you standing for the
shore. I did not think you would reach it. I have been hunting for you
all along the coast, and made sure that you were lost."
"Thank you, Eban," answered Michael, for it was Eban Cowan who spoke to
him. "But poor father will grieve when he hears the boat is lost after
all."
"Thy father won't grieve for that or anything else, Michael," said Eban,
thoughtlessly; "he is dead."
"Dead!" exclaimed poor Michael, grasping the arm of the man who had
brought him on shore, and who was still standing by him, and overcome by
the strain on his nerves, which he had hitherto so manfully endured, and
the sad news so abruptly given him, he would have fallen to the ground
had not the fisherman supported him.
Mr Tremayne and his wife and daughter now came up.
"Poor boy, it is not surprising that he should give way at last,"
observed Mrs Tremayne. "We will have him carried to our inn, where he
can be properly attended to."
Mr Tremayne agreed to her proposal, and, begging two of the stout
fishermen to carry the lad, he promised a reward to those who could
secure the boat and her gear.
"That will be my charge," said the coast-guard officer. "But I am
afraid that the boat herself is a complete wreck, and that very little
of her gear will be saved."
Michael, on being placed in a comfortable bed in the inn, soon returned
to consciousness, and was greatly surprised to find two kind-looking
ladies watching by his side. The younger one called her father from an
adjoining room.
"You have had a hard tussle for your life; you behaved courageously, my
lad," observed Mr Tremayne, taking his hand.
"I am thankful that God has spared my life," answered Michael in a low
voice, which showed how much his strength was prostrated. "But, O sir,
Eban told me that father is dead, and the boat is all knocked to pieces,
and what will Nelly and poor granny do? Next to God, they can only look
to the boat and me for help."
"What! young as you are, do you expect to be able to support yourself
and those you speak of?" asked Mrs Tremayne.
"Yes; father gave them into my charge, and if God had given me strength,
and the boat had been spared, I would have done my best."
"We know Nelly and your granny, and more about you than you may
suppose," said Mrs Tremayne, kindly; "we paid them a visit to-day, and
heard of their loss. But set your mind at rest about your boat, we will
endeavour to obtain another for you, and help you in any other way you
may wish."
Michael expressed his gratitude with an overflowing heart. A night's
quiet rest completely restored his strength, and, being eager to assure
Nelly and Dame Lanreath of his safety, after he had bade his new friends
good-bye he set off on his return home.
Mrs Tremayne promised to have his boat looked after, and to pay him a
visit in the course of a day or two to arrange about the purchase of
another.
On reaching home Michael found that Eban Cowan had been before him, and
given Nelly and her granny tidings of his safety. They had heard,
however, only of the loss of his boat, and had been naturally anxious at
the thoughts of what they should do without her. The news he brought
that he was to have a new one greatly revived their spirits.
"God is indeed kind to us in sending us help in our time of need," said
Dame Lanreath. "O my children! never forget His loving-kindness, but
serve and obey Him as long as you live."
Michael's grief was renewed as he went in to see the friend who had
acted the part of a father to him all his life; but happily deep grief
does not endure long in young hearts, and he now looked forward to Mr
Tremayne's promised visit.
"I hope the young lady and her mother will come with him. O Nelly! she
looked like an angel as she watched by me, when I scarcely knew whether
I was alive or being knocked over and over in the breakers," he
observed. "For hours after I was safe on shore I had their sound in my
ears in a way I never knew before."
Mr Tremayne came to the cottage just as Dame Lanreath, with Michael and
Nelly, had returned from attending the funeral of Paul Trefusis. It was
a calm and lovely day, and contrasted greatly with the weather which had
before prevailed.
In the harbour, just below the cottage, lay a boat somewhat smaller than
the "Wild Duck," but nearly new, with freshly-tanned sails, and well
fitted in every respect. Mrs and Miss Tremayne were seated in it, with
two men who had rowed it round from the Lizard.
Mr Tremayne invited the inmates of the cottage to come down and see it.
"What do you think of her?" he asked, after they had greeted the two
ladies.
"She is a handy craft, sir, and just suited for this place," answered
Michael.
"I hope you will find her so," replied Mr Tremayne. "Here is a paper
which assigns her to you as her master, and if you will moor her fast
her present crew will leave her, as we purpose to continue our journey
by land, and have ordered the carriage to meet us at the top of the
hill."
Michael was unable to express his gratitude in words. Dame Lanreath
spoke for him.
"May God reward you and your wife and children for your kindness to the
orphans, and to an old woman who has well-nigh run her course on earth.
We were cast down, though we know that His mercy endureth for ever, and
you have lifted us up and shown us that He is faithful and never fails
to send help in time of need."
Nelly took Miss Tremayne's hand, and, prompted by her feelings, kissed
it affectionately; but even she was for the moment unable to express her
feelings by words.
"Thank you, sir, thank you," said Michael at last, as they went back.
"You have made a man of me, and I can now work for those who have to
look to me for support."
"I hope you will have the strength, as I am sure you have the will, and
may God bless you, my lad," said Mr Tremayne, shaking him warmly by the
hand, for he was far more pleased with the few words Michael had uttered
than had he poured out his gratitude in measured language. As he and
the ladies proceeded up the pathway, Nelly ran into the cottage. She
soon again overtook them.
"Will you please, miss, take these small shells?" she said; "they are
little worth, I fear, but I have nothing else to give which you might
wish to accept, and they may put you in mind of this place, and those
who will pray for you and bless your father and mother as long as they
live."
Miss Tremayne, much pleased, thanked Nelly for her gift, and, assuring
her that she should never forget her or Michael and her granny, accepted
the gift.
It is scarcely necessary to say that Michael spent a considerable
portion of the remainder of the day examining his new boat over and over
again, blessing the donor in his heart, and thankful that he should now
be able to support Nelly and her granny.
Then the little family assembled in their sitting room, and offered up
their thanks to the merciful Being Who looked down upon them in their
distress.