ON A CRUMBLING ICE-FLOE.
The plan suggested by their host, of sending their sleigh home by
the ferry, while they crossed in a boat, just suited Miss Martell,
and she proposed having a good vigorous pull at the oars herself.
She had always been fond of out-of-door sports, a taste which her
father had judiciously encouraged; and thus had saved her, no doubt,
from the life of an invalid, for she had inherited the delicacy
of a feeble mother, who years before, in spite of all that wealth
could do to prevent it, had passed away.
Just at this time Miss Martell was waging that pathetic war with
her own heart which so many women must fight out in silence; and
she welcomed eagerly any distraction of thought,--anything that
would so weary the body that the mind could rest. She dreaded the
long, monotonous ride home, and so warmly seconded the new plan
that her father yielded, though somewhat against his judgment.
Through the little delays of a hospitality more cordial than kind,
they were kept until the early December twilight was deepening into
dusk. But the oarsman lighted his lantern, and was confident that
he could put them across most speedily. The boat was stanch and
well built, and they started with scarcely a misgiving, Miss Martell
taking an oar with much zest. Their friends waved them off with
numberless good wishes, and then from their windows watched till
the boat seemed quite across, before drawing the curtains and
concluding that all was well.
At first they did not meet much ice, and everything promised a
safe and speedy passage; but, when they were well past the middle
of the river, two dark masses were seen just before them. There
appeared to be a wide opening between them, through which they
could see the water ripple.
"I think we can shoot through," said the oarsman, standing up a
moment; "perhaps it will be the safest course, for we don't know
what's above."
"Very well," said Mr. Martell, "I will steer you as well as I can.
Pull strongly till we are again in clear water."
Miss Martell bent her supple form to the oar, and her strokes counted
as well as those of the strong, practised man; and the boat sped,
all too quickly, into what afterwards seemed the very jaws of
destruction.
The opening narrowed instead of widening. The ice above, for some
reason, appeared to gain on that below.
In growing alarm, Mr. Martell saw that they were becoming shut in,
and pointed out the fact to the oarsman.
"Shall we turn around?" he asked, excitedly.
The man stood up again, and instantly decided.
"No, we have not time; the tide is running very swiftly. The ice
would close on us before we could get around. Our best chance is
to push through. I can see water beyond." They bent to their oars
again with the energy which danger inspires.
But there was not time. The opening closed too rapidly. Suddenly
the bow struck the upper cake, and, being well out of the water,
ran up on the ice, causing the boat to take in water at the stern.
For a second it seemed that they would be overturned and drowned
at once.
But just at this moment the upper cake struck the lower ice, and
the boat, being well up on the first cake, was not crushed between
the two masses, as would have been the case had the ice closed
against its sides while they were deep in the water. For a moment
they were saved, while the upper and lower floes crunched and ground
together under the keel, lifting the light craft still further
above the tide and throwing it over on one side. Without a second's
pause, the now consolidated field of ice swept downward, carrying
with it the wedged and stranded skiff.
The lantern gleamed on the pale faces of those who realized that
they had just passed through a moment of supreme peril, and perhaps
had before them as great if not equally imminent dangers.
The oarsman hastily examined the boat, and found that it had been
injured, though to what extent he could not tell. Water was oozing
in slowly from some point near the keel, but they were too high out
of the water to know whether more dangerous leaks had been made.
They tried to break their way out, but found that the two cakes
had become so joined together as to form a solid mass, upon which
they could make no impression.
They called aloud for help, and Miss Martell's plaintive cry was
blended again and again with the hoarse, strong shoutings of the
men. But the river was wide; the tide swept them out toward its
centre, and then nearer the less peopled eastern shore. The evening
was cold and bleak; few were out, and these so intent upon reaching
warm firesides that they never thought of scanning the dark waste
of the river; and so, to all the cries for aid there was no response,
save the gurgling water, that sounded so cold as to chill their
hearts, and the crunching of the ice as the rushing tide carried
them downward, and away from the gleaming lights of their own loved
home,--downward and past the lights from Mrs. Marchmont's mansion,
where, even in her peril, poor Alice Martell could picture Harcourt
at Addie's side, and she forgotten. As the imagined scene rose
vividly before her, the wild thought passed through her mind: "Since
it must be so, perhaps I can find more rest beneath these waters
than in my home yonder. It may be for the best, after all, and God
designs mercy in what at first seemed so terrible."
As people saw Miss Marten's quiet and rather distant bearing
in society, as many admired her chiselled and faultlessly refined
features, they little imagined that, as within snowy mountains are
volcanic fires, so within her breast was kindling as passionate a
love as ever illumined a woman's life with happiness, or consumed
it with a smouldering flame.
But death is stern and uncompromising, and snatches away all
disguises,--even those which hide us from ourselves. In bitterness
of heart the poor girl learned, while darker than the night the
shadow of death hovered over her, how intense was her love for
one who she believed loved another. If but a hand's breadth away,
beneath the rushing tide, there was a remedy for the pain at her
heart, why need she fear?
"My child," said a tremulous voice.
Then, with a natural and remorseful rush of love for one who had
been as tender towards her as a mother since that mother commended
her to his care, she put her arms around him and whispered, "I am
not afraid, father. Mother and heaven may be nearer than we think."
"Thank God, my child,--thank God you are not afraid. I was trembling
for you,--not myself. You are young, and I trusted that there was
a happy life before you. But the home where mother is promises me
far more than the one yonder, whose lights are growing so faint."
"I am not afraid, dear father. I am content, if it's God's will,
to go to that better home and be with you and mother."
"God bless you, my child; and blessed be the God of mercy who has
given you so true a faith. It would be terrible to me beyond words
if now you were full of hopeless dread."
But the poor oarsman had no such faith,--only the memory of his
dependent wife and children, and his material life, which never
before had seemed so sweet and precious. He kept shouting for aid
until exhausted, and then despairingly sat down to await the result.
Mr. Martell, in the true Christian spirit, sought to impart to
his humble companion in peril some of his own confidence in God's
mercy and goodness; but in vain. An intelligent, sustaining faith
cannot be snatched like a life-preserver in the moment of danger;
and the man appeared scarcely to heed what was said.
Downward and past the twinkling lights of many comfortable homes
the remorseless tide still swept them, until the huge outlines of
the two mountains at the portal of the Highlands loomed out of the
darkness.
"If we get down among the mountains, we might as well give up,"
said the oarsman, sullenly. "We might as well be cast away at
sea as down in that wild gorge; though for that matter it seems,
to-night, as if one's neighbors wouldn't step out of doors to keep
a body from drowning. Why no one has heard us is more than I can
understand, unless it is accordin' to the old sayin', 'None's so
deaf as them as won't hear.'"
But there was nothing strange in the fact that they had been unnoted.
The north wind blew their voices down the river. There was a noisy
surf upon the shore, and those who chanced to see the light supposed
it to come from some craft hastening to its winter quarters near
the city. So fate seemed against them, and they drifted down and
down until the black shadow of "Storm King" swallowed them up.
But now they became conscious that their motion was growing less
steady and rapid. A little later, and the floe apparently paused
in its downward progress, and there was only some slight movement
caused by the increasing gale.
Then came what seemed interminable hours of weary waiting under
the sombre shadow of "Cro' Nest" mountain. The strange and almost
irresistible drowsiness that severe cold induces began to creep
over Miss Martell, but her father pleaded with her to fight against
it; and, more for his sake than her own, she tried. They took turns
in endeavoring to break the ice around them with the boat-hook. The
exercise kept their blood in circulation, but was of little avail
in other respects. The ice was too heavy and solid for their feeble
strokes.
At last the tide turned, and the dreary, monotonous waiting in
their hopeless position was exchanged for an upward movement that
would soon bring them above the mountains again, where, from the
thickly peopled shores, there would be a better chance of being
seen and rescued.
There was no certainty that they would be missed, and therefore
sought for, as the coachman, not finding them on his return, might
conclude that they had been prevailed upon to remain all night with
the friend they were visiting.
But any exchange from the black, rayless shadows that surrounded
them would be a relief; and it was with a faint feeling of
hopefulness--that they recognized their movement northward, which
slowly increased in speed as the tide gained mastery of the slight
natural current of the river.
The strengthening northern gale had thrown up quite a "sea," and
the experienced oarsman soon saw that the ice-field by which they
were surrounded was breaking up under the influence of the waves.
This might at last bring relief, or increase their danger. If the
ice should all break up around them and leave their boat tight and
sound, they could tow ashore. If the boat had been or should become
so injured as to leak badly, it might fill with water before they
could reach land. Thus, in any case, the trying nature of their
peculiar position was aggravated by a terrible uncertainty and
suspense.
As they emerged from the Highlands into the broad waters of Newburgh
Bay, their worst fears seemed about to be realized. Here, for many
miles, the north wind had an unrestrained sweep, and the waves grew
larger and more violent. Under their increasing force the ice-floe
crumbled around them rapidly, until at last little was left save
the mass of double thickness caused by the union of the two large
cakes between which the boat had been caught. This, at last, began
to give under the weight of the boat, and let it more deeply into
the water. Then, to their dismay, they saw that the seams of the
boat had been so wrenched apart that the water came in rapidly.
They tried to keep it down by baling. The frosty gale tossed Mr.
Martell's white hair, while with his hat he worked, in pathetic
earnestness, for the sake of his daughter; but in spite of all
that he and the oarsman could do, the water gained on them, wetting
their feet and creeping up their legs with the icy chili of death.
Every moment or two the man would pause in his work and send forth
a cry of such terrible power and earnestness that it would seem
some one must hear.
Again Alice Martell saw the distant lights of her own home, but she
turned from them to those that gleamed from the nearer residence
of Mrs. Marchmont. Was he there, safe and happy, looking love into
the eyes of Addie Marchmont, while every moment she sank lower into
the cold river? The thought sent a deeper chill to her heart than
the icy tide from which she could no longer keep her feet.
"God and man is agin us," said the oarsman, savagely. "What is
the use of trying any longer! The sooner it's over the better"; and
he was about to give up in despair. Alice, with equal hopelessness
of any earthly aid, was about to turn her eyes from the faint rays
which, barbed with the thoughts suggested above, pierced her heart
like arrows, when the throwing open of the hall-door by Hemstead
let out such a broad streaming radiance as attracted her notice.
By calling the attention of the others to it, she inspired in them
a faint hope.
But when, soon after, the door was closed, and the lights had
their usual appearance, the flicker of hope sank down into a deeper
darkness.
Alice turned to her father, and in close embrace and with a oneness
of spirit and hope that needed not outward expression, they silently
lifted their thoughts from the dark earth to the bright heaven
whose portals they soon expected to enter.
Just then a voice from earth recalled them to earthly hope and the
prospect of human help. It was Hemstead's shout of encouragement
from the shore. Then they saw the glimmer of a lantern moving
hither and thither; a moment later it became stationary, then shot
out towards them.
With cries of joy they recognized that they had been seen, and that
an attempt to rescue them was being made.
In the apathy of their despair the water had gained dangerously;
but with the energy of hope, that is ever greater than that of fear
or despair, they set to work anew. Again the wintry winds tossed
Mr. Martell's white hair, as for want of something better he baled
with his hat, and Alice's little numb hands were lifted every moment
as if in pathetic appeal, as she dipped them in the ice-cold water
at her feet, and threw out a tiny cupful, which the gale carried
away in spray.
"Come quick. We can't keep afloat much longer," cried the oarsman.
"Ay, ay," shouted the ex-sailor in a voice as hoarse as the winds
in the cordage of his old ship.
"Courage!" cried Hemstead; and his tones, in contrast, rang out
like a bugle, inspiring hope in the chilled hearts of those who,
a little before, had despaired, and also sending an almost equal
thrill of delight to the heart of Lottie Marsden, as, with the
half-frenzied Harcourt, she stood in Mrs. Marchmont's open door.
The sailor-coachman was a good oarsman, and Hemstead pulled fairly.
Both were very strong, and they drove the boat through the short,
chopping waves, rather than over them, caring not how much water
was shipped.
A little later came the shout, "Quick, quick! The ice is giving
under us, and the boat sinking."
"Oh! come!--save my father!" cried Alice Martell, in a tone that
might have moved the very ice around her to pity.
"My child, my child!" came the agonized voice of the father. "Never
think of me, if you can save her."
Hemstead's nature was anthracite, and now glowed at white heat
in his grand excitement. He was no longer a man, but a giant, and
would have ruined everything, snapped his oars, dragged the oar-pins
from their sockets, thus rendering his massive strength utterly
useless, had not the cool, wary ex-sailor taken command of the little
craft, and insisted on seamanship. Under his skilful direction the
student was like a powerful engine, with a steady, measured stroke,
and the boat fairly flew, until their oars struck floating ice, and
then they had to slacken up, for to strike a mass of ice at their
speed would be to sink at once.
"Steady now," cried the ex-sailor. "You pull; I will stand and
steer."
Their boat was roughly grazed several times, but glided through
without serious injury.
"Now or never!" cried the oarsman; "we're sinking."
Alice hid her face on her father's breast. Life had grown strangely
sweet during the brief time since, at Hemstead's voice, hope had
revived; and it seemed a bitter thing to perish almost within the
grasp of rescuing hands.
"Oh! come!" groaned the father. "Great God! this is hard."
With a despairing cry she heard the water rush and gurgle around
her, and closed her eyes, not expecting to open them again in this
world. But strong hands grasped and lifted her drenched, helpless
form tenderly into the boat.
With mingled hope and fear she looked up, and by the lantern's
light recognized Frank Hemstead.
"My father," she gasped.
"Safe, my darling, thank God," said Mr. Martell, taking her into
his arms; "and they have pulled our stout oarsman in, too. So we
are all safe."
"Well, I hope so," said the ex-sailor, with a little depressive
dubiousness. "We shipped a sight o' water comin' out. There's
a deal of ice runnin', and so chopped up one can skerce see it.
I must be skipper and all, mind, if we are to come safe out. Here,
Mr. Hemstead, you bale; and you, too, messmate, if yer hain't
shipped too much water yerself. I'll sit well up towards the bow,
where I can see and pull around the ice. Besides, with this cargo,
we've got to cross the waves kind o' easy and keerful, or they'll
swamp us."
Thus in this instance the ex-sailor appeared a special providence,
and gradually took them out of the ice-strewn tide in the centre of
the river to smoother, clearer water nearer the shore. Soon after,
drenched and half-frozen, they reached Mrs. Marchmont's boat-house.
Miss Martell's powers of endurance were nearly exhausted; and when
the lantern, held aloft, revealed Harcourt's pale face,--when she
knew that it was his arms that received her in her helplessness,
and she heard him murmur, "I now believe there's a merciful God, and
thank Him,"--in the strong reaction of feeling she became unconscious.