THE FISHERMEN.—THE DESPAIRING CRY OF THE MARINERS.—THE BREAKERS FROM
THE SHORE.
On shore the day wore away; the wind blew furiously, and the ocean
roared to such an extent, that no other sound was audible; and the
fishermen who lived upon the coast kept within doors, knowing that
nothing could be done out of doors on such a day; and each one seated
by the fire, began to recount some wonderful tale of death and
shipwreck, or of happy escapes from the boiling sea, until noon had
long since passed, and the turn of the day showed a decided approach
towards evening; but no abatement of the tempest.
The principal fisherman on the coast, a man whose poverty was less,
rather than his wealth was greater than his fellows, sat by his
fireside, with one or two others of his class seated with him.
“I never saw a worse storm,” said one of them.
“I have,” said Massallo, the fisherman.
“You have?” said one of his comrades, in his turn.
“I have, I can promise you—one that blew me upon this coast, where I
have ever since remained, and intend to remain.”
“I have heard you say so; but I never heard the particulars of that
story; it must have been many years ago, I fancy.”
“Yes, it must have been fifteen years ago,” said Massallo, speaking;
“fifteen years ago at the very least, if not more than that.”
“Well, I think it must be quite that time; for my old man has been dead
these fourteen years, and he remembered you very well, and used to
speak of you; and, as I thought, you must have known him more than a
year.”
“Aye, two.”
“Well, it must, then, have been more than sixteen years ago since you
came here.”
“I dare say it was; very nearly seventeen years ago, now I come to
think of it. The storm, if possible, blew harder, and the waves beat
higher than they do now; the rain was heavier than it rains now; and,
in addition to all, the thunder and lightning were tremendous, not a
sound could be distinguished. The speaking-trumpet was useless—no sound
issued from it—all was confusion and danger.”
“It must have been a rare time, certainly.”
“It was a time for devils to be abroad, and not for men; but we were
compelled to pump, and cut away the wreck. Why, you see, we had been
chased by the Algerines, and we had got nearer to the land than we
would have gone, but for the fact that we desired to escape from a
superior and formidable enemy, who knew no mercy.
“Yes, the Algerines, if they had spared us, would have made slaves of
us for our lives, and there would have been little wisdom in being
caught by them, if we could help it.”
“I should imagine no one would ever do it.”
“Well, that was the cause of our being in shore nearer than we ought;
but we noticed that the Algerine sheered off at a moment when there
was but little chance of our escaping him; but we could not tell the
reason; but we concluded that he saw some danger, of which we were at
that moment ignorant.
“Well, we had not time to haul out a little before we were surprised by
a tremendous clap of thunder and lightning, as vivid as if it had been
brought from all quarters of the world, and loosened at one and the
same moment.”
“It must have added to your terrors.”
“It was the main thing that wrecked us on this coast.”
“What, the lightning! why, I suppose it struck you, then?”
“Yes; we could have held off, or run the vessel bump ashore—almost
dry—but we lost all command over her, when the lighting shivered our
mast to atoms and left the stump burning in the vessel; then, more than
that, it killed two of our best hands at that moment, and most of us
were knocked up and unable to work at the pumps; but it was of no use;
we came ashore, crash went the vessel, and we were all in the boiling
sea in an instant, and a wave or two more threw me on the beach,
without any fatal injury, and I scrambled up out of their reach.”
“And then you remained by us.”
“Yes; I did not find means to return whence I came for some years.”
“Perhaps you had reason.”
“I had; I was a rival for a girl; I was then endeavouring to win money;
I had entrusted some money in the vessel—all I had; and with her I
lost all, and with that all I lost even hope, and never returned to my
native home.”
“Did the girl love you?”
“She liked me well enough to have me, if her relations would consent,
but they would not, unless they saw I had more money than I could
obtain; and, in default of that, they would marry her to another, who
had more money than I; and I only obtained time to get money by the
girl’s intercession; but I was balked.”
“Well, that was bad; but I suppose you were well assured that you would
be rejected if you had not money.”
“I was, by her family.”
“And herself——”
“That was not so sure; and yet they had great influence upon her; but I
could not have the courage to go back and ask her to wed poverty; a man
without even the means of purchasing a wedding garment.”
“You did right, neighbour.”
“I did, and I knew it,” replied the fisherman, bitterly.
“But you have prospered since; and you have been happy, if I mistake
not.”
“Yes, I have been prosperous, and tolerably happy; it is wonderful how
men adapt themselves to the circumstances around them.”
“They do; if they did not, how insupportable would life be.”
“You are right; I should have been miserable for ever; I should never
have recovered my feelings, and should never have been what I am now.”
“The storm seems as furious as ever, neighbour,” observed one of the
fishermen, after a long pause, for they were meditating upon what they
had heard, “and I think we shall have but a very rough night of it.”
“Good; we shall have a night of it.”
“I think,” said another, “I must be getting near my own fireside
by this time; they will expect me home, or think some accident has
happened.”
“And I will step out to see how the weather looks before it grows dark;
there appears no change.”
“Hark! what is that?”
There was a moment’s pause, and in about a minute, in one of the lulls
of the wind, they thought they heard a gun; but the storm increased so
as to leave them in great doubt of what it was.
“It was a gun, I think,” said the fisherman. “Such sounds as those I
have heard before; but ’tis hard to tell them from the sounds of the
elements.”
“We can tell when we get outside, I dare say; but the wind sweeps all
sounds past so rapidly that it is scarcely possible to tell even there;
but there is yet light to see, and as the sun sets in the horizon, we
have a chance of seeing a sail if there be one.”
“We have, but not of helping her.”
“True; there is no help for those on board.”
“May Heaven have mercy upon the poor mariners,” said the fisherman’s
wife. “It is hard times with them now. Life is dear to all, and they
will cling to it. Do what you can for the poor beings.”
“There’s no doing anything,” said the fisherman, gloomily. “Neither
boat nor ship can ride through such a sea, on the ocean or at anchor.”
“But they may be cast ashore, and they may not be quite dead, you know;
instant aid might avail much, when even they had ceased to feel.”
“We will not fail in that particular. We are going down to the beach
now, and shall not neglect any means that are in our power, at all
events; more we cannot do, but that much shall be done, and I hope it
may be of some service.”
“Hark! the same sound again,” said his companion.
“I did not hear it.”
“Nor I.”
“Come on; we shall now know better in the open air,” said the
fisherman, as he wrapped himself up in a large rough coat, and pulled
his hat over his eyes. “The rain is as heavy as ever, and I think it
will soon fill the sea to overflowing.”
The fishermen left the hut and proceeded towards the beach; at least,
they did not go down, for the waves ran so high that they beat a long
way inland—more so than they had ever done before.
“What do you think of our storm?”
“It is a complete tempest—furious; and the wind blows the waves towards
the shore, and that is the cause why we have the sea so high; and
should the wind continue in that quarter for a day or two, even our
cottages will be in some danger.”
“I dare say they would; but it would be without example if the winds
were to continue in that quarter for so long a time, blowing a complete
hurricane without any intermission. I should almost think the world
about to end.”
“Do you see any vessel out in the horizon?” inquired one of the
fishermen.
“Not I.”
“But I can hear the gun.”
There came booming across the waters the sound of a piece of artillery.
There was no mistaking it—it was plain and evident to all that there
was a vessel in distress somewhere, but they could not exactly tell
where.
Again the sound reached them on the wind, accompanied by the roar of
the elements; but it was enough to distinguish it by from the rest of
those awful sounds, which spoke plainly to them of the dreadful fate of
the unfortunate men who were on board the vessel in distress.
“Can you make them out?” inquired one of the fishermen of his
companion. “I cannot see her, though I hear the guns, and can almost
imagine her whereabouts.”
“No, I can’t see her,” replied the man spoken to.
“I can though,” replied the first fisherman; “she lies close in shore,
not a mile out, nor yet that. I think she’s dismasted.”
“I see her now, myself. I looked about in the horizon, above her there.
She labours much, and the sea breaks over her.”
“She has lost her rudder, I have no doubt, and is drifting right in
shore. What will become of them, I cannot well think.”
“It is too easy to think.”
“Do you imagine that one man among the whole crew can be saved?”
“Hardly, on such a shore as this, with rocks on all sides; every man
that is swept overboard will be dashed to pieces, and disabled, even if
lashed to spars.”
“You are right; for if one man survives this wreck, it will be a
miracle, and I can hardly believe it to be possible.”
They now watched the course of the vessel. The guns had ceased to
fire, and daylight was fast departing; and though she came nearer, yet
she became less distinct; but still they could see her, and note her
progress well through the surf that rose up around her as it dashed
against the labouring vessel’s side.
“She strikes,” cried one of the men; “that shivering action is her
first shock.”
“Yes,” said a companion. “Poor wretches, they have but a short time
now. She will go to pieces on those rocks as sure as they are there.”
“May she not hold together?”
“No; see, she heaves up again! No; as there are but bare rocks under
her, and she will not settle into any place, but continue beating and
bumping upon them until she will break and split to shivers, not a
timber can hold.”
“Too true—too true,” said his companion.
The fishermen now bent their eyes upon the ocean, where this exciting
scene was going on, but they spoke not. It was growing yet darker, and
yet they gazed steadfastly, heedless of the beating and overwhelming
rain; but they could hardly see the vessel, until at length a loud
shriek came to them, borne to them upon the hoarse winds, and heard
distinctly above the roaring of the ocean.
The fisherman knit his brows, and compressed his lips, as he heard the
sounds, and then, clasping his hands, he said,—
“Heaven have mercy on them! for I fear the sea will have none. It’s all
over, and they are dead and dying. Follow me!”