THE ONE BODY WASHED ASHORE.—THE FIRST REQUEST.—THE SHIPWRECKED
STRANGER.
The fishermen followed down towards the beach, for they had been
standing upon some cliffs which commanded the sea below, which now was
one dark boiling mass, in which nothing at all was distinguishable;
and, therefore, they could not tell what went on below.
They soon arrived at the little bay, in which their fishing-boats used
to ride; but they had been drawn up beyond the reach of the sea, though
the sea now ran quite up into the land, and they stood watching the
waves as they rolled upwards.
“Had we not drawn our boats higher,” said one “they would have been
wrecks by this time, and we should have been beggars.”
“Ay; so we should, neighbour.”
“Don’t you see the waves beating over the very spot were they lay?”
“I do; and they ain’t far from them even now, and I am in some fear
lest they reach them; but they have been moored as well.”
“They are doubly secured.”
“Do you see anything upon the water yet?” inquired the first fisherman.
“Nothing.”
“Nor I, and I have strained my eyes to their utmost. They are most
likely all dashed to pieces, and they are not likely to live through
such a sea.”
“No, no; they must be overwhelmed with water. God help them, poor
fellows! and if they are not to be saved, may they soon have an end to
their tortures, for the strife after life must be dreadful.”
“It is dreadful,” said the other; “but you must know that the
sufferings are endured under excitement, and therefore not so much felt
as when they have been saved. To have passed the barrier of life, and
to become insensible to all, and then to be recalled to life, is an
agony not to be described. I have seen men who have been restored to
life, and who have solemnly declared that the pangs of death they could
encounter, and not those of a return to life.”
The fisherman made no reply, but stood listening to the howlings of the
storm, and watching the waves; but this was productive of nothing—they
watched for more than two hours, and yet nothing came ashore.
“I don’t see we can do any good here,” said one.
“Nor I. Those who were alive, must now have been dead some time.”
“Yes; the sea don’t wash them this way.”
“Most likely,” added another, “they are washed among the breakers, and
dashed against the cliffs, and therefore cannot reach this place, where
they can reach the land.”
“It usually happens so.”
“It does; but we may as well return. There is a wreck, no doubt.”
“That is quite settled.”
“Quite, as you say; but there are no signs of it.”
“Save such as you saw.”
“Yes; we have evidence enough of the fact. We saw her go to pieces,
and we have heard the death-shriek of the mariners, and more we cannot
have seen. When we come down here in the morning, we may indeed see the
bodies, and the broken and severed planks of the unfortunate vessel,
strewn over the sands.”
“I shall return again after I have had an hour or two’s turn in,” said
the fisherman.
“Give me a call,” said his companion, “and I will go with you.”
“And I.”
“Agreed. Then about midnight we will again visit the beach, and see if
any of the men are ashore.”
• • • • •
There was no one now by the shore, and nought save the sounds of the
turmoil of the elements could be heard. What other sounds can be any
possibility be distinguishable at such a time? There was nothing
that could be done there that would sound. The loud roar of the
breakers was tremendous; the dash of the waves against the cliffs,
and the steady bellowing of the wind, which sounded not much unlike a
steady and continued report of great guns fired at a distance, were
as but one sound and that sound of a strange, awful, and furious
character—perfectly dreadful.
There was one body, however thrown up by the waves, as if they would
yield that one alone, and no other, or as if that one was the only one
they refused to swallow; it floated about for some time, and was thrown
hither and thither, now thrown on shore by one wave, and withdrawn by
another.
At last a high wave came rolling onwards, and falling upon the shore,
it lifted the body up, and carried it further upon the beach and there
left it, and no subsequent wave came so far as that, and it was left
unmolested.
That body was the carcass of the stranger, who of all the rest had been
swept towards the little bay, and deposited there alone.
• • • • •
The fisherman left his hut to call his companions, and having done so,
they came towards the beach, while they conversed together.
“Well,” said one, “I did not expect to see the storm abate so soon.”
“I did not,” replied his companion, “though, I dare say, it was much
too violent to last much longer; and yet I can scarcely credit my
senses that it is really gone, and that the deluging rain has ceased
altogether.”
“Yes; and there comes the moon peeping behind that mass of clouds.”
“The wind blows stiffly yet; but it has greatly moderated, and I think
it will continue to do so.”
“I hope it may; but the sea does not abate a bit, and will not for many
hours, even if the wind was to go down.”
“Oh, dear, no; the waves will keep on in this fashion for some hours;
and I dare say it will be useless to get our boats out; we shall not
have any more fish for some days to come.”
“Most likely not; but I would not venture to go out while the sea is
heaving, after such a storm as this; there would be but little use in
doing so, I am quite persuaded; but what is that yonder?”
“Where—I see nothing?”
“There, lying a few yards from the reach of the waves; to me it looks
like a human body. It is quite quiet and still—no motion—it is, I fear,
dead; there is no motion, and the attitude is that of one who has not
moved after he was thrown there—I think not, however; but let us see
what it is.”
The fishermen now went down unto the beach, where the body lay, for
such it really was; and, when they reached it, at once saw it was a
human body, and they all paused before it.
[Illustration: The fishermen discover the body on the beach.]
“Bring it higher up on the beach; the waves may come upon you
presently—they are high enough. Bring him up higher on the beach, and
you will then see what state he is in; for if his limbs are broken, and
his body otherwise injured to any extent, you may spare much useless
labour.”
The fishermen drew the body up higher; they then carried him to a dry
and sheltered spot, and examined him, but found no particular injuries
to speak of, but that he was apparently drowned.
“What course to pursue,” said one, “I don’t know; no doubt but he is
quite dead; he must have been in the water several hours, besides being
knocked about on the breakers, which is enough to destroy life itself.”
“I should imagine so; and yet, we had better take it up to the cottage,
and place it under cover; indeed, we cannot tell how long it has been
thus; therefore, I say we had better make some attempt to recover him;
he may yet come round, though there may be but little hope in it.”
“We will try; stand out of the moonlight—we shall be able to see
presently better what he is, than we can now.”
The moon was now freed from the mass of deep heavy clouds that hung
over it, like a curtain before that luminary, and which now shed a
brilliant light upon the earth. The fishermen stood round gazing upon
the body of the stranger.
“Ha! it moves,” said one.
The body did move, and no sooner did the moonlight fall full and fair
upon its form, than it slowly raised itself upon its elbow, and gazed
around. A deep inspiration took place, almost a groan, and some sea
water was vomited.
“He lives—he lives!” exclaimed the fisherman.
“Take him to the hut,” said another.
They all stooped down to aid him, and began to lift him up.
“He lives—he lives!”
“Away with him to the hut,” said several of the fishermen. “Before a
warm fire, and with some warm drinks, he will get better.”
“A little more light—a little more light, if you please,” said the
stranger, in a bland but broken voice, as he attempted to move his hand.
“He speaks!” exclaimed the fishermen in a breath, and at the same time
they removed a pace or two, and looked at each other with amazement,
and then again at the stranger, who gradually rose up, and sat upright
in the light of the moon.
“Are you any better?” inquired one of the men who had looked on in
silent amazement, not unmixed with awe, as they gazed.
“Yes; much better. What a vile thing is sea water,” said the stranger,
turning such a ghastly face upon the men that they shrunk in horror,
and yet they were not men used to fear or any like passion.
However, they soon approached him, muttering to each other,—
“What manner of man is this?”
They did not long consider what was to be done, for one of their number
replied,—
“Poor fellow! he is not used to the rough usage of the waves, and
therefore does not improve upon their acquaintance. But let us lend
him a hand.”
“With all my heart,” replied his comrades.
“Will you come with me to my cottage?” said the fisherman. “You will
benefit more by a good fire than by the cold moonlight, I’ll warrant. I
never throve upon night air and wet clothes, and I cannot believe you
will.”
“We all know our constitutions best,” said the stranger; “but if you
will grant me the accommodation you speak of, it will be welcome.”
“Come, lean upon me; never mind your clothes being wet.”
The stranger rose, and, to the amazement of all, he appeared to walk
as well as any of those present; and the only difference was, he was
ghastly pale, and he was dripping with sea water, which left a track
after him.
“Had you been long on the beach?” inquired one.
“I don’t know,” replied the stranger. “I was insensible.”
“Can you form any idea how long you have been in the water?”
“I really cannot tell even that; for I was insensible immediately after
the ship went to pieces, which she did about the close of the day; and
I only remember receiving a hard blow by being struck against a rock,
or a piece of timber, I cannot say which.”
“You must have been insensible for some hours.”
“I dare say I was.”
“I never heard of such a miraculous preservation.”
“Nor I.”
“To come to life, too, without any aid to recover you, that is what
entirely bothers me.”
“Well, they do say, those that are born to be hanged will never
be drowned,” added one of the fishermen, in an under tone, to his
companion.
They soon arrived at the hut of the fisherman, in which there was a
good fire, and the wife and daughter were ready to do all that could be
done for the unfortunate stranger.
“You have saved a mariner, then?” said the wife.
“We have picked up one from the wreck, wife; but we cannot call him a
mariner. This gentleman was, no doubt, a passenger.”
“Welcome, sir! I did not expect to see any one alive from the wreck,
much less in condition to walk an speak.”
The stranger paid them some compliments; but contented himself with
sitting by the fire, and being entirely passive in their hands, and
eventually retired to rest well wrapped up and warm.