That dinner was one of the best the lads had ever eaten, it seemed
to them. Indeed, Jack forgot about the howling of the wind and the
spattering of the rain outside, and Ray even ceased talking of his
precious model, so intent were they both on satisfying their ravenous
appetites. There were sizzling hot flounders, the finest flapjacks that
ever were cooked, cold boiled lobster, fine homemade bread, steaming
coffee and a generous apple pie, which Jack assured the lobsterman was
quite the best of its kind he had ever tasted.
[Illustration: “The finest flapjacks that ever were cooked.”]
The old seaman took as much pride in his cooking as any housewife and
it pleased him to watch the lads “git a full cargo,” as he expressed
it. In fact, he urged them to eat more, even after they had announced
that they could not possibly hold another morsel, and finally the
boys simply had to push back their chairs and cry “enough.”
It was fully half-past three when the dishes were cleared away and
washed, and by that time the storm outside had worked up to a furious
pitch. The wind whistled about the little cottage and down the chimney,
blowing great quantities of smoke into the room from the wood fire that
Mitchell kept burning to heat his dish water. The rain was coming down
harder now, and spattering against the window panes so furiously that
Jack had difficulty in seeing out across the cove in which the _Betsy
Anne_ and Mitchell’s dories were moored.
“Say, Ray, this is a real storm,” he said to his young chum. “How on
earth are we to get back to the lighthouse? We can’t go by way of the
_Betsy Anne_. I’d never take a chance in any boat to-day no matter how
seaworthy she is.”
“Right an’ so, right an’ so, lad,” said the old lobsterman as he took
a squint at the weather through the front window. “An’ ’e needn’t be
a fearin’ as I’d ask ’e to. Hit ud take a ’ull lot of coaxin’ for t’
git me t’ take t’ _Betsy Hanne_ hout hin weather like this ’ere even
though she’s t’ safest boat fer ’er size as ever was. But must ’e go
back t’day? Can’t ’e stiy ’ere for t’ night, mebby?”
“Goodness, no. You remember how we got a scolding for staying away
over night at Austin’s Pool, don’t you, Ray? Poor Mr. Warner and Big
O’Brien were worried to death. Thought we’d been drowned, sure enough.
And he saw us go out in a sailboat this morning too. Jiminy, I’ll bet
they think we were caught in this storm. They will sure decide we are
goners, if we don’t show up to-night. We must get to the lighthouse,
Ray. Don’t you agree with me?”
“Yes,” said Ray firmly, “Mr. Warner has been mighty good to both of us
and I don’t think we should cause him any more worry than necessary. I
was sorry that we made it so unpleasant by staying at Frenchman’s Point
last time. We must get back to the lighthouse. We can walk across the
island. I don’t mind getting wet, do you? That’s about the worst that
can happen to us.”
“Jest so, jest so,” said Mitchell with a pleased smile. “I think as ’ow
yer two boys ’as got common sense and a bit o’ feelin’ fer t’ other
feller. Glad t’ ’ear ye speak es ye do. Go, by hall means, an’ hif
ye’ll take my advice ye’ll start mighty soon fer there’s no tellin’ as
t’ ’ow long hit’ll tike ’e. An’ hif ye’re hout there when night comes
on--well hin t’ dark ye might stumble over a cliff peraps er--er--.
Say, look ’ere, lads, I’ll go along wi’ ye. I don’t mind gettin’ wet
an’ besides I got ’ilers an’ a so’wester. I’ll go long wi’ ye t’ show
’e t’ wi, seein’ as ’ow ye never walked crost t’ hisland yit.”
“Great,” cried Jack.
“Finest ever,” said Ray, and the old seaman looked delighted at their
manifestations of pleasure.
“Hall right, me ’arties, we’ll start right awiy. You lads, just wait
till I git on me ilers an’ I’ll go out hin t’ boat ’ouse an’ look hup
some old duds as I got stowed awi there agin jist sech an adwersity.”
And presently the lobsterman donned his oilskins and plunged out into
the storm.
A few moments later he stumped into the room again, puffing like
a grampus and dripping wet. In his arms he clutched a bundle of
weatherworn oilskins.
“Phew, blime ’e hif hit ain’t rainin’,” said he as he deposited the
bundle of clothing on the floor. “’Ere’s a lot o’ cast-hoffs as I’ve
’ad a ’angin’ hin t’ boat ’ouse fer this long time. Some o’ ’em is
putty much worn, but they’ll shed water in spots henywi’. Sort ’em
hout, lads.”
Jack and Ray began rummaging through the bundle of yellowish gray
garments and in no time they were decked out in weatherproof clothes.
Of course they wore their regular clothing underneath, as did Old
Mitchell, but even at that the lobsterman’s cast-offs were far too
large for them.
“Some fit,” said Jack as he waved a far too long sleeve in the air.
“Huh, two of us could get into this jacket, but just the same I’m
glad to have ’em. I’m ready to start--how about you?” said Ray, as he
gathered his precious model up under his arms and started for the door.
Jack followed him and the lobsterman, after a glance about the cottage
and a last poke at the dying fire in the stove, followed the two boys.
The moment they emerged, the lads had to brace themselves to keep from
being blown down. The wind swooped around the corner of the little
cottage and tore at their garments madly, while the big raindrops beat
into their faces.
“Jiminy, some storm”, growled Ray as he forced his so’wester down over
his eyes.
“Hit’s blowin’ some ’at,” assured the lobsterman as he pulled his
collar up higher and stumped forward in the lead of the little party.
Jack was on the point of making an appropriate remark also, but the
wind snatched the words from between his teeth, it seemed, and he
decided after that to conserve his energies for the fight against the
storm.
Mitchell apparently followed some sort of a path through the forest
that clad the top of the island, for he wound his way in and out among
the trees in a peculiar manner. But if there was a path, the boys
could not detect it. All they did was follow the one-legged old man
who silently fought his way against the wind. Although the pine trees
were many and their foliage thick, the wind seemed just as strong in
the woods as out in the little opening around the lobsterman’s cottage.
It blew a veritable hurricane, it seemed to Jack, and the tall trees
bent and swayed in a most awe-inspiring manner. In truth, branches were
literally torn from some of them and here and there the lads found
a big timber that had been uprooted and flung aside by the elements
exactly as if it had been no heavier than a clump of bay berry bushes.
On through this wind-lashed forest they plodded, watching constantly to
keep out of harm’s way for they realized that to be in the path of one
of the falling trees would be the end of them. On and on they forced
their way, backs bent and faces shielded as much as possible against
the stinging rain. Minutes seemed like hours and hours eternal, so slow
was their progress. How long they fought the elements the boys could
not guess, but gradually as they worked their way across the island a
new note was added to the terrible growl of the storm and it gave the
lads a better idea of their location. It was the boom of the breakers
upon Cobra Reef.
They were nearing the ocean side of the island now. Jack began to
detect familiar sections of the woods, in spite of the storm. He also
knew that they were approaching the top of the promontory upon which
the lighthouse was located, for they had begun to climb a rather steep
slope. On they toiled, their way growing harder as they advanced, until
suddenly they were struck by a gust of wind that almost hurled them off
their feet. Then Jack knew that they had left the forest and entered
the clearing about the construction camp.
Past the blacksmith shop and the bunk-house they trudged, until they
came to the long mess-hall. Along the lee wall of this building they
made their way until they came to the path that led to the lighthouse.
Here they paused and before leaving the shelter of the building, took a
survey of the situation.
And as Jack looked toward the beacon he caught sight of a big group of
men huddled in the shelter of the pile of granite blocks near the steel
tower of the cable-way. There must have been fifty or more in the crowd
and all were dressed in oilskins or overcoats.
“Look, there’s the whole camp. What’s wrong? What’s going on out there?
Something’s happened on the rock, I’ll bet. They are looking out to
sea!”
“Sure enough. What do you suppose is the matter?” exclaimed Ray, as he
too caught sight of the men.
“Matter! matter! Why noo, lad, hit could be something wrong on Cobra
’Ead, but t’ my judgment hits like as not a wessel what’s comin’
ashore, like es ’ow t’ schooner _Jessie Joy_ did two years back. She
came ashore down t’ sow’east hend o’ t’ hisland an’ was lifted ower t’
reef an’ thirty feet hup onto t’ rocks an’ smashed t’ kindlin’ afore ’e
could say scat. Yes-siree, not a man ner a stick as was saved an’--”
“Jiminy, do you suppose it’s a wreck?” shouted Jack. Then pulling his
hat down over his eyes he shouted:
“Come on!”
And in a moment all three were fighting their way up the slope toward
the men in the lee of the stone pile.
So loud was the roar of the storm and boom of the surf and so intent
were the men on whatever they were watching out at sea that none of
them heard the three arrive. Indeed, they did not know of the lads’
presence until Jack stopped alongside of Mr. Warner, who was on the
outside of the group, and clutched his arm.
“Why, Jack, thank goodness you’re here--and here’s Ray, too. We thought
sure you had been caught in this storm. All safe? Good. And here’s Mr.
Mitchell again. Brought ’em safely back once more, just as you did from
Frenchman’s Point. Fine--we were getting worried but--”
“What’s going on, anyway? What’s the trouble?” interrupted Jack, who
had been peering out into the storm.
“What’s the matter? Why there’s a vessel out there fighting its last
fight, I guess, and trying to keep off the reef. Storm’s a little too
thick now. When it quiets for a few moments you’ll be able to see her.
Both masts are gone and--There, there! See her! Look quick before the
storm shuts in again!”
The lads looked and, sure enough, out beyond the reef they saw the
battered hulk of a vessel being tossed about on the big waves like a
cork. Only two stumps remained of the masts and the wreckage of sails
and spars dragged over the sides and into the sea. The bowsprit had
been snapped, too, but on the stump of what remained was the little
pulpit-like affair that characterized the vessel as a swordfisherman.
“Why she’s a swordfisherman,” exclaimed Jack.
“Right, by George, I hadn’t discovered that before, and she looks
mighty familiar in--”
“Good lands, it’s the _Fish Hawk_,” cried Ray in distressed tones.
“It’s Uncle Vance and his crew. I--I--by hookey, he’s in a tight fix,
too. I guess it’s all up with him now! He’ll be on the reef sure!
Nothing to give him steerage way! He’s helpless!”
“By George, it is your uncle, Ray. And he sure is up against it, too.
There’s nothing we can do either,” said Mr. Warner unhappily. “He’s
too far out for us to get a line to him. We have the cannon out. It’s
tucked under the stone pile here. We’re trying to keep it dry. Maybe
if he comes on to the reef and the ship holds together long enough
we can get a breeches-buoy rigged. But it looks to me as if the
_Fish Hawk_ will go to pieces the moment it hits that line of rocks.
Look at those breakers pile up! Did you ever see anything like it? A
battleship couldn’t stand up under the pounding those waves would give
her. Everything has been washed off Cobra Head except the lighthouse
foundation stones. The cableway tower is bent and crippled and all the
derricks are gone. So are the tool boxes and all the tools. We’re in
a bad way out there. It will take us two weeks to recover from this
storm.”
In truth, the jagged reef with the Cobra’s Head at the end was terrible
to look upon. Waves thirty feet in height were hurling themselves
against the rugged granite boulders, as if seeking to drive the stony
barrier deep into the ocean. But the reef resisted the onslaughts and
great towers of water shot aloft as the breakers burst with a hiss and
a roar against the immovable stone. Jack realized the terrible crushing
power behind the tons of water, and he knew that there was little hope
of the _Fish Hawk_ staying whole once she grounded on the reef.
Close and closer to its terrible fate drove the helpless yawl while the
men on the cliff looked on in grim silence. Sometimes the rain came
down so hard and fast that the doomed vessel was shut from view. But
each time the storm abated they could see that the sturdy little craft
had been driven nearer to the horrible end that awaited it.
Yet with the fight almost lost the swordfishermen had not surrendered.
Both Jack and Ray could see a man still clinging to the wheel while
several others crawled about the careening decks and sought to build
a jury rig on the stump of the foremast. With but a few square feet
of canvas to give the vessel steerage way, there was still the barest
chance of saving her. But no human beings could hope to work the
battered little craft in such an angry sea. Any moment one of the ugly
waves that swept the decks might catch them off guard and sweep them
over the side like so many match sticks.
Jack, and every other man on the promontory for that matter, stood
spellbound. Here before their very eyes were a dozen human beings
going to certain death and no power on earth could stop them. It was
appalling. Jack shuddered.
“Oh, can’t something be done? Can’t we get a line to them?” he asked,
clutching Mr. Warner’s arm.
“I’m afraid not, son,” said Mr. Warner, choking with emotion. “It’s
terrible, but we’re powerless. They are too far off. We’ll have to wait
until they strike and then perhaps we may be able to do something.”
“Poor Uncle Vance. I feel mighty sorry for him. And Bannerman too, poor
fellow, and Mack and Duncan. Heaven help ’em. It’s the end of ’em all,”
cried Ray as he watched the storm-tossed _Fish Hawk_ drive toward her
doom.
She was only fifty feet off the reef now--one wave length separated her
from eternity. The angry water swirled about her. Great clots of spume
were hurled at her by the lashing wind, and white water washed her deck
from end to end.
“Oh, it’s terrible, terrible!” sobbed Ray. “If we could only help ’em.
If--look, look! They’ll strike. That big wave was too much for ’em!
The next wave will do it! There they go--they’re on the reef--no, no,
they sheered off--they didn’t strike--but--but--Oh! Great goodness,
look--look--it’s horrible!”
CRASH!
A great wave had seized the helpless vessel, lifted it high aloft and
hurled it down across the jagged rocks. The sound of rending timbers
could be heard even above the roar of the storm. The _Fish Hawk_ had
been cut completely in half by the granite ridge and in a fraction of
a second the hull of the yawl had been shattered to kindlings. Only a
mass of wave-tossed wreckage marked the place where it had foundered.
For a moment the men on the promontory seemed stunned by the hideous
sight they had witnessed. Then as they realized that the vessel and the
men had been blotted from existence entirely, several of them groaned
aloud and turned away. But the next instant they were startled by a cry.
“Look! Look! Jack, O’Brien, look, there’s a head, there’s a man, two
of ’em, three of ’em inside the reef; struggling; swimming. They are
trying for the beach. Come on, we’ll save ’em. Come!” Ray bounded down
the crooked path that led to the narrow strip of beach and Jack and Big
O’Brien followed him, with the rest of the men trailing out behind.
Even Old Mitchell stumped down the path, although he could not keep
pace with the rest of the party.
Ray reached the sandy strip first and began tugging at one of the two
whaleboats which had been tossed high and dry on the beach by the
storm. Others rushed to help him, some manning the boat while others
tried to launch it. And meanwhile off toward the reef the three men
struggled desperately. On they swam, battling with the stubborn,
though not so violent, waves inside. Sometimes their heads were above
the water and sometimes great curling white caps dashed over them and
forced them under, but they were fighting for their lives and they
meant to keep afloat until aid arrived.
Slowly but surely the horde of lighthouse builders forced the heavy
whaleboat, loaded with the rescue party, toward the water. Inch by
inch, foot by foot until at last one of the curling waves reached under
its bow and gave them assistance. Another wave and it was launched.
Then in a twinkle a dozen oars were shipped and the boat was under
way. Ray was in the bow, looking anxiously out toward the struggling
swimmers, and Jack was in the stern beside Big O’Brien, who clutched
the tiller.
Under the strokes of the brawny laborers the heavy boat shot forward,
bow on, into the angry seas that curled shoreward. But for all the
strength behind those hickory timbers and all the sturdiness of the
vessel’s oaken sides, it was a question whether it could live in even
the seas behind the reef. It tossed about like an eggshell and the
angry waves clutched at either side and pulled it here and there in
spite of the efforts of the rowers.
But slowly they urged her forward toward the swimmers. On and on it
forged, each stroke cutting down the distance between the fighting
fishermen and their rescuers. They were fifty feet away, now forty, now
thirty! Only a little way farther. Only a few strokes more!
“Pull! Pull!” cried Ray from the bow. “Here’s one! Pull! It’s Duncan,
good old Duncan--he’s all in! Pull! Whoope-e-e--! Saved!”
Ray reached over the side and seized the all but unconscious man, and
with what appeared to be a superhuman effort, hauled him into the boat
and let him fall into a limp, soggy mass in the bottom, just behind the
forward oarsman.
“Pull! Pull! Don’t stop--here’s another. It’s Beck--Beck Crawford.
We’ve got to save him! He has a wife and some kiddies! Pull! Pull!
Here! Some one help me! I can’t lift him! Come quick!”
The forward oarsman dropped his blade and climbing to Ray’s side helped
to drag Beck aboard.
“All right! Keep it up! Here’s another! It’s--it’s--oh, it’s Uncle
Vance. PULL! PULL! He’s sinking, he’s sink--I’ve got him! Help me here!
Heave-o! Good!”
Then as Ray laid the limp form in the bottom of the boat with the
others, he said with a peculiar catch in his voice:
“Poor Uncle Vance, he looks like he’s most dead.”