THE SHIPWRECK
ON hearing the news which Andrew brought, Mr. Hollys hastened into the
hall, and, putting on his travelling coat and cap, prepared to go out
into the stormy night.
"Papa," said Beryl's voice by his side, "do let me go with you, and see
the ship."
"Nonsense, child," returned her father hastily; "you could not stand on
the beach in such a storm as this. No, no; you must not think of it."
"Oh yes, papa, I could stand against the wind," persisted Beryl; "I am
sure I could. You do not know how strong I am."
But Mr. Hollys was firm. "No, no, child, it will not do; I cannot think
of it," he said. "But I tell you what you may do, Beryl. You can get
Lucy to take you into the garden. You will see the ship from there, I
have no doubt."
And with this, Beryl had to be content.
Lucy was anxious herself to see what was happening, and made no
objection to taking Beryl into the garden. The garden lay in front of
the house, reaching to the beach, and was comparatively a sheltered
spot, for a high, strong wall, protected it from any possible danger
from wind or wave. At the bottom of the garden there was a door made
in the wall, from which a flight of stone steps led down to the beach,
giving Beryl easy access to the water when she wanted to bathe, for at
high tide the waves broke over the lowest step. As another convenience
for bathers, a garden-house had been built close to this door. It
consisted of a lower and an upper room, and as the window of the upper
room rose above the wall, and overlooked the whole sweep of the bay, it
formed a fine observatory.
In this house Lucy and Beryl took refuge from the wind, which even in
the garden was felt as far too rough, as it beat in their faces, laden
with the cold sea-spray. Soon they were joined by some of the other
servants, and the whole party gazed anxiously from the windows; but
for a long time they could distinguish nothing save a heaving mass of
blackness, over which swept the furious blasts.
Presently Beryl cried, "Lucy, I can see a light! There, far away to the
right, beyond Sheldon Point. Don't you see it?"
"Yes, I think I do," said Lucy, peering into the dark. "Ah, and there
is that gun again! It sounds a long way off."
"The light is moving!" cried Beryl. "I can see it quite plainly. It is
moving towards us."
"Ah, poor souls, the Lord have mercy upon them!" exclaimed Lucy,
clasping her hands in despair. "The wind is driving them straight upon
the rocks below Sheldon Point."
"What do you mean, Lucy? What will happen to them?" asked Beryl.
"Why, Miss Beryl, the ship will break in pieces if it strikes on those
rocks, and they will all go down," replied Lucy. "There is scarce a
hope for any of them, poor souls."
"But surely they can be saved; they must be saved!" cried Beryl
passionately. "The men will get out the lifeboat. Papa will see that
they do something."
"The lifeboat would be of no use amongst those rocks, I fear," said
Lucy, "even if they could launch it in such weather as this. The
fishermen's lives are as dear as the lives of those on board that ship.
They have wives and children to live for."
"Oh, Lucy, I will never say again that I like storms," said Beryl
remorsefully. "Oh, I hope the ship will be saved!"
"I remember, many years ago, when I was a little girl, there was a
vessel struck on those rocks," said Lucy, "and all on board her were
drowned, though there were over a hundred of them."
"How dreadful!" said Beryl, with a shiver, as she watched the light
drifting nearer and nearer to the deadly peril of the rocks.
Meanwhile, at the extremity of the beach where Sheldon Point ran out
grim and sharp into the sea, a crowd of fisher-folk had gathered, and
were watching with grief and horror the oncome of the doomed vessel.
There were brave hearts in that throng, men who would not shrink from
danger in attempting to save the lives of others; but even these held
back now, feeling that it would be certain destruction to commit
themselves to those seething, angry waves.
Mr. Hollys had called for the lifeboat when he came down to the beach,
but no seaman had echoed the call. They shook their heads at the
mention of it, for they felt it would be madness to put out in it now,
and Mr. Hollys was reluctantly forced to own that they were right.
Such a terrific sea had not been known for years. The waves were even
dashing over Sheldon Point, a feat which would seem incredible to one
who had merely seen the waves when dancing in their summer play at the
foot of this lofty height. The fate of a disabled vessel drifting at
the mercy of such a sea was indeed hopeless.
"Can nothing be done?" cried Mr. Hollys, in despair. The howling of the
wind and the fierce tumult of the waves were all the answer he received.
Lights had been kindled along the shore, and now, as the vessel drew
nearer, they could discern her form and size. The cries of those on
board her were lost in the storm. Already the angry sea had swept over
her, carrying many to death; but they could distinguish some human
forms clinging with the grasp of despair to mast and rigging.
"Is it quite impossible to help them? Is there nothing you could do?"
asked Mr. Hollys of the fishermen about him.
"We have ropes and life-buoys, sir," answered Joe Pollard, Lucy's
brother, a brave, sturdy fellow, of honest Cornish race. "When it comes
to the worst, we may be able to pull in some, if the waves bring them
near enough."
Nearer came the vessel, driven by the cruel wind. Now they could see
clearly the people on deck. Clinging together at the stern were a group
whose appearance sent a thrill of deep pity through Mr. Hollys' heart.
They were a father and mother apparently, with their little girl
between them. Scarcely had Mr. Hollys observed their look of anguish
and love, as they clung together in the prospect of immediate death,
ere the dreaded shock came. With a crash, sounding sharp and loud
above the roar of wind and water, the vessel snapped in two on the
treacherous rocks, and the larger part disappeared at once from view.
Looking intently at the spot, Mr. Hollys could see that the ship's
stern rested on the rocks, a little above the waves, which seemed
greedy to devour it. The woman and child were still clinging there, but
the man had disappeared.
And now the brave fishermen were on the alert, eager to rescue any whom
the waves might bring within their reach. As their quick eyes caught
sight of a dark object tossing close at hand, one and another, girt
with a rope, would plunge into the sea to the succour of the drowning
man. Some few were brought to shore in this way, but the number was
small indeed compared with those who perished.
Mr. Hollys directed Joe Pollard's gaze to the two still clinging to the
wreck.
"Is there no possibility of saving them?" he asked. "Could they not be
reached from above?"
Joe shook his head. "There's no getting at them that way, I reckon,"
he replied; "the cliff is as straight as the side of a house below the
Point. The only chance would be by swimming round; but it would be a
hard fight for it."
"There will soon be no hope of saving them," said Mr. Hollys, as he
watched the waves breaking over the wreck. "Here, give me a rope, Joe.
I'm a tolerable swimmer, I'll try it. I can't see those poor creatures
perish without making some effort to save them."
"Nay, nay, sir; you couldn't hold out against such a sea as this,"
replied Joe. "If any one does it, I'm the man. You've got the little
lady to think of."
As Joe spoke he was fastening a rope round his waist. To one end of
this rope, he secured a life-buoy; then turning to Mr. Hollys, he said,
"I'll try it, sir. You hold the rope, and I'll do my best."
In another moment the brave fellow had plunged into the water, and was
battling with the waves. Mr. Hollys held his breath as he watched him.
For a while the waves seemed to assist his progress, but it was harder
work to round the Point. Again and again he was driven back; sometimes
he was lost to sight in a gulf of the sea, appearing again triumphant
on the crest of a huge wave.
Bravely, he struggled on, till at last the Point was rounded, and a few
strong strokes brought him alongside the wreck. He had gained it just
in time, for already it was breaking up under the fierce onslaught of
the waves.
A shout of joy broke from the watchers on the beach when they saw Joe
climb the planks to which the helpless woman clung. But rescue was yet
to be made, and Joe's hardest struggle lay before him.
With the rope, he secured the woman and child to the life-buoy, and
scarcely had he done so, when the whole mass to which they clung heaved
over and sank beneath the waves. The three sank with it, and for a
moment it seemed to the alarmed watchers as if all were lost. But the
next moment the life-buoy bore them up, and, seizing the rope, Joe
began to swim back, towing the other two.
Now the fishermen on the shore could help, and with a will they drew in
the rope, till, beaten and bruised by the waves, and utterly exhausted,
the shipwrecked ones were brought to shore.
"Surely they are dead?" said Mr. Hollys, as he looked at the white and
unconscious forms which the men had drawn out of the waves.
"I think not, sir," said one of the fishermen. "They're not so far gone
but what they can be brought back, I reckon. I've seen folks look worse
than that, and yet recover."
"They had better be carried to my house," said Mr. Hollys. "Everything
will be in readiness there."
And with compassionate tenderness the rough fishermen lifted the slight
form of the child, and the scarcely heavier one of her mother, and bore
them along the beach, and up the short ascent to Egloshayle House. Here
prompt measures were taken to restore them to animation. The child was
the first to recover consciousness. She came round quickly, and, when
wrapped in warm blankets, and laid in Beryl's bed, seemed little the
worse for her misadventure, save that she was frightened, and cried
piteously for her mother.
The mother's case was more serious, and it was long ere she showed the
least sign of life. When at length she was restored to consciousness,
her pulse was so feeble, and her exhaustion so extreme, that the
doctor, whose help Mr. Hollys had summoned, feared that she might be
unable to rally from the effects of the shock she had sustained.
Whilst the others were engaged in attending to the poor woman, Beryl
sat beside the child and tried to soothe her with loving words and
caresses. She was a pretty child, with large, dark eyes, and short,
black curly hair, much smaller, and probably younger than Beryl. She
seemed dreadfully frightened at finding herself in a strange place, and
Beryl's words and kisses failed to soothe her.
"I want mamma," she sobbed. And when told that her mother was too ill
to come to her, she said, "Then father will do. Where is father? Why
doesn't he come to me? Mamma is often ill, I know, but father never is."
In despair, Beryl went downstairs and sought her father. She found him
in the dining-room talking to the doctor.
"Papa," said Beryl, "that little girl keeps crying for her father. Do
you know where he is?"
"Alas! Poor little thing," said Mr. Hollys, sadly, "her father is
drowned, I fear. We never saw him after the vessel struck."
Beryl grew white, and clung to her father's arm with a sickening
feeling of horror.
She had never realised before what death meant. How dreadful it seemed
that that little girl upstairs should be crying for her father, and he
lying dead beneath the waves.
She burst into tears, and turned away. Her father drew her back to him,
kissing her, and uttering fond and soothing words; but Beryl wept long
and bitterly. She never forgot the grief and horror of that night. In
after years, it stood out clear and distinct in her history, as the
night on which she had first tasted of the world's sorrows.