"Safe through the war her course the vessel steers,
The haven gained, the pilot drops his fears."
--Shirley.
"We must," burst from Peggy, springing up wildly. "Oh, friend, can't
thee do something? We must not leave them."
"Sit still," commanded the mate sharply. "Why, look you! We can't even
see the 'Falcon' for the fog."
It was true. Already the hapless "Falcon" had been swallowed up by the
dense veil of vapor. It was as if the doomed vessel had been cut off
from all the open sea, and its fate hidden in the clinging curtain of
black obscurity.
The girl uttered a low cry, and sank back to her place in the sheets
covering her face with her hands. Colonel Owen and Harriet had been
unkind. They had been selfish almost to cruelty in their treatment of
her, but in this hour of what she believed to be certain death to them
she forgot everything but that they were kinspeople.
The sea was running very high. Now that they were so near its surface
they felt its full power. It had appeared stupendous when they were on
the deck of the schooner, but now the great billows hurled them up and
down, and tossed and buffeted them as though the boat was a plaything.
Vainly the mate tried to steady it with the oars.
A long time Peggy sat so absorbed in grief for her cousins that she was
oblivious to the peril of the situation. At length, however, she looked
up, and the dreadful isolation and danger of the position appalled her.
Only that little boat between them and the great Atlantic.
"I am cold," she exclaimed, when she could bear it no longer. "Sir," to
the mate, who was making tremendous effort with the oars, "is there
naught that will keep me from freezing?"
"No," answered he shortly, turning his set face toward her for a moment.
Its tense lines relaxed at sight of the girlish figure. "Stay! I have
it. Come, and row a while. You will be wetter than ever, but 'twill warm
you a bit."
Without a question Peggy gladly took the place by his side, and began to
scull as vigorously as her numbed fingers would permit with the oar he
gave her. She was not of much assistance, but the exercise served to
warm her chilled frame, and to divert her attention from their peril.
In this manner the day went on, the wind died down, and the sea fell to
a low, glassy, foam-flecked roll, while overhead brooded the inky sky,
and round them was the leaden mist of the enveloping fog. Suddenly the
mate stopped rowing, and raised his head as though listening.
"It's land," he shouted. "Land, to the westward!" He listened again
intently, and added solemnly: "And it's breakers too, God help us!"
Peggy listened breathlessly. The air was full of sound, a low, deep
roar, like the roll of a thousand wheels, the tramp of endless armies,
or--what it was--the thunder of a mighty surge upon a pebbly ridge. Louder
and nearer grew the sound. The mate's face whitened, and Peggy sat
erect, full of terror at the unknown danger that confronted them.
"I must pull," he cried, sweeping her back to her place in the sheets.
"I must pull," he cried again as the fog lifted and the dim outline of a
shore line became visible. "It's a race with death, little girl, but we
may be the victors."
With mighty strokes he sent the dingey ahead into the boiling surf. A
great wave caught the little shallop upon its broad bosom and flung it
upon the reef which lay concealed in the foam. There was a horrible
rending crash as the stout keel snapped asunder, while a second wave
swept over it, sweeping out the struggling occupants, and bearing them
onward.
Peggy knew naught of swimming, and so made no attempt to strike out. She
felt the water surging into her ears like a torrent of ice. She felt
that she was sinking down, down as if a great weight held her
remorselessly. This was death, she thought, and as the pain in her lungs
increased, visions passed swiftly through her brain. Where was the mate,
she wondered. A race with death, he had said. And death was the victor
after all. Her mother's face flashed before her. She was dying and she
would never know. And Sally! And Betty! And Robert! What times they had
had! Would they grieve, when they knew? But they would never know.
There was no hope. She must be resigned, came the thought, and so she
ceased to struggle just as a huge roller came surging over the outlying
reef. It caught her and bore her onward on its crest. Peggy closed her
eyes.
"The pore child! She's coming to at last," sounded a kindly voice, and
Peggy opened her eyes and gazed into the anxious orbs of an elderly
woman who was bending over her. "There now, you pore dear! Don't stir.
Just drink this, and go to sleep."
A cup of something hot was held to her lips. She drank it obediently and
sank back too utterly exhausted to even wonder where she was. She was in
a warm, dry bed. There was a caress in the touch of the hands that
ministered to her which penetrated through the stupor which was stealing
over her, and with a sigh of content, she turned over and slept.
The recollections of the next few days were always thereafter dim to her
mind. She knew that an elderly woman, somewhat rough-looking, was in the
room frequently, but to speak or to move her limbs was quite impossible.
But on the fourth day she was better. The fifth she could speak, move,
rise in bed and turn, and when the woman brought some gruel in the
middle of the day Peggy ate it with a relish. She felt strong and
revived, and a desire for action stirred her. She wished to rise, and
sat up suddenly.
"I believe if thee will help me I will get up," she said.
"Sakes alive, child! air you able?" cried the woman in alarm.
"Yes," said Peggy stoutly. "And I have troubled thee greatly, I fear."
"Why, you little storm-tossed bird," exclaimed the woman, "don't you go
for to call it trouble. Me and Henry just feel as though you was sent to
us. Well, if you will get up, here are your clothes." She brought Peggy
her own things, clean and dry, and proceeded to help her dress. "There,
you do look better now you are dressed. Let me help you to the kitchen."
She put her arm about the maiden, and drew her gently across the room to
the one beyond which was kitchen and living-room as well. It was a large
room with a sanded floor clean scoured, a high backed settle, a deal
table, a dresser with pewter plates ranged in rows, reflecting the
redness and radiance of a glowing fire in a huge fireplace. The woman
bustled about hospitably.
"You must have something to eat," she declared. "You've had naught but
gruel for so long that you must be hungry."
"I am," replied Peggy, watching her in a maze of content. Presently she
sat up as a thought came to her. "Friend," she cried, "how came I here?"
"Why, Henry brought you," responded the woman. "It was after the big
storm. We ain't seen such a storm in years. Henry's my husband. He's a
fisherman, as mayhap you've surmised. That is, he fishes for food, but I
reckon you might call him a wrecker too," she added with a smile. "Well,
as I was saying, he was down on the beach when you was washed up by the
waves. He thought you was dead at first, but when you got up, and tried
to walk he just ran over to you as you fell and brought you right up to
the house. Land! but we thought you was never coming to! But you did,
and now you'll be all right in a day or two."
"How good thee has been," said Peggy gratefully. "Why, thou and thy
husband have saved my life. I was so cold in the water and I--I was
drowning. Then that terrible wave threw me----" She paused shuddering at
the remembrance.
"Dear heart, don't think about it," exclaimed the good dame hastening to
her. "Here, child, eat this piece of chicken. It will hearten you up
more than anything. After a bit mayhap you can tell me about yourself.
But not a word until every bite of chicken is gone."
Peggy smiled at the good woman's insistence, but did not refuse the
chicken. Her appetite was awakened and keen, and she ate the piece with
such a relish that her hostess was well pleased. "There now! you look
better already," she declared. "Henry will be glad to see it. He takes a
heap of interest in the folks he saves. I reckon he's saved more lives
than any man on the coast of North Carolina."
"Is this North Carolina?" asked Peggy.
"Yes; and this is Fisherman's Inlet, near the Cape Fear River. What ship
did you say you was on?"
"'Twas the schooner 'Falcon,' from New York," Peggy told her. "It was
one of the vessels with Sir Henry Clinton, who set forth to attack
Charleston."
The woman's face darkened ominously. "And you air a Tory, of course,
being as you air a Quaker and with a British ship?" she said
questioningly.
"I? Oh, no, no!" cried Peggy quickly. "Why, my father is David Owen of
the Pennsylvania Light Horse. He is with the Continental army. I am a
patriot, but I was captured and taken to New York City, where I have
been since the last day of February of last year. It's nearly a year,"
she ended, her lips quivering.
"You don't say!" ejaculated the woman. "Then you must be a prisoner of
war?"
"I know not that I would be truly a prisoner of war," answered Peggy,
"for 'twas my father's cousin who captured me. I will tell thee all
about it."
"You pore child," exclaimed the woman, who ceased her work as Peggy
unfolded her story, and listened with wide-eyed attention. "What a lot
you've been through! I'm glad that you're not one of them English."
"And is thee a Whig?" asked Peggy.
"As I said, we air fisher folks, and don't mingle in politics. We don't
wish harm to nobody, English or any other. Why, even though we air
wreckers we always pray for the poor sailors in a storm, but we pray too
that if there air any wrecks they will be washed up on Fisherman's
Inlet."
A ripple of laughter rose to Peggy's lips, but she checked it instantly.
"How can I laugh," she reproached herself, "when 'tis but a few days
since I was on the ship? And the others have all perished, I doubt not."
"Don't think about it," advised the dame. "Laugh if you can. A light
heart is the only way to bear trouble. 'Tis a just punishment that they
should be drowned."
"But if Harriet had not made me go first I would not have been here,"
said Peggy her voice growing tender at the mention of her cousin. All
the old love and admiration for Harriet had returned with that act.
"I wonder," she added presently, "if 'twould be possible for me to get
to Philadelphia from here?"
"Philadelphia! I am afraid not, child. You don't know the way, and I
doubt if 'twould be safe to try it. Get strong first, and mayhap
something will turn up that will help you to get there."
"Yes," said Peggy. "I must get strong first."