II

Having completed his work on the wireless plant at the Navy Yard, Bowen

thought himself due for a lay-off. And he did want to be home for a

while, but orders came to have installed before the end of the year an

experimental plant on Light-ship 67, which guarded Tide Rip Shoal to the

eastward.

Bowen, with his two helpers and his apparatus, took passage with Baldwin

on the wheezy little _Whist_ to where, twenty miles east by south from

the end of the breakwater, lay the tossing light-ship.

Baldwin was well acquainted with old 67. Every once in a while the

commandant would order Baldwin to make this trip for the accommodation

of somebody or other in the yard. "But a wonder," he observed now, as he

had observed a score of times before on nearing her--"a wonder they

wouldn't put one of those new class o' steam lightships out here. If I

was you, Bowen, I'd have an eye to the life-boat you see hanging to her

stern there."

"Why?"

"Well, if the old hooker went adrift, you might need it."

"What's her sails for?"

"I dunno. I often wondered, though. They've been tied up, just like you

see 'em now--stopped snug and neat between gaffs and booms--for, oh, I

dunno--twenty years now, I reckon. I know I've yet to see 'em hoisted.

But when'll I come and get you?"

"I'll send word to the yard station by wireless, to Harty or whoever's

on watch there, when we get it rigged."

"All right. And say, a great thing that wireless, ain't it? Well, good

luck." Baldwin gave the bell and the _Whist_ backed away. He rolled his

wheel over, gave her another bell and around she came; then the jingle

and ahead she went full-speed, which in smooth water was almost eight

knots.

The light-ship crew, headed by her yellow-haired keeper, stood around

and watched Bowen and his helpers assembling the parts of the wireless.

A momentous occasion for the light-ship crew, for nobody bothered them

much. Once every two months the supply ship came around, and sometimes,

if the weather was fine, some unhurried coaster would stand in and toss

them a bundle of newspapers. But no running alongside old 67 by any big

fellows. A good point of departure, Tide Rip Shoal! Sight it over your

stern and lay your course by her, but otherwise give her a wide berth;

for you could pile up a ten-thousand tonner on that shoal or the beach

to the west and--yes, sir, high and dry, before you knew it, especially

if it was thick and you were coming from the east'ard. No, the big

fellows were satisfied to have a peek at Tide Rip through a long glass;

and so on 67 anything at all except a spell of bad weather stirred them

deeply.

In the daylight hours Bowen and his helpers worked at their wireless,

and at night they sat in with the light-ship crew. Bowen usually played

checkers in the cabin with the keeper, Nelson, and while they played the

keeper gave him the gossip. He had been nineteen years on Tide Rip Shoal

light-ship, had keeper Nelson.

"No, no things never happen. He blow and she tumble about and her chain

chafe--chafe tarrible sometime. Nineteen year those chain ban chafe so.

One time he blow ten day without stop, but" (he removed his big pipe to

laugh aloud)--"but ten day over and she right dere. Good ol' 67, she ban

right dere. I axpect ol' 67, she be here on Yoodgment Day." Old Nelson

put his pipe back, puffed three times, frowned at the checker-board,

scratched his yellow head, let drop his eyelids and pondered. At about

the time Bowen began to think the keeper must be taking a nap, a long

arm swooped down and moved a black checker one square north-easterly.

Now, if Bowen had been riding to anchor in that one spot with old 67 for

nineteen years, perhaps he, too, would have paid small attention to a

gale of wind and a high sea; but he was a shore-going man, and he grew

very, very weary of the jumping and the rolling, and of the everlasting

rattling and chafing of the iron chains in the iron hawse-holes.

Two chains there were, like double-leashes to a whippet's throat. The

heave of the sea would get her and up she would ride, shaking, snapping,

quivering to get her head. Up, up she would go, and as she struggled up,

up, Bowen, watching, would find himself crying out, "By the Lord, she's

parted them." But no--Gr-r--the iron chains would go, Kr-r the iron

hawse-holes would echo, and, suddenly brought to, dead she would stop,

shake herself, and again shake herself to get free; but always the

savage chains would be there to her throat, and down she would fall

trembling; and the white slaver would scatter a cable length from her

jaws as she fell.

Bowen, with an arm hooked into a weather-stay, would stand out and watch

her by the hour; and "Some fine night you'll break loose," he would say

over and over to himself, "and then there'll be the devil to pay around

here," and on returning to the cabin he would tell Nelson about it.

"No, no," Nelson would shake his head, and after he had had time to

think it over, he would smile at Bowen's fears. On nights like these,

when he couldn't have his little game because he couldn't keep the

checkers from hopping off the board, Nelson liked to lie in his bunk,

within range of the big, square, sawdust-filled box which set just

forward of the cheerful stove. With eyes mostly on the oil-clothed

floor, the light-keeper would smoke and yarn unhurriedly. "No, no,"

Nelson would repeat. "For nineteen year now she ban here, yoost like you

see now. No drift for ol' 67. She ban too well trained."

But the chafed-out chains gave way at last. Christmas Eve it was, the

night when Bowen had hoped to be through with his work. It was also the

third and worst night of the gale, and Bowen, restless, homesick, was on

deck to see it. She leaped and strained as she had leaped and strained

ten thousand times before--and then they writhed, those chains, like a

stricken rattlesnake, for perhaps three seconds, and S-s-t!--quick as

that--they went whistling into the boiling sea. Off she sprang

then--Bowen could no more than have snapped his fingers ere she was

off--foolishly, wildly, and then, almost as suddenly as she had leaped,

she fetched up. It was as if she didn't know just what to do in her new

freedom. And while she paused, the sea swept down and caught her one

under the ear. Broadside she broached and aboard her foamed the

ceaseless sea, and the wind took her. And whing! and bing! and

Kr-r-r-k!--that was the life-boat splintered and torn loose. And sea,

and wind, and tide, all working together on old 67, away she went before

it.

Inshore, they knew, the high surf was booming; and they made sail then,

and for a while thought they could weather it; but when the whistling

devils caught the rotten, age-eaten, untested canvas--whoosh! countless

strips of dirty, rusty canvas were riding the clouded heavens like some

unwashed witches.

[Illustration: By and by he caught an answering call]

Tide and wind were taking her toward the beach, and Bowen, everybody,

even the unimaginative viking in command, could picture that beach and

the surf piling up on it. High as the light above their heads it would

be, and they would live just about ten seconds in it. Yes, if they were

lucky, they might last that long.

Bowen was one of those workmen who like to make a good job of a thing.

He was not ready to send his first wireless message. Another morning's

work and he had hoped to be ready, and that first message was to be a

Christmas greeting to his wife; but now he made shift to get a message

away in some fashion. With limber wrist and fingers he began to snap out

his signal number. A dozen, twenty, surely a hundred times he repeated

the letters, holding up every half minute or so to listen. By and by he

caught an answering call. It was the Navy Yard station. Feverishly he

sent:

"Light-ship 67. Tide Rip Shoal. Have parted moorings. Drifting toward

beach. Send help."

He waited for an answer. None came. He repeated. No answer. Over and

over he sent it. At last he caught: "OK. Been getting you. Go on."

"Drifting fast. West by south. Before morning will be in surf."

Again Bowen waited, and then the answer came: "What do you want me to

do?"

"Do something to save us."

"Why don't you do something to save yourself?"

"Sails blown away. Life-boat gone."

"Haven't you got a chart of Paris?"

"Chart of what?"

"Paris? With a few M'sieus on it? Good night."

Bowen let go the key, leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes, took

off his receiving gear and stared at the wall.

"What answer?" Nelson and his peering crew were at his shoulder.

"No answer."

"Dan we moost go up and dowse dose signal light, so no ship t'ink we ban

on shoal yet," and out onto the deck the impassive Nelson led his men.

"Good old squarehead--you're all right," muttered Bowen. "But as for

you," he gritted, "if I could only--just one grip of your throat is all

I'd ask for, and then, you dog!"