The complete story was reprinted together with _Christmas
Storms and Sunshine_ in a little booklet and presented by Mrs.
Gaskell as a contribution to a fête held in Macclesfield for
the benefit of the Public Baths and Wash-houses in 1850. A copy
of the booklet was sold for two guineas a few years ago. A
railway bridge now spans this treacherous part of Morecambe bay.
Well! we borrowed a shandry, and harnessed my old grey mare, as I used
in th’ cart, and set off as grand as King George across the sands about
three o’clock, for you see it were high-water about twelve, and we’d to
go and come back same tide, as Letty could not leave her baby for long.
It were a merry afternoon were that; last time I ever saw Letty laugh
heartily; and, for that matter, last time I ever laughed downright hearty
myself. The latest crossing-time fell about nine o’clock, and we were
late at starting. Clocks were wrong; and we’d a piece of work chasing a
pig father had given Letty to take home; we bagged him at last, and he
screeched and screeched in the back part o’ th’ shandry, and we laughed
and they laughed; and in the midst of all the merriment the sun set,
and that sobered us a bit, for then we knew what time it was. I whipped
the old mare, but she was a deal beener than she was in the morning,
and would neither go quick up nor down the brows, and they’ve not a few
’twixt Kellet and the shore. On the sands it were worse. They were very
heavy, for the fresh had come down after the rains we’d had. Lord! how I
did whip the poor mare, to make the most of the red light as yet lasted.
You, maybe, don’t know the sands, gentlemen! From Bolton side, where we
started from, it is better than six mile to Cart Lane, and two channels
to cross, let alone holes and quicksands. At the second channel from us
the guide waits, all during crossing-time from sunrise to sunset; but for
the three hours on each side high-water he’s not there, in course. He
stays after sunset if he’s forespoken, not else. So now you know where
we were that awful night. For we’d crossed the first channel about two
mile, and it were growing darker and darker above and around us, all but
one red line of light above the hills, when we came to a hollow (for all
the sands look so flat, there’s many a hollow in them where you lose all
sight of the shore). We were longer than we should ha’ been in crossing
the hollow, the sand was so quick; and when we came up again, there,
against the blackness, was the white line of the rushing tide coming up
the bay! It looked not a mile from us; and when the wind blows up the bay
it comes swifter than a galloping horse. “Lord help us!” said I; and then
I were sorry I’d spoken, to frighten Letty; but the words were crushed
out of my heart by the terror. I felt her shiver up by my side and clutch
my coat. And as if the pig (as had screeched himself hoarse some time
ago) had found out the danger we were all in, he took to squealing again,
enough to bewilder any man. I cursed him between my teeth for his noise;
and yet it was God’s answer to my prayer, blind sinner as I was. Ay! you
may smile, sir, but God can work through many a scornful thing, if need
be.
By this time the mare was all in a lather, and trembling and panting,
as if in mortal fright; for, though we were on the last bank afore the
second channel, the water was gathering up her legs; and she so tired
out! When we came close to the channel she stood still, and not all my
flogging could get her to stir; she fairly groaned aloud, and shook in a
terrible quaking way. Till now Letty had not spoken; only held my coat
tightly. I heard her say something, and bent down my head.
“I think, John—I think—I shall never see baby again!”
And then she sent up such a cry—so loud, and shrill, and pitiful! It
fairly maddened me. I pulled out my knife to spur on the old mare, that
it might end one way or the other, for the water was stealing sullenly
up to the very axle-tree, let alone the white waves that knew no mercy
in their steady advance. That one quarter of an hour, sir, seemed as
long as all my life since. Thoughts and fancies, and dreams and memory
ran into each other. The mist, the heavy mist, that was like a ghastly
curtain, shutting us in for death, seemed to bring with it the scents of
the flowers that grew around our own threshold; it might be, for it was
falling on them like blessed dew, though to us it was a shroud. Letty
told me after that she heard her baby crying for her, above the gurgling
of the rising waters, as plain as ever she heard anything; but the
sea-birds were skirling, and the pig shrieking; I never caught it; it
was miles away, at any rate.
Just as I’d gotten my knife out, another sound was close upon us,
blending with the gurgle of the near waters, and the roar of the distant
(not so distant though); we could hardly see, but we thought we saw
something black against the deep lead colour of wave, and mist, and
sky. It neared and neared: with slow, steady motion, it came across the
channel right to where we were.
Oh, God! it was Gilbert Dawson on his strong bay horse.
Few words did we speak, and little time had we to say them in. I had
no knowledge at that moment of past or future—only of one present
thought—how to save Letty, and, if I could, myself. I only remembered
afterwards that Gilbert said he had been guided by an animal’s shriek of
terror; I only heard when all was over, that he had been uneasy about
our return, because of the depth of fresh, and had borrowed a pillion,
and saddled his horse early in the evening, and ridden down to Cart Lane
to watch for us. If all had gone well, we should ne’er have heard of it.
As it was, Old Jonas told it, the tears down-dropping from his withered
cheeks.
We fastened his horse to the shandry. We lifted Letty to the pillion. The
waters rose every instant with sullen sound. They were all but in the
shandry. Letty clung to the pillion handles, but drooped her head as if
she had yet no hope of life. Swifter than thought (and yet he might have
had time for thought and for temptation, sir—if he had ridden off with
Letty, he would have been saved, not me) Gilbert was in the shandry by my
side.
“Quick!” said he, clear and firm. “You must ride before her, and keep
her up. The horse can swim. By God’s mercy I will follow. I can cut the
traces, and if the mare is not hampered with the shandry, she’ll carry me
safely through. At any rate, you are a husband and a father. No one cares
for me.”
Do not hate me, gentlemen. I often wish that night was a dream. It has
haunted my sleep ever since like a dream, and yet it was no dream. I took
his place on the saddle, and put Letty’s arms around me, and felt her
head rest on my shoulder. I trust in God I spoke some word of thanks; but
I can’t remember. I only recollect Letty raising her head, and calling
out—
“God bless you, Gilbert Dawson, for saving my baby from being an orphan
this night.” And then she fell against me, as if unconscious.
* * * * *
I took Letty home to her baby, over whom she wept the livelong night. I
rode back to the shore about Cart Lane; and to and fro, with weary march,
did I pace along the brink of the waters, now and then shouting out into
the silence a vain cry for Gilbert. The waters went back and left no
trace. Two days afterwards he was washed ashore near Flukeborough. The
shandry and poor old mare were found half-buried in a heap of sand by
Arnside Knot. As far as we could guess, he had dropped his knife while
trying to cut the traces, and so had lost all chance of life. Any rate,
the knife was found in a cleft of the shaft.