There had been an extra Mass at the little church at Beach Cliff on the
morning of the storm. Father Tom Rayburn, an old classmate of the
pastor's, had arrived, and been welcomed most cordially.
"I'm off to an old camping ground of mine--Killykinick," he had explained
to his host as they sat together at breakfast. "One of our Brothers is
there with some of St. Andrew's boys, and my own little nephew is among
them."
"Ah, yes, I know!" was the reply. "They come every Sunday to the late
Mass. And, by the way, if you are going out into those ocean 'wilds,' you
could save a busy man some trouble by stopping at the Life-Saving Station
(it's not far out of the way, as I suppose you'll take a sail or a motor
boat); and I promised two of those sturdy fellows who are groping for the
Truth some reading matter. I thought a friendly talk at the same time
would not be amiss. They have little chance for such things in their
lonely lives. But my duties are quadrupled at this season, as you know."
"And the 'wilderness' is in my line," said Father Tom. "Of course I'll be
glad to stop. I used to haunt the Life-Saving Station when I was a boy;
and I should like to see it again, especially when I can do a little
missionary work on the side," he laughed cheerily.
And so it had happened that while Dan and Freddy were hauling in their
lines and delivering breakfasts along the shore, one of the trig motors
from the Boat Club was bearing a tall, broad-shouldered passenger, bronzed
by sun and storm, to the Life-Saving Station, whose long, low buildings
stood on a desolate spit of sand that jutted out into the sea beyond
Shelter Cove. It was Uncle Sam's farthest outpost. The Stars and Stripes
floating from its flagstaff told of his watchful care of this perilous
stretch of shore that his sturdy sons paced by day and night, alert to any
cry for help, any sign of danger.
Father Tom, whose own life work lay in some such lines, met the
Life-Savers with a warm, cordial sympathy that made his visit a most
pleasant one. He was ready to listen as well as talk. But Blake and Ford,
whom he had come especially to see, were on duty up the shore, and would
not be back for more than two hours.
"I'll wait for them," said Father Tom, who never let a wandering sheep,
that hook or crook could hold, escape his shepherd's care; and he settled
down for a longer chat of his own wild and woolly West, which his hearers
watching with trained eyes the black line in the horizon, were too polite
in their own simple way to interrupt. Their guest was in the midst of a
description of the Mohave Desert, where he had nearly left his bones to
bleach two years ago, when his boatman came hurriedly up with a request of
speedy shelter for his little craft.
"There's a storm coming up I daren't face, sir," he said. "We can't make
Killykinick until it blows over. You'll have to stay another hour or two
here."
"All right, if our good friends will keep us," was the cheery response.
"We are not travelling on schedule time."
And then Father Tom looked on with keen interest as the sturdy life-savers
made ready for the swift-coming tempest that was very soon upon them,
bringing Blake and Ford back, breathless and drenched, to report their
observations along the beach,--that there was nothing in sight: everything
had scudded to shelter. So all gathered in the lookout, whose heavy leaded
glass, set in a stone frame, defied the fury of the elements. And, thus
sheltered, the group in Uncle Sam's outpost watched the sweep of the
storm.
"It's a ripper!" said Blake, translating the more professional opinion of
his mates to Father Tom. "But we ain't getting the worst of it here. These
West Indianers travel narrow gauge tracks, and we're out of line.
Killykinick is catching it bad. Shouldn't wonder if that stranded tub of
the old Captain's would keel over altogether."
"You think they are in danger there?" asked Father Tom, anxiously.
"Oh, no! Thar's plenty of other shelter. Killykinick is rock-ribbed to
stand till the day of doom. George! I believe Last Island is going clean
under!"
"Let her go!" came the keeper's bluff response. "Been nothing but a
bramble bed these twenty years."
"Bramble bed or not, some fools are camping there," said Blake. "I've seen
their dogs on the beach for the last three days; and there was a boat
moored to the rocks this morning, and boys scrambling along the shore. The
folks that are boxed up in town all winter run wild when they break loose
here, and don't care where they go--"
"Hush!" broke in the keeper, suddenly. "Push open the glass there, men,
and listen! I think I heard a gun!"
They flung open the window at his word. Borne upon the wild sweep of the
wind that rushed in upon them, there came again a sound they all
knew,--the signal of distress, the sharp call for help. It was their
business to hear and heed.
"A gun sure, and from Last Island!" said the keeper, briefly. "There are
fools there, as you say, Blake. Run out the lifeboat, my men! We must get
them off. Both boats, for we don't know how many we have to care for."
"Both boats, sir?" hesitated Blake. "We're short-handed to-day, for Ford
has a crippled arm that would be no good in this surf."
"I'll take his place," said Father Tom, eagerly. "I've shot the rapids
with my Indian guides many a time. I'll take Ford's place."
"Think twice of it, sir," was Blake's warning. "You are risking your
life."
"I know," was the brief answer. "That's my business as well as yours, my
friends; so I'll take my chance."
"There talks a man!" said the keeper, heartily. "Give him a sou'wester,
and let him take his chances, as he asks, in Ford's place."
And, in briefer time than we can picture, the two lifeboats were swung out
of their shelter in the very teeth of the driving gale, and manned by
their fearless crews, including Father Tom Rayburn, who, muffled in a huge
sou'wester, took his place with the rest; and all pushed into the storm.
* * * * *
At Last Island all hope seemed gone.
"One last shot, my boy!" daddy had said, as the gun dropped from his
shaking hand. "And no one has heard,--no one could hear in the roar of the
storm."
"Oh, they could,--they could!" murmured Freddy. "God could make them hear,
daddy,--make them hear and come to help us. And I think He will. I have
prayed so hard that we might not be drowned here all alone in the storm.
You pray, too, daddy,--oh, please pray!"
"I can not,--I _dare_ not," was the hoarse answer.
"O daddy, yes you can,--you must! The waters are coming on us so fast,
daddy,--so fast! Please try to pray with me. Our Lord made the winds and
waves go down when He lived here on earth; He walked on the waters and
they did not hurt Him. Oh, they are coming higher and higher on us, daddy!
What shall we do?"
"Die," was the hoarse, fierce answer; "die here together, my boy,--my
little boy! For me it is justice, judgment; but, O my God, why should Thy
curse fall on my boy,--my innocent boy?"
"O daddy, no! That isn't the way to pray. You mustn't say 'curse,' daddy.
You must say: 'Have mercy, dear Lord; have mercy! Save me and my little
boy. Send some one to help us.' Oh, I am trying not to be afraid, but I
can't help it, daddy!"
"My boy,--my poor little boy! Climb, Freddy! Try to climb up on the
roof--the broken shaft! Leave me here, and try to climb, my boy! You may
be safe for a while."
"O daddy, no, I can't climb and leave you," and Freddy clung piteously to
his father's breast. "I'd rather die here with you, and God will take us
both to heaven together. I haven't been a very good boy, I know; and maybe
you haven't either; but if we are sorry He will let us come to Him in
heaven--O dad, what is that?" Freddy's low tone changed to one of wild
alarm. "What is it now,--what is it now?"
For the dogs, that had been crouching and cowering beside their master,
suddenly started up, barking wildly, and dashed out into the rising
waters; new sounds blended with the roar of the storm,--shouts, cries,
voices.
"Here,--_here_!" daddy feebly essayed to answer. "Call to them, Freddy! It
is help. God has heard your prayers. Call--call--call--loud as you can, my
boy!"
But there was no need. Rex and Roy had already done the calling, the
guiding. On they came, the sturdy rescuers, plunging waist-deep through
the waters that were already breaking high on the beach and bramble
growth, surging and swelling across the broken wall that had once guarded
the Old Light, and lapping the low cabin floor. On the brave life-savers
came, while Rex and Roy barked in mad welcome; and Freddy's clear, boyish
cry, "Here,--here! Daddy and I are here!" pierced through the darkness and
turmoil of the storm. On they came, strong and fearless,--God's angels
surely, thought Freddy, though in strange mortal guise. And one, whose
muffling sou'wester had been flung loose in his eager haste, led all the
rest.
"Here, my men,--here!" he cried, bursting into the ruined hut, where a
little figure stood, white-faced, breathless, bewildered with the joy of
his answered prayer. "They are here! God have mercy!" broke in reverent
awe from his lips. "Freddy, Freddy,--my own little Freddy here!"
"Uncle Tom,--Uncle Tom!" And Freddy sobbed outright as he was clasped in
those dear, strong arms, held tight to the loving heart. "How did God tell
you where to come for me, dear Uncle Tom?--Daddy, daddy look up,--look up!
It's Uncle Tom!"
And what daddy felt as he looked up into that old friend's face, what
Uncle Tom felt as he looked down on the "derelict" that had drifted so far
from him, no one can say; for there was no time for words or wonderment.
Life-savers can not stop to think, much less to talk. Daddy was caught up
by two or three big fellows, without any question, while Uncle Tom looked
out for Freddy.
It was a fierce struggle, through surging waves and battering wind and
beating rain, to the waiting lifeboats; but, held tight in those strong
arms, pressed close to the true heart whose every pulse was a prayer,
Freddy felt no fear. Even when the stout boat, fighting its way back to
the other shore, tossed like a cork in the breakers, when the oar snapped
in Blake's hand, when all around was foam and spray, in which earth and
heaven seemed lost, Freddy, nestling in Uncle Tom's sou'wester, felt as if
its rough, tarry folds were angel wings.
And so safety and shelter were reached at last. Father Tom gave his little
drenched, shivering, white-faced boy into Ford's friendly care.
"Put him to bed somewhere, to get dry and warm."
"But daddy,--my own dear, lost daddy?"
"Leave him to me, my boy," said Uncle Tom, softly. "I'll take care of
daddy. Leave him to me."
And then Ford, who, somewhere back of Cape Cod, had a small boy of his
own, proceeded to do his rough best for the little stranger. Freddy was
dried, rubbed, and put into a flannel shirt some ten sizes too big for
him, and given something hot and spicy to drink, and finally tumbled into
a bunk with coarse but spotless sheets, and very rough but comfortable
blankets, where in less than four minutes he was sound asleep, worn out,
as even the pluckiest eleven-year-old boy would be, with the strain on his
small body and brave young soul.
How long he slept, Freddy did not know; but it was long enough for the
wind to lull, the skies to brighten, the black clouds to break and scatter
before the golden glory of the summer sun. The wide lookout window had
been thrown open, and showed a glorious rainbow spanning the western sky.
And there, on a pallet thrown hastily on the floor, lay daddy, very still
and pale, with Uncle Tom kneeling beside him, holding his hand. An icy
fear now clutched Freddy's heart at the sight. Reckless of the
ten-sizes-too-big shirt trailing around him, he was out of his bunk with a
jump to his father's side.
"Daddy, daddy!--O Uncle Tom, is daddy dead?"
And daddy's eyes opened at the words,--eyes that were no longer burning,
but soft and dim with tears.
"Not dead, little Boy Blue! Daddy is alive again,--alive as he has not
been for long, long years.--Tell him all, Tom. I am too weak. Tell him
all. He'll be glad to hear it, I know."
But Father Tom only put his arm around the boy and drew him close to his
side.
"Why should I?" he said, smiling into the upturned face. "We know quite
enough for a little boy; don't we, Freddy,--that, like another wanderer
from his Father's house, daddy was dead and is alive again, was lost and
is found. And now get into some short clothes, if you can find them, and
we'll go over to Killykinick in my little motor boat; for poor Brother
Bart is in sad terror about you, I am sure."
Ah, in sad terror, indeed! It was a pale, shaken old man that stood on the
beach at Killykinick, looking over the sea, and listening to the Captain,
who was striving to find hope where he felt there was none.
"Looks as if the old cabin on Last Island might be holding together still.
Dan and Neb are knocking a raft together, and if they can make it float
they'll go over there and get the little lad off. And if they don't Padre"
(the rough old voice trembled),--"if they don't, wal, you are sky pilot
enough to know that the little chap has reached a better shore than
this."
"Aye, aye, I know, Jeroboam!" was the hoarse, shaken answer. "God knows
what is best for His little lamb. His holy will be done. But, O my laddie,
my little laddie, why did I let you go from me into the darkness and
storm, my little boy, my little boy?"
"Hooray! Hooray!" Wild shouts broke in upon the broken-hearted prayer, as
Jim and Dud and Dan burst round the bend of the rocks. "Brother Bart,
Brother Bart! Look what's coming, Brother Bart!"
And, turning his dim eyes where the boys pointed, Brother Bart saw a
little motor boat making its swift way over the still swelling waves. On
it came, dancing in the sunlight arched by the rainbow, tossing and
swaying to the pulse of the sea; and in the stern, enthusiastically waving
the little signal flag that Ford had put into his hand to remember the
life-savers, sat--
"Laddie!" burst from Brother Bart's lips, and he fell upon his knees in
thanksgiving. "O God be praised and blessed for the sight! My laddie,--my
own little laddie safe, safe,--my laddie coming back to me again!"