OUTWARD BOUND
It was a quiet group of boys that stood in the cockpit of the “Gazelle,”
and watched the shores of their native town fade from view. They had
persevered in their scheme in spite of discouragement from their elders
and ridicule from their companions. They had undertaken a seemingly
impossible thing. What would the outcome be?
It was well that the young adventurers could not foresee what the future
had in store for them, for stouter hearts even than theirs might have
hesitated at the prospect.
As it was, none of them had forgotten that “Keeping Everlastingly at it
Brings Success,” and all four meant to follow that motto to the end.
“Clyde!” Ransom suddenly interrupted the reverie into which they had
fallen. “I think I once heard you say that you would like to be cook.
Now’s your chance. Go ahead and be it.”
“My, what a memory you have!” the other answered, with a wry face. “But
wait until you try some of my cooking, then the smile will travel my
way. I’m sorry for you.” And Clyde disappeared down the companionway.
The storm which had just passed left the surface of the Lake very
uneasy, and the little yacht was tossed from the crest of one huge wave
to another like a chip; but she bore the rough usage splendidly, and
hardly shipped water at all; the spray which her sharp spoon bow dashed
up as she flew into the white caps was all the wetting her deck showed.
“Say,” came a muffled voice from below, “I’ll mutiny if some one doesn’t
come down and hold the things on the stove. The coffee-pot is trying to
jump into the saucepan’s lap. Hello! On deck there! Come down and sit on
the—” The owner of the voice showed a very red and wrathful face at the
foot of the ladder. Frank went below at once, and soon the sound of
voices mingled with that of clattering tins and chinking pottery. Then
the odor of steaming coffee and frying bacon came through the
half-closed companionway. Kenneth and his mate began to lose interest in
the set of the sails, the curve of the rail, and the angry look of the
water. Frequent glances, thrown at the opening from which such
satisfying aromas penetrated, betrayed the direction in which their
thoughts had strayed.
“All hands below to supper,” was the welcome cry. “Except the skipper,
who will stay on deck and steer, I suppose.”
So the cook got even.
The table, hinged to either side of the centre-board trunk, bore a
goodly store of “shore grub.” The ship’s stove was steaming away in the
galley, way forward almost under the deck. On either side of the cabin
the bunks were ranged; good, wide bunks with generous cushions. They
served as beds by night and couches by day, the bedding being rolled up
under the deck and concealed by curtains. Under each bunk was a wide
chest or locker, and, besides, a row of drawers was built forward, so
that each member of the crew had ample room wherein to stow his
belongings. A man-o’-warsman would be at a loss to know what to do with
so much space.
The cabin was fourteen feet long, nine feet wide at the widest part, and
six feet high. Any member of the crew could stand upright without fear
of his upper story.
The skipper saw all this in his mind’s eye as he fondled the tiller (a
boat’s most sensitive, sympathetic spot) and watched the sails puffing
to the breath of the breeze. He grew hungrier every minute, but every
minute the wind grew stronger and the waves higher, so that his interest
in the behavior of his boat returned and increased, until he forgot
about the complainings of his stomach altogether. The “Gazelle” seemed
to know that her maker’s eye was upon her, for she showed off in brave
style. She rose on the waves as lightly as a cork, and swept along at a
surprising rate of speed.
Frank and Arthur soon came climbing up on deck, and then Ransom had his
turn below. In spite of Clyde’s protestations, he was no mean cook, and
if “the proof of the pudding lies in the eating,” the crew were
certainly satisfied with their first meal aboard.
“How are we going to work this thing?” said Arthur, as Ransom’s head
appeared above the hatch coaming. “We certainly won’t get in to Chicago
before morning.”
“We’ll divide up the night into regular watches. Four on, four off.
See?” explained Kenneth.
“But who’s who?” queried Clyde, from the foot of the companionway
ladder.
“Arthur and I will be the starboard watch, you and Frank will be the
port. That satisfactory?”
“Sure,” the other three responded.
“Well, suppose the port watch goes on duty for the second dog watch—from
six to eight—while the starboard watch does the dishes?”
“I never heard of a starboard watch washing dishes,” said Frank. “But I
think they could not be better employed.”
Kenneth and Arthur went below and began to “wrestle” pots and dishes,
while Frank and Clyde sailed the boat.
The yacht rolled a good deal, and the amateur dishwashers found it
difficult to keep the water in the dish pan. But if the yawl pitched, it
was not unduly, and she always recovered herself easily. Her poise was
well-nigh perfect.
Though the off-and-on plan was carried out, there was little sleep for
either watch—the experience was too new—and when Chicago was reached
late the next morning, all hands were glad to lay up for a while and
rest. They considered that the trip had now fairly begun, inasmuch as
people had predicted that the “Gazelle” would never cross even the Lake
in safety. The boys took advantage of city prices and bought all sorts
of things and stowed them aboard the yacht. There was enough stuff
aboard to stock a small store for a year, yet the yawl did not seem to
be overburdened.
“Hear ye’r goin’ through to ther canal?” It was the evening of the
second day when a burly, bearded chap shouted this in a fog-horn voice
to Arthur. “Want a tow through, Cap?”
“Here, Ken, is a fellow who wants to tow us to the canal,” Arthur
shouted down the open hatch to Ransom.
They did want a tow, and the agreement was soon made, so the tugboat man
departed content.
The following afternoon a little tubby, snub-nosed, paintless tug
steamed up, and the boys recognized their tugboat man in the pilot
house.
“Hello, Cap!” was his greeting. “Ready?”
“Hello, Captain!” Ransom responded. “All ready. Give us a line.”
The hawser was hauled aboard and made fast to the capstan bitts forward,
and soon the yacht was on her way once more.
All of the boys had seen the Chicago River before, but never had any of
them come so close to the shipping. There were whalebacks for freight,
and whalebacks for passengers, steamboats, Great Lake, grain, and
passenger steamers, little tugs towing barges ten times their size;
sailing craft of all kinds. It was bewildering, and how the little tug
ever found a way through the labyrinth was a marvel. All went well,
however, though the boys held their breaths whenever there was a
particularly close shave, and so were almost continually in a state of
suspended animation.
It seemed as if miles of craft of various kinds had been passed, when
they came up to an enormous grain steamer which was fast aground. She
was surrounded by a mob of puffing tugs, which had been working since
the day before to get her off. The steamer and her escorts took up most
of the stream, but a narrow lane remained open at one side just wide
enough to allow the tug and the “Gazelle” to pass through. There was
barely room between the towering sides of the great freighter and the
heavily timbered side of the river-bulkhead, but there seemed to be no
danger that the great vessel would get off and fill up the narrow
passageway. The boys, therefore, told their tug to go on.
The tug entered the open lane and puffed steadily ahead, the yacht
following a hundred feet behind. The towboat passed on, and the
“Gazelle” came abreast of the freighter’s stern. It overshadowed the
small craft just as a tall office building would dwarf a news-stand
beside it. The four boys gazed at her great iron sides in admiration and
wonder; they could almost touch it.
“I wonder will they ever get her off!” exclaimed Arthur. “She looks as
if she was built on to the bottom.”
“Say, Ken, look!” It was Frank who grabbed Ransom’s arm and pointed to
the great ship’s counter. “Isn’t she moving now?”
She certainly was. The freighter’s stern was swinging round; slowly at
first, but gaining in speed every moment. The tug was going ahead, and
the iron sides were closing down on the little yacht irresistibly. It
was a horrible trap which the tug, by reason of the long tow-line, had
escaped. The boys realized their danger, and shouted to the captain of
the tug. He immediately rang for full speed ahead. It was a grim race to
escape destruction.
Faster the tug churned on, but nearer and nearer came that terrible iron
wall, until it bumped against the yawl’s white sides. Both yacht and
freighter were edged in to the spiles of the bulkhead until there was
but three feet of open water between. Men on the freighter, ashore, and
on nearby vessels saw the danger. They shouted words of encouragement
and warning; but even as they did it, they knew that it was of no avail.
Nearer and nearer the fearful iron wall approached, inexorably. The boys
saw that the boat was doomed to certain destruction, and perhaps death
lay in wait for them, but they could do nothing.
They were being drawn into the very jaws of the trap, and the crew
looked at the smooth sides of the freighter for a foothold or a hanging
rope that they might cling to, and then to the slimy bulkhead. Each had
picked out a place for himself to spring for when the time should come.
Suddenly the movement of the great ship’s stern stopped. She quivered a
moment and was still. She had grounded just in time, and the “Gazelle”
slipped through with not three feet to spare.
The shout that went up from the onlookers was like the sudden escape of
long pent-up steam—it was a glad cry of relief, and the boys echoed it
in spirit, but could do nothing but wave their caps in answer.
It had been a narrow escape, and the crew of the “Gazelle” were thankful
enough to come out of it alive. To the shouts of the onlookers, however,
they waved their caps airily, as if it was an everyday matter to escape
from the jaws of death.
After this all went well. The tug and its light tow made such good time
that the entrance lock to the Illinois and Michigan Canal was reached by
nine o’clock. All hands turned in except Ransom, who was to take the
first four-hour watch. But, from time to time during the night, various
members of the crew waked with a feeling that there was a house crushing
them. Whether this was caused by the experience with the ship, or the
pancakes which Clyde constructed for supper, this chronicler does not
pretend to state.
Early the following morning, the boys paid their canal fees, and passed
through the lock.
“How long is this canal, Ken?” Frank asked, after they had tied up in
the basin.
“Ninety-six or seven miles, I think,” he answered.
“Walking good?” was Clyde’s question. “I don’t see a crowd of tug men
crying like hackmen at a depot, ‘Tug, sir.’ ‘Tow, sir.’ ‘Take you
through quick, sir!’”
“You’re right,” said Kenneth, with a smile. “It’s pretty late for
shipping, I hear; but perhaps that steam freighter that we heard was
coming through will give us a lift. Let’s wait a while and see.”
They did, and the freighter good-naturedly gave them a tow all the
afternoon. But good things, like everything else, have an ending, and
the following morning found them towless.
A good half of this ninety-six mile canal the boys towed their boat by
hand—they were their own mules, as Arthur expressed it. Two towed, and
two stayed aboard, steered, and tended ship. The starboard and port
watches took turns.
The hunting along the way was good, and many a plump duck tried the
carving abilities of the cook and tickled the palate of the passengers.
Seven days of towing by hand, and friendly helps from passing steamers,
brought them to La Salle, the end of the canal and the Illinois River.
Letters from home reached them here, and gladdened their hearts
mightily. It was one of the consolations of this trip that every few
days they received word from home, and were able to send messages to the
anxious ones who were left behind.
Though the boys were somewhat footsore from their unaccustomed walking
and their amphibious journeying, they were gaining weight steadily, and
would have made splendid “after” pictures for a tonic advertisement.
The night on which they reached La Salle was cold, and, after getting
their letters, the four friends made all ship-shape on deck, and then
went below, closing the hatch behind them. After a rousing supper, to
which, needless to say, they did full justice, the table was cleared,
dishes put away, and in a twinkling the place was turned into a reading
saloon or a lounging room. The swinging lamp shed a soft glow on the
warm coloring of the cherry woodwork and cushioned bunks. The light on
the table was ample, and the boys set out to answer the pile of letters
they had received. It was a great temptation to tell hair-raising tales
of every little happening that they had met with, but from the first it
was agreed that the pleasant things alone should be detailed at any
length. For a time, the scratching of pens on paper was the only sound,
other than the comfortable, subdued creak of the throat of the main boom
on the mast, which made itself heard as a passing gust struck the yawl.
Presently, however, one of the pens stopped scratching, and its owner
added a new element to the soft sounds—that of heavy breathing and an
unmistakable snore. Soon all but Ransom were stretched out on their
bunks, fully clothed but sound asleep. He still struggled to write,
keeping awake by force of fist in eye. He, too, was almost dozing, the
gust had passed, and the boom was quiet, the low hum of the lamp was the
only sound to be heard.
Thump, thump! The thud of something heavy jarred the four out of their
doze with a start. Then a scraping sound followed, and a couple of
thumps at their very feet. It was startling, and Ransom scrambled to his
feet and, followed by his three companions, who, half asleep as they
were, looked about with dismayed faces, rushed on deck, expecting to
find themselves on shore and in imminent danger. But, instead, they
found a comfortable old log, with some branches clinging to it, that had
floated down stream and had merely knocked off some of the “Gazelle’s”
white paint in passing.
“That’s one on us,” laughed Kenneth in a relieved manner. “Let’s turn
in.”
When the boys got up the next morning, they found a layer of snow on
deck, and a thin skin of ice on the still water. It was high time to be
on their way, so they shipped their mast again, bent on the sails, and
set up the rigging in a hurry, and the following day were well on their
way down the river towards the Mississippi.
The Illinois River is broad and shallow, and in order to keep enough
water in the stream to float the grain boats down to the great river,
enormous darns are built at intervals. A lock at each dam allows the
vessels to drop to the lower level. Leading to each lock is a canal a
hundred yards or so long.
The “Gazelle” made good way down the river, but each dam was approached
with much care. A tack missed, the boat would in all probability go to
her destruction.
They had but three more dams to pass, and were sailing along with a
beautiful breeze across stream to their starboard hand. Several hundred
yards above the lock, Arthur blew a lusty blast on the horn to notify
the gatekeeper of their approach. Again he blew, and at last they saw
the man come out of his house and begin to work the levers that opened
the enormous gates. The “Gazelle” swept on, straight as an arrow, for
the gate, every stitch drawing, her forefoot fairly spurning the water,
and the small boat—“His Nibs”—bobbing gaily behind.
The yacht was sailing faster than they realized, and suddenly the boys
saw that they would reach the gate before it was opened wide enough to
admit them. There was but one thing to do. With a warning shout of
“hard-a-lee,” Kenneth bore down on the tiller, the other boys hauled in
the sheets, and in a minute the boat was heading out and up the stream.
It was quick work, but for a time all seemed well. Then the wind
slackened and a swift current caught them. The boat began to drift down
stream toward the dam. To the alarmed boys the current seemed as swift
as a mill race. It was carrying them at a terrific rate straight for the
dam and to what seemed must be certain death. Now they could see the
ugly heads of the logs sticking out of the water at the brink of the
falls, and jagged stones which turned the stream to foam in a hundred
places.
Still the wind lagged, and the current increased in speed. The boys
looked from one to the other. Each knew that nothing could be done, but
instinctively they hoped that something would intervene to save them.
But what could save them now? With pallid faces and hearts that beat
fast, they agreed to stick to each other and the ship.
Still the stream ran on and the breeze lagged. The line of white that
defined the edge of the falls could now be distinctly seen, and the roar
of the water drowned all other sounds. They began to give up hope. It
seemed as if nothing could help them—surely nothing could.
Ransom was watching the bit of bunting—the fly—at the mainmast head. He
saw it straighten out and begin to snap.
“Boys!” he exclaimed, “there’s a chance yet. Look!”
Even as he spoke, a puff of wind struck them, the sails rounded out, and
the backward speed of the yacht slackened. Inch by inch, she began to
gain on the current. Her crew felt as if they were pushing her along;
their nerves and muscles were tense. Soon they saw that they were making
real headway. If the wind held they would be safe yet. It was a gallant
fight that the spruce “Gazelle” made—a fight for her life and the lives
of her crew, and still the wind held strong and true. She gained.
At last it was safe to come about. “Hard-a-lee,” sang out the steersman
cheerfully, as he headed the boat up into the wind. The “Gazelle” paused
a moment in apparent indecision, her headsails flapping, then around she
came and headed straight for the now widely open gates.