IN THE GRIP OF IRON AND STONE
The great vessel squeezed the yacht even tighter, and the boys could
feel the deck under their feet bent upward by the pressure.
It was intolerable. Kenneth’s vessel was actually being destroyed under
him and no move of his could prevent it.
Beside himself with despair and rage, he shouted at the blank wall of
the grain boat, and in blind fury put his hands against it and
pushed—his puny strength against a thousand tons.
“It’s a wonder you boys don’t go to sleep after a day on the path.” The
speaker’s head showed over the rail of the barge.
The fearful mockery of his words drove poor Kenneth almost crazy, and he
shouted at the man words that had no meaning—inarticulate sounds that
voiced his agony.
Still the crush continued, until the yacht was forced almost out of
water and her deck was squeezed into a sharp, convex curve. The poor
boat groaned, as if in pain.
The man on the barge looked down on the terrified boys calmly, stupidly;
perfectly aware that by no act of his could he avert the catastrophe.
But still the pressure continued. The boys gathered their scattered wits
together, and, with energy that seemed futile even as they called,
shouted for help.
Then came an answering shout, a sound of moving feet on the grain
barge’s deck, a sharp, urging call to a team, the snap of a whiplash.
The barge began to slide off, and the “Gazelle,” released from the
powerful grip, settled down. Kenneth and his friends stood poised, ready
to spring ashore when the vessel—her seams opened to the flood—should
sink.
With a slowness that was nerve-racking, the iron monster moved away
until the yacht was wholly released; with a groan that was like a sigh
of relief she settled to her normal water line, bobbed up and down a
little, as if to adjust herself to her more comfortable position, and
floated quietly and safe.
Kenneth could not believe his eyes, but rushed below, and, pulling up
the square trap in the cabin floor, thrust his hand far into the bilge,
expecting to see the water come bubbling out of the well. He was beside
himself with joy to find no oozing seams, no leaking crannies—she was
dry.
He shouted aloud to his friends on deck the joyful news, and they came
tumbling down, incredulous, to feel and see for themselves.
Again the wonderful little craft had stood the test, the most severe in
her varied experience. The sturdy timbers, so carefully steamed, bent,
and joined together, squeezed all out of their rightful shape, sprang
back to their designed lines as soon as released from the awful
pressure.
When the commander of the fleet came back and offered to make good any
damage his boat had caused, the boys were too full of joy and gratitude
to exact any damages.
Beyond the started joints in the hardwood finish of the cabin, the yacht
was unhurt, and they could not conscientiously ask for money even if
they wished.
The fleet captain went off, and, as the barge slipped off into the
night, the voice of the man on deck came back to the boys: “Ye blamed
fools, why didn’t ye punch a hole in her and go home like gentlemen on
the money you’d get?”
Ruin his boat! Kenneth would almost as willingly cut off his right hand.
His fingers itched to clutch and shake the man who made such a degrading
proposition.
Once more the crew and their faithful boat had escaped destruction as if
by a miracle. Once more the hand of Providence had appeared strong in
their behalf, and they were grateful—too much affected to speak of it,
except in a subdued undertone.
Soon after this “Step Lively” made her banner run of thirty-one miles in
one day. Arrived at the busy little city of Lockport, the “Gazelle”
began the steep ascent of the series of step-like locks to the top of a
large hill and the upper level. Five double locks opened one into the
other; one series for descent the other for ascent of the hill. Each
lock raised or lowered the vessel in it fifteen or twenty feet. It was a
splendid piece of engineering that the boys, after their many miles of
canal journeying, could fully appreciate.
“Say, this is easy,” said Arthur. “Just like going upstairs.”
“Yes; only it’s no work,” suggested Frank.
“It’s like some of the sudden trips I have made upstairs when my father
had a grip on the seat of my trousers; that was easy, till afterwards,”
and Kenneth rubbed himself reflectively.
Beyond the “lock step”—as Frank facetiously called the series of water
lifts—the canal was cut out of the solid rock; the walls of stone rising
sharply on either side of the water, the tow-path was a mere ledge cut
between the ditch and the embankment. It was a gloomy sort of place,
especially since the rain had fallen recently, the rocks were black with
dripping water, and the tow-path slippery with mud. The road where “Step
Lively” toiled along was narrow and several feet above the surface of
the water, a strong wind was blowing down the gorge-like cut, and made
it hard for the old mare to pull the yacht. Frank was driving, and urged
the beast along with voice and slap of rein. All went well until the
horse stumbled over a stone, slipped, and, in her struggle to recover
her feet, slipped still more, and finally she slid over the edge and
plunged into the canal with a mighty splash.
Frank stood on the bank and hopped about like a hen whose chicks have
proved to be ducks and have just discovered their native element; he
still held on to the reins, and when the old horse splashed towards the
bank pulled with all his might. The sides of the canal were as steep as
a wall, and the poor beast could not get the slightest foothold. She
gazed at Frank with an appealing eye and struggled valiantly to reach
dry ground, only to fall back till all but her snorting nose was
submerged. “Don’t push, just shove!” cried an unsympathetic looker on.
“Why don’t you put boats on his feet?” suggested another.
Frank was at his wit’s end. He tried in every way to extricate the poor
beast from its predicament, but since she could not fly it could not be
done.
The “Gazelle,” carried on by the impetus she still retained, came
alongside of the struggling amphibious steed, and Frank threw the reins
aboard.
“Well, this beats the Dutch!” Kenneth exclaimed, as the three boys
looked helplessly down on the poor beast swimming gamely in her
unnatural element—a pathetic but ludicrous sight.
“What the deuce shall we do?” Frank did not know whether to laugh or
cry, and his face was curiously twisted in consequence.
“Well,” said the skipper at last, “I guess the tower will have to be
towed till we find a shelving bank and the order can be reversed again.”
All hands seemed to appreciate the humor of the situation except “Step
Lively,” and she back-pedalled with all her might. Kenneth and Arthur
took the place of the tow-horse on the path, and found it hard work to
pull the heavy boat through the water and a refractory horse that
insisted on swimming backward as hard as she could. As they strained and
tugged, puffed and sweated they lost the funny side, and agreed that it
was “blamed serious.” At this juncture “Step Lively” woke up to the
situation, and swam with instead of against her masters, and then all
was lovely.
The people the strange procession met were very much amused, and they
did not hesitate to make comments.
“Turn about’s fair play, ain’t it?” said one.
“About time the boat towed a while; put her on the path,” said another.
At length a sloping place was reached, and the old horse scrambled out.
It was hard to tell which was more relieved—at any rate, “Step Lively”
took up her regular occupation with alacrity, and the boys went back on
board with a sigh of relief. For fear the faithful old beast would catch
cold, she was kept going, and so escaped harm.
At Tonawanda, on the Niagara River, Kenneth sold the horse to a man who
contracted to tow them to Buffalo and Lake Erie. And so they parted with
“Step Lively” for three dollars. She had entirely lost her hat-rack
appearance, and seemed almost as sorry to leave her young friends as
they were to dismiss her.
From Tonawanda the canal followed along the Niagara River. The
beautiful, broad stream, smooth and placid, looked little like the
torrent a little farther below that rushed madly down the steep incline,
and then made that stupendous leap.
“Is this the Niagara River?” one boy asked another. Its calmness was
disappointing.
At Buffalo the “Gazelle” entered her native waters once more—on lake
water, but still a thousand miles from home.
Twelve days from Troy to Buffalo, three hundred and fifty-two miles—not
a bad record considering the one-horse motor.
The boys cast anchor within the shelter of Buffalo’s breakwater October
10, 1899, and looked over the strange, green waters of Lake Erie. They
immediately went to work, stepped the masts and set up the rigging for
the last stage of their long journey. A thousand miles of lakes
stretched between them and old St. Joseph, yet the young voyagers felt
that they were almost home. They forgot for a time that the great inland
seas were sure to be swept by gales that would increase in force and
frequency as the season advanced, until the freezing blast closed up
navigation altogether, and the waters, now tracked in all directions by
vessels of every description, would be deserted—left to the howling
winds, the grinding cakes of ice, and the screaming gulls.
It was a serious situation that stared them in the face, did they but
realize it. The sharp gales on the lakes were to be dreaded even more
than the tempest on the ocean, for land, never very far off, surrounded
on every hand, and a lee shore was an imminent peril.
A mere zephyr toyed with the flag at the “Gazelle’s” masthead as she lay
at anchor—too soft to waft the yacht a mile an hour—so it was not
strange that Kenneth and his crew forgot for a time that the lake, now
so calmly sleeping, would soon rise in its anger and lash itself into
white foam.
The lack of wind gave the crew an opportunity to visit Niagara Falls,
and they took time to drink in a full measure of this most magnificent
of Nature’s wonders, a sight that they will remember all their days—the
crowning spectacle of their trip.
After a three days’ stay at Buffalo, the breeze sprang up, the boys
raised the anchor, and the “Gazelle,” her sails spread to the freshening
wind, sped out of harbor and away on the last lap of her race round the
Eastern half of the United States.
“Hurrah!” the boys shouted, and, clasping hands, congratulated each
other.
The “Gazelle” acted as if she felt that her native waters bore her once
more, and skimmed along as lightly as the gulls that circled in the
clear, cool air. Straight across the lake she flew, sped by an
ever-increasing wind, until the point off the Welland Canal, on the
Canadian side, was reached. With a snap characteristic of her, she came
about and started off on another tack, then stopped suddenly with a jar
that knocked the boys to their knees. Hard on the rocks! There was not a
minute to spare if the good yacht was to be saved. With a spring,
Kenneth let go the mainsail halliards, and the slatting sail came down
on the run, while Arthur lowered the jib. It was quick work, but these
young men had had the training that made them decide rapidly and act
effectively.
The sails down, the yacht rested more easily, but still she pounded, the
waves dashing her heavily on the cruel ledges.
[Illustration:
SWAYING ON THE HALLIARDS.
“THE SAILS WERE HOISTED.”
]
Kenneth jumped overboard, clothes and all, followed by Frank and Arthur.
Putting their shoulders to the yawl’s stem, they pushed with might and
main. At length the heavy boat moved, and, as in New York Harbor, they
pushed, walking after till the yacht floated clear and they had to hold
on to keep from sinking. Through the clear water the rocks lurked just
under the surface in every direction, and only by the most careful
manœuvring could the yacht be sailed to safety. The sails were hoisted
once more, Kenneth took the helm, and, after a time, Frank and Arthur
went below to put on some dry clothes. The October wind blew keen and
sharp, the skipper, crouching in the stern to present as little surface
to it as possible, thought he would freeze to death—his wet clothes
stuck to him and the cold wind seemed to go directly to his vitals.
“H-h-h-hurry up!” he shouted to the boys below through his chattering
teeth. “I-i-i-i’ll sh-sh-shake the boat to p-p-p-pieces if you don’t
g-g-g-get a m-m-m-move on.”
By this time the “Gazelle” was clear of all danger, and was coasting
over the rollers at splendid speed.
As the day wore on the wind increased in force, and the lake, true to
its reputation, was lashed into waves both high and short. It was the
kind of sea that makes a small boat like the yawl pitch and toss most
uncomfortably; but, in spite of it all, she made good speed. With a
clear course ahead, though the weather was threatening, Kenneth kept on
for Port Stanley, on the Canadian shore. About two-thirty in the morning
the skipper calculated that the light marking the harbor they sought
should be visible, but not a sign of it could Arthur, on lookout duty,
see. The skipper, in spite of the tossing sea, shinned the mast, and
from its elevation caught a glimpse of the gleaming light.
Coming down on deck, he shouted to Frank at the wheel: “We’re
over-canvassed; we’ll have to reef down.”
The wind made it hard for him to be heard.
“Reef in this sea? You’re crazy, you can’t do it!”
“We’ve got to do it,” the captain answered. “Art, give us a hand on the
mainsail.”
The mate obeyed, and together they crawled forward. Dark as pitch, they
had to work by sense of touch alone. Each knew the position of every
line, every rope, as he knew the location of his eyes and his mouth, but
the choppy sea made it impossible to stand an instant unaided. Arthur
gripped the standing rigging with his legs as he lowered the mainsail,
and Kenneth clung desperately to the boom as he began to tie the reef
points.
The “Gazelle” jumped and thrashed about like a bucking horse, and the
darkness enveloped everything. Of a sudden, the boat gave an awful
lurch, and Kenneth heard a sudden thump against the yacht’s side and all
was still. Instantly he missed Arthur—nowhere could he be seen.
“For heaven’s sake, luff—luff!” he cried to Frank. “Art’s overboard.”
The boat shot up into the wind and lay there quivering, while Kenneth,
dread lying like a weight on his heart, sought for his friend.
“What’s the trouble?” a voice called from the other side of the boat.
“Anybody hurt?”
“For heaven’s sake, where are you, Art?”
“Over here. What’s the trouble?”
“My, but I’m glad you’re O. K.! Thought you were overboard, sure.”
“Oh, I guess it was that wooden fender you heard; it went over in that
last jump.”
The “Gazelle” went better under her reduced canvas, and reeled off the
miles like the steady sea-boat she was.
“Well, we did not see much worse sea on the ocean, did we, boys?”
Kenneth had a sort of pride in his native waters, and took satisfaction
even in its rough moods.
They were certainly formidable. Short, high, and following one another
in quick succession, the waves tossed the yacht about as a man is thrown
in a blanket.
Daylight soon came to cheer the young mariners, and revealed the
Canadian shore but a few miles to starboard. At two o’clock in the
afternoon the “Gazelle” sailed into Port Stanley. Once safely inside,
the wind rose shrieking, as if enraged because the yacht had escaped.
For three days they lay at anchor, stormbound—three days that would have
been much enjoyed if Kenneth had not been so anxious to go on. Food was
plenty and the people kind, but the thought of the terrible winter,
whose breath, even now, could be occasionally felt, urged them on and
took the edge off their enjoyment in the hospitable place.
[Illustration: LOOKING FOR PORT STANLEY.]
To Rondeau Harbor was a sixty-mile run, and when the “Gazelle” pushed
her bowsprit past the protecting point of Port Stanley, it looked as if
there would not be wind enough to carry her the distance by nightfall.
But a fair breeze soon sprang up, and they sped along at a good pace.
The lake seemed to be on its good behavior—ashamed of the temper it had
shown for the last three days, perhaps. It took little at that time of
year to rouse Old Erie to a howling rage. At five-ten in the afternoon
the boys saw that the pleasant mood that had lasted all day was giving
way to a very ugly temper, and there were six miles more to cover before
shelter could be reached.
“Look at those clouds over there,” said Frank. “We’re going to have a
head wind and all sorts of troubles.”
“Sure thing!” echoed Arthur.
“Oh, come off! I’ll bet you four to one we’ll be inside by six o’clock.”
Kenneth saw, too, that there was to be a high wind in the wrong
direction.
“Done!” cried Frank and Arthur together. “You’re a chump, Ken. All those
miles with a head wind? I guess nit.”
“You just watch your Uncle Dudley.” The skipper meant to do his level
best to win his reckless wager.
The goal was in plain sight, and Kenneth took his place at the helm,
determined to be on a line at least with those piers by six o’clock. The
wind was rising steadily and swinging more and more ahead. The yacht,
seeming to realize what was expected of her, settled down to her work
and slipped off into the eye of the breeze like a witch. Each minute the
wind hauled more and more ahead, until the boat, her sheets already
closely trimmed, seemed to sail right square into the teeth of it. The
gray bulkhead was yet a long way off, and the minutes were slipping by
at an alarming rate. Arthur grinned as he called out, “Five-thirty.”
It was a race against time with a vengeance. More than the settling of a
friendly wager was involved. The clouds to the southwest had an ugly
look, and the line of dull gray showed against the bright blue straight
as if drawn by a ruler.
Nearer and nearer they came to “the haven where they would be,” but
faster and faster flew the minutes.
“Five-forty-five!” Arthur called, clock in hand.
“Can she do it?” Kenneth asked himself. Only fifteen minutes more, and
the black edge of the squall so close.
Then the wind died down.
“I told you so!” said Frank, exultingly.
Kenneth knew that it was but the calm before the storm. “You just wait,”
he said; “you haven’t got this cinched yet.”
“Five-fifty!” droned Arthur. “Ten minutes more.”
Kenneth said nothing, but kept a sharp weather eye open for squalls.
“Five-fifty-seven!” called the timekeeper.
Off to port the skipper saw the water scuffed up, as if a thousand
silvery fishes suddenly sprang up.
“Here she comes,” Kenneth said to himself, “and she’s a hummer!”
All at once the blast struck them.
Whoo!
The “Gazelle” laid over before it till her lee freeboard, high as it
was, was buried under, and the water lapped alongside the deckhouse. The
boat fairly flew along, great sheets of spray shooting out from her bow,
the sails standing stiff as if moulded out of metal. “His Nibs,” towed
behind, was almost lost in the smother of spray, and her painter
stretched out to the larger boat straight and stiff as a steel rod,
without a sag in it.
My, she was going!
The “Gazelle” was over-canvassed for such a blow, but she could not stop
then.
Kenneth sat at the tiller like a jockey on a racing horse—his gaze
fixed, his face pale, his muscles tense. Ready to luff and save his
boat, if need be, but determined to drive her to the finish if steady
canvas and honest manila could stand the strain.
“You can’t do it, Ken!” Frank cried.
“But I will,” he answered grimly. “Arthur, keep your eye on that clock.”