A STORMY NIGHT ON A SINKING PILE-DRIVER
Plunging, then darting like a frightened deer, the “Gazelle” raced for
her goal; the long pier of Rondeau Harbor was just off her starboard
bow.
Could she make it by six o’clock?
Frank and Arthur thought no, Kenneth would not admit, even to himself,
that he was beaten.
Laying way over before the blast, she rushed along. The water churned up
by her bows rushed white above her lee rail, the weather rigging, taut
with the strain put upon it, vibrated like the bass strings of a harp,
the lee rigging sagging in proportion.
Kenneth leaned forward, his face eager, his hand grasping the tiller so
hard that the knuckles showed white through his tanned skin. Frank and
Arthur lay far out to windward—as far out as they could get.
“Six o’clock!” cried Arthur, looking up from the clock he held in his
hand. “And, by Jove, you’ve won!”
Rounding the lighthouse pier, the yacht slipped in behind the crib and
rested in smooth water.
“Well, old man, I take my hat off to you,” and Frank suited the action
to the word. “That was the finest bit of sailing I ever saw. Ken, you’re
a dandy.”
Kenneth was still breathing quickly with the excitement and exhilaration
of the race with time. His satisfaction in the performance of his boat
was only secondary to the pleasure he felt in his friends’ praise.
Again luck had served them well. For the next three days a storm raged
over the lake that made the boys very thankful that they were sheltered
in a safe harbor. This tempest was a forerunner of what was to come—a
foretaste of what the young mariners were likely to experience. The
sudden storms for which the lake region was famous at this time of year
had begun, and would continue until navigation was closed altogether by
the formation of ice.
A railroad had been doing some construction work near Rondeau Harbor,
and had been making use of a few large scows, a steam barge, and a
pile-driver from Detroit. With the closing down of the work, several of
the working crew had deserted and left the captain of the boats short
handed. That was his reason, therefore, for his request to Ransom for
help.
“Lend me one of your men,” said he.
“No,” answered Kenneth. “But if my shipmates agree, I’ll help you out,
if you give us a tow to Detroit.”
“Sure; that’s easy,” the other responded heartily. All hands agreed, and
the bargain was closed there and then.
The wind had calmed down when the strange fleet started out next
afternoon. It was headed by the steam barge, then came the top-heavy
pile-driver, then a scow, and, finally, the “Gazelle” herself,
reluctantly following along, as if averse to being in such disreputable
company.
The three boys drew lots to see who should stay on the scow; the mate
was the unlucky one, but, in spite of the protests of the other two,
Kenneth insisted on filling the post himself. To his surprise, he found
that he had been assigned to the pile-driver instead of the scow, and,
though he realized that it was hardly fair dealing on the part of the
captain, it was not a time to go back on his agreement. So he boarded
the pile-driver.
“If she leaks,” the captain shouted through a megaphone to Kenneth, “you
had better get up steam in the boiler and start the siphon going.”
The boy nodded, to indicate that he understood, and made his way aft to
the little house, where he found a small boiler, hoisting engine and the
necessary siphon.
“Jove!” he said to himself, “I am getting more than I bargained for.”
The run to Detroit was about a hundred miles. A hundred miles in an old
tub of a pile-driver on Lake Erie in the stormy season! Kenneth’s
thoughts were not very cheerful, but he set to work to find out all
about the strange craft of which he was captain, crew, engineer, and
fireman.
Comparatively smooth when the queer procession started, after sundown
the wind began to rise, and the sea with it.
Kenneth, from his post, could see the lights on his own boat swinging as
she rolled on the waves. The towering structure that carried the weight
of the pile-driver made the craft top-heavy, and very unwieldy in the
sea. It jumped and jarred, swung from side to side, and spanked the
rollers with its blunt bow. From time to time Kenneth sounded to see if
his craft was leaking, and was comforted to find that all was dry.
The wind increased in force, and the water rose higher each minute with
the speed characteristic of the Great Lakes. The sky was overcast, and
the darkness shut down on the rolling waters like a black blanket. The
steam barge ahead snorted away, heading into the wind, and the old scow
of a pile-driver kept its distance behind. Kenneth felt very lonely, and
longed to be aboard the “Gazelle,” the light from whose cabin he caught
fleeting glimpses of as she swung a little to one side.
For perhaps the twentieth time, he sounded the pump, and found this
time, to his alarm, two inches of water in the shallow hold. He waited a
few minutes and tried again—three inches.
“Phew, this won’t do!” he said, half aloud. “I’ll have to start that old
siphon going.”
By the time the fire was fairly going there was four inches in the hold,
and when steam was up and the pump had begun to throw its four-inch
stream, the water had gained two inches more.
With an energy born of desperation, Kenneth piled the wood into the
furnace and kept the head of steam up. The old pump worked well, and,
for a time, held the water even. Kenneth stood in the little house
watching the steam-gauge, while the pump sucked, wheezed, sputtered, and
the thick stream gushed overboard.
Again he tested the depth of water in the hold, and found, to his
horror, that it was gaining, in spite of the steady working of the pump.
More wood went into the roaring, cavernous furnace, and the needle of
the steam-gauge pointed higher and higher; the pump worked furiously,
but still the water gained.
Kenneth went out to see if he could get help if the worst came to the
worst. The old steam-barge ahead was making heavy weather of it, and
every man on board was intent on keeping her going. Just astern, the
scow spatted the waves doggedly, her flat bows presenting to the boy on
the pile-driver a front black, forbidding, and hopeless. Far behind, the
“Gazelle” bobbed serenely over the choppy waves.
The wind was blowing hard, and the waves raised their heads in anger on
every side, determined, it seemed to the boy alone on the leaking boat,
to have his life. He looked about for a small boat he could resort to in
case of dire need; there was none, not even a raft; but he caught sight
of a broad new board. With the deftness of long experience, he knotted a
rope about it to which he could cling, and hauled it aft close to the
cabin door, where he could jump for it in case of need.
There was work to do inside; moreover, it was warm and light, if lonely.
Sounding again, Ransom found eight inches of water in the hold. It was
gaining slowly, and he knew that it was only a question of time before
the scow’s buoyancy would be overcome and it must sink. Above the
howling of the wind, the crackling and snapping of the fire, the wheeze
and deep-breathing sound of the pump, Kenneth could hear the swash and
gurgle of the water in the hold—a sickening sound that weighed on his
heart like lead. When the boat rose on a wave, the water below rushed
pell-mell aft and came with a thud that jarred the whole structure
against the stern; then, tilted the other way, it rushed against the
bow, until the boy thought that the ends would be knocked out of her.
“Well, I guess my name is Dennis this time!” he said aloud. “This old
tub won’t stay on top long.” The sound of his own voice made him more
lonely than ever, as there was no response, no answering voice to cheer
and comfort him. Many trying experiences and frequent dangers had been
encountered, but seldom had he faced peril alone. He longed for the
companionship of his friends.
Kenneth sat on an old soap box and listened to the dreary sound of the
water splashing in the hold, and to the wind-devils shrieking outside.
He was utterly depressed and hopeless. As he sat with his head in his
hands, his elbows on his knees, he thought that he heard the sound of
human speech among the voices of the storm. He sat erect, and listened
with all his might.
“Ahoy, aboard the pile-driver!” the voice died away in the wind; but
again it made itself heard above the din: “Ahoy, there, Cap!”
Kenneth rushed out and forward.
A man was standing on the after-part of the barge, megaphone to his
mouth, bawling that they were going to get under the lee of Peelee
Island and lay up for the night.
With renewed courage, Kenneth went back to his stoking, and kept the old
pump going until the water-logged rolling of the crazy craft became less
violent and, finally, ceased altogether.
“Thank heaven, we are in some kind of a harbor!” said Ransom to the man
who came to relieve him. He was thankful to his heart’s core. Coming on
deck, he found that they were alongside a long pier. He scrambled ashore
and hurried aboard the “Gazelle,” weary, but supremely happy to be alive
and on his own craft again.
The skipper could hardly keep awake long enough to tell the boys his
adventures, and he had travelled far into the “Land of Nod” before the
other two turned in.
When the three arose the day was far advanced. The leak in the
pile-driver had been found and plugged, the wind had died down, and the
sea flattened out to the long, slow swell that bore no resemblance to
the tempestuous waves of the previous night. Under smiling skies, on
smooth water, the voyage to Detroit was a delight. Many stately steamers
passed them, bound to and from Lake ports.
In the early evening, the electric lights of Detroit appeared, perched
on tall, slender poles; they looked in the darkness like clusters of
stars hung in the sky.
“Michigan, My Michigan!” The boys sang in their hearts, if their lips
did not form the words. Once more they were in their native State, and
straight across to the West lay old St. Joe—so near by land, so far by
water.
The anchor down, all three boys got into “His Nibs,” eager to set foot
on dear old Michigan soil again. The little boat staggered bravely to
shore with her precious freight. Kenneth stayed, and went back to the
yacht after he had put his foot down good and hard on Michigan land. The
other two boys went on for mail and supplies.
Eager to reach home, they stayed but a day and a half at Detroit.
Under her own canvas, the “Gazelle” sailed up the Detroit River to Lake
St. Clair, then across that fine sheet of water to the St. Clair River,
the connecting link between Lakes Huron and Erie.
Frequent rain squalls had made sailing difficult and disagreeable, but
the yacht made good way, and, in spite of the uncomfortable weather, the
boys were in a very cheerful frame of mind. In Michigan waters, off the
Michigan coast, they felt that they were indeed on the home-stretch.
As the yacht was almost entering the river, the mate pointed off
excitedly towards the flats. “What’s that?” he cried. “Look, Ken,
quick!”
A very black pillar, like thick smoke, writhed between sea and sky; the
surface of the lake rose in a cone, rose to meet it, and the sky
narrowed down like a funnel. All the time it was twisting furiously, and
the water about it was much agitated. It moved steadily across the lake
in a direction that seemed to lead to the “Gazelle.”
“Great king!” exclaimed the skipper. “That’s a waterspout, sure. We are
done for if it strikes us, just as sure as shooting!”
The comrades watched the watery column anxiously. They were greatly
relieved, at length, to see it swerve to one side, sweep across the lake
and apparently go to pieces on the further shore.
“Well, we can say, if any one asks us if we saw a waterspout, ‘Yes, we
did. Would any one else like to ask any questions?’” The mate put on an
air that imitated the cheap lyceum lecturer to the life.
Just before making Port Huron, where the St. Clair River enters Lake
Huron, the boys encountered the ugly rapids that make the navigation of
this strait so difficult. It was a mile long, and a very trying run for
a sailing vessel, even under the most favorable circumstances. A large
steamer had sunk in the channel a few weeks before, and nearly blocked
it. The wind, strong, as usual, was blowing dead ahead. It was a beat to
windward with scarcely room to come about; one tack was hardly taken
before another one had to be made. By the time that the end of the
obstructing vessel was reached, “the crew’s” hands, so he declared, were
worn through to the bone, from the frequent and rapid handling of the
jib sheet.
“Great Scott!” cried the mate from his lookout forward. “We are running
down a steamer!”
Sure enough, a great grain boat was coming in the opposite direction,
and would soon be upon them.
“It’s all right,” called out Ransom, reassuringly; “we’re clear of the
wreck now.”
The words had hardly been spoken before the wind died out, as if by
magic, and the sails flapped about limp and helpless. The great boat had
blanketed the “Gazelle” as completely as if a wall had been built in
front of her. The current was setting back toward the abandoned steel
steamship, and the yacht drifted with alarming speed toward the
obstruction.
“I’ll gybe her,” Kenneth said to himself, “and retrace our steps till we
get to the open. Then we’ll wait till there are no other boats moving.”
Aloud, he shouted: “Look out, boys! I am going to gybe.”
Just as he spoke, a blast of wind slipped by the grain boat, caught the
yacht, and slammed the boom over with terrific force. Kenneth expected
to see the masts go out of her; but everything held, and she raced along
the side of the sunken ironclad, luffed up under her stern, and lay
quivering, but safe.
The “Gazelle” sailed up the narrow passage on the starboard side of the
wreck, while the steamer passed to port. The yacht ran the rapids
successfully, and was soon speeding along over Lake Huron with an
offshore beam wind. The sixty miles to the Government harbor of refuge
at Harbor Beach, was covered at nightfall.
The next night brought them to the entrance of Saginaw Bay. So far the
winds had been favorable and the water smooth, and the boys made daily
steps sixty miles long in their journey towards home.
They longed for home with a desire that amounted to an ache. Neither
would admit to the other how much he felt; but it was hard sometimes to
keep the tears back as something occurred to bring up visions of the
little city on the bluff.
Saginaw Bay had a bad reputation. Storms were apt to bluster about its
wide mouth, and strong winds were continually blowing across it.
Though the low barometer indicated that bad weather was coming, Kenneth
decided that he could not wait, and he pushed on across the treacherous
bay. At night, and in a place noted for its stormy weather, with bad
weather threatening, it may have been foolhardy to attempt the run; but
the spirit that lay behind the “Gazelle’s” motto—“Keeping everlastingly
at it brings success”—made the retracing of their steps to a safe harbor
a thing dead against the boys’ principles.
For once, the reputation of the locality seemed to be false; even the
glass appeared to be at fault, for the wind scarcely amounted to a
summer zephyr, and the waves were long and smooth.
The other boys were yawning, and at ten-thirty Kenneth sent them below,
promising to call them if need be. The skipper sat with the tiller over
his knees, thinking. There was but little to do—a glance at the sails to
see if all was drawing well, and an occasional look out for other craft
was all the attention the business in hand required. For almost twelve
long months he and his friends had lived aboard the little craft they
had learned to think of as a second home—through strange waters, along
unfamiliar shores, experiencing all conditions of climate, and seeing
all sorts of people. Dangers innumerable had been encountered and passed
safely, and now Kenneth said to himself: “We are almost home.” The trip
was well worth while, he thought; he had gleaned information that he
believed he could not have secured any other way, and his sketch book
was full of plans of all sorts of craft he had inspected.
In almost perfect silence, surrounded by darkness, he sat thinking and
dreaming. A vision bright as a picture appeared in his mind’s eye, and
in it he saw his future career. A builder of swift steamers and sturdy
cargo boats, of sailing craft of every rig, and all was good.
He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that for a time he did not notice
the ominous silence, the fitful, light puffs of wind that lapsed between
the calms, the sticky feeling in the air, the many signs which bespeak a
brewing storm. Not till the mainsail flapped in answer to a change in
direction of the fitful wind did the skipper realize that trouble was
coming. In an instant, the long vistas of his pleasant dreams
disappeared, and he became the sailor of a small boat off a dangerous
coast, with a storm threatening.
A puff of wind, that made the “Gazelle” quiver, came out of the north,
and Kenneth, one hand on the mainsheet, the other on the tiller,
prepared for the tussle.
In a few minutes the squall broke in earnest, and the yacht staggered
under it like a man bearing a heavy weight. She was carrying too much
canvas, so the captain called the boys. The weather was calm and serene
when they went below, and they were mightily surprised to find the boat
pitching and rolling, and the wind tearing at the rigging as if bent on
destruction.
Waking from a sound sleep and coming from a warm, bright cabin into the
outer air, where the cold wind devils held their revels, was
considerable of a shock, and both thought that it was a great deal worse
than it really was. The work of furling the mainsail was very difficult,
and did not tend to allay their fears.
“By George, Ken, we can’t last long in this!” said the mate, after
looking into the blackness and listening to the howling wind.
“Yes, I see our finish!” said the other.
“Pshaw! The ‘Gazelle’ has been through worse than this,” answered the
skipper. “See the pace she’s setting? She’s going like a cup defender.”
But in spite of his reassuring words, Kenneth was troubled. Their course
led them through the trough of the seas, and every minute it seemed as
if the little vessel would be engulfed by the huge waves. To turn back
was impossible, to steer to one side would bring them on a lee shore, a
turn to starboard would carry them out of their course, and far upon the
open lake.
There was nothing to do but to face the situation, to be vigilant and
trust to good fortune.
Home, that seemed so near to them a short time ago, now appeared utterly
unattainable. The “Gazelle” rolled along, now sinking deep in the watery
valley, now rising high on the top of a foam-crested hill. The motion
was sickening, and continued so long that it seemed as if they had
forever been rising and falling in the heaving billows.
Chilled to the bone, wet through from the wind-blown spray, weary from
the battle with the elements, it was like a strong hand stretched out to
a drowning man when Arthur shouted out, “Light, ho!”
“Where away?” cried Kenneth.
“A little off the port bow. No, it’s gone!”
All three boys strained their eyes to catch a glimpse of the will-o’-the
wisp.
“There it is!”
“Where?”
“No, it’s gone!”
The wind beat the spray into their faces and snatched at their clothing.
“There it is, sure!” Kenneth spoke exultingly. “It’s Tawas Light—at
least, it ought to be there.”
On a point of land like a crooked finger, the boys saw plainly, when the
yacht rose to the top of a wave, the steady, clear gleam of the yellow
flame.
Like a tired bird, the “Gazelle” crept inside the shelter and anchored;
her crew lowered the sails and dropped into their bunks. Utterly
exhausted, they fell asleep instantly, forgetting all troubles.
[Illustration: “THE ‘GAZELLE’ RACED WITH THE FLYING SPRAY INTO PORT.”]
When morning came, there was not a sign of the storm; the sky blue and
clear, a few fleecy clouds floating serenely about in it, the Lake below
gently undulating and reflecting in a deeper tone the azure of the
heavens.
With the sunshine came new confidence, and the boys laughed at their
fears of the night before.
“Let’s get under way and hurry home, for we’re only a little way off
now.” The mate was in a very jubilant frame of mind.
For several days the yacht sailed along the coast of the Lake Huron side
of the great Peninsula of Michigan—close enough to see its beautiful
shores, its rugged rocks, and dark, almost black, evergreens.
At Presque Isle they put in for provisions. They found a beautiful
harbor, but not a sign of a settlement, and no place to buy food. The
need of provender drove them forth in spite of a storm, which an
unusually low barometer indicated was soon due. It was planned to make
harbor at Cheboygan, some sixty-five miles away, but while passing
Rogers City the yawl ran into a calm and floated idly. Great clouds were
banked up to the northeast, which spread rapidly till the whole heavens
were overcast. The water had the oily, smoky, treacherous look that
precedes a storm. Kenneth ordered in the jib and jigger, and tied three
reefs in the mainsail. No sooner had the last knot been tied, when, with
a howl that was deafening, the squall struck them. It was a terrible
blast. The “Gazelle,” being without headway, careened before it; farther
and farther she went; she sank till her rail was on a level with the
water, and it came bubbling through the scuppers; still the pressure
continued. She dipped to leeward till her deck was covered and the waves
lapped the deck house.
“Look out, boys! Be ready to jump. She’s going over, sure!” For the
first time, Kenneth lost confidence in his boat; no craft, he thought,
could stand such a test. All hands climbed to windward, ready to jump
away from entangling rigging.
Farther and farther she listed under the fearful blast; the water was on
a line with the cabin roof now, and began to ooze through the oval port
lights into the cabin.
With muscles tense, ready to spring away, Kenneth still stood at his
post, the tiller in one hand the other clasping the cockpit rail, to
keep from sliding off into the waves.
With a thrill of hope, he felt the tug of the tiller—the indefinable
touch when a boat is in motion. The “Gazelle” was making way at last!
But still her decks sloped at the fearful angle and the squall blew
undiminished.
The mate stood close to “His Nibs,” lashed on deck, bared knife in
hand—ready to cut the ropes that bound her.
Her deck half submerged, her cockpit partly filled, the water creeping
through the ports into the cabin, the “Gazelle” surged slowly along. The
crew clung on the sloping decks, waiting for the last sickening lurch
that precedes a capsize.