HOMEWARD BOUND
The boys did not need the captain’s cry: “Look out for yourselves, boys;
she’s going over!” to tell them that they were in fearful peril. It had
come to the time when it was every man for himself, and each looked for
a chance to escape.
But Ransom clung to the helm, and noted, with an awakening of hope, that
his boat was increasing her speed. Little by little she gained, and inch
by inch she straightened up, in spite of the knock-down blows she got
from the blast. Faster and faster she slipped along, the energy of the
wind driving her ahead, rather than over. The water was on a line with
the rail once more, and the self-bailing valves in the cockpit began to
empty it.
Arthur put his knife in his pocket and crouched down by the windward
rail, while Frank assumed a natural attitude, and began to take a more
cheerful view of things.
“Thank God!” exclaimed Kenneth, fervently. “We’re safe once more.”
“That was the closest call we ever had,” said the mate.
It was some time before the white squall let up, and, when the wind died
down, the boys found themselves off Hammond’s Bay life-saving station,
and, thankful for the respite, they headed in for the refuge provided by
the Government.
A channel cut through the solid rock led to a little lagoon, and through
this the “Gazelle” was dragged by the good fellows of the station.
It was well that the yacht sought this refuge, for a storm that would
have sent the staunch little craft to the bottom lasted three days and
held sway over the Lake.
The enforced stay was not irksome in the least, for there were a great
many tales to tell and to hear, and the life savers were good fellows.
But with each day’s delay the longing for home grew stronger, though it
seemed as if the elements deliberately conspired to hold them back.
After leaving Hammond’s Bay, they went on up the Lake Huron coast. Storm
after storm broke over them, adverse winds beset them, and squalls
dogged their wake; but at last they reached the very tip of the
Peninsula, and passed through the Straits of Mackinac.
The feeling of exultation the sea-worn cruisers felt when the keel of
their boat once more ploughed the waters of Lake Michigan is beyond all
description. Words could not express the joy and satisfaction they felt.
Before a high gale and a nasty sea, the “Gazelle” ran into Little
Traverse Bay—the first harbor on the western shore of Michigan. Sailing
along the coast, it seemed as if they were almost home; that the bluffs
of old St. Joe were but a little way off, and that they had but to fire
their cannon to get an answering salute from their friends, the
life-saving station men.
Putting in at Old Mission, the boys visited Kenneth’s friends several
days, while the storm king reigned outside in his royal rage and
bluster.
At every stopping place, all along the line, they received letters,
urging them to hurry, for the winter season was so close at hand, when
no man may sail on the Lakes. Their people were anxious to have them
home. The long, dangerous trip, the frequent lapses in the
correspondence (enforced, of course, but none the less hard for the
watchers at home to bear), the stories of storm and disaster at sea, all
combined to wear down the patience and courage of the relatives at home.
The long stress of violent weather at the end of a fearfully prolonged
journey, had worn on the nerves of the captain and crew also, and they
all had a bad attack of homesickness. The longing for home when it is
near at hand, but just beyond the reach, is the hardest of all to bear.
A short spell of good weather succeeded the days of storm, and the
“Gazelle” sailed out of Old Mission for home. The boys’ friends lined
the shore and waved them “God speed,” and the three youngsters afloat
answered with a cheer, their faces bright, their hearts aglow with
anticipation. They were going _Home_.
The people ashore watched the little vessel, her white sides and sails
gleaming in the morning sun as she slipped off like a live thing,
dancing over the short wavelets daintily. They watched till she
disappeared behind the point.
Word was sent to St. Joseph that the “Gazelle” was on her way again, and
the people of the next port of call were on the lookout for her.
All the newspapers of the Western coast towns had printed stories about
the three Michigan boys who had circumnavigated the Eastern United
States in their Michigan boat, and most of the inhabitants of these
towns were familiar with the story, and took pride in the achievement.
The “Gazelle” had hardly been out of Old Mission six hours when a storm
rose that speedily developed into a hurricane. Vessels of every kind
sought harbor—steamships, schooners, whalebacks, every sort of
craft—hurried for shelter; but no word was brought of the little yawl.
She was not reported; no one had seen her since she had sailed so
jauntily out of Old Mission harbor. The papers were full of the havoc
wrought, of the shipping damaged, and lists and estimates of the value
of the property destroyed by the tempest were published; but no mention
was made of the “Gazelle”—neither in the list of vessels lost or vessels
saved did her name appear.
Frantic with anxiety, the parents of the crew sent telegrams along the
Michigan and Wisconsin coasts on both sides of the Lake, asking for
news. Then the papers began to take it up, and in large type they
printed:
“WHERE IS THE ‘GAZELLE’?”
“STILL NO NEWS OF THE MISSING YAWL.”
One stormy morning, after the newspapers had been printing headlines
like:
“‘GAZELLE’ UNDOUBTEDLY LOST,”
the lookout at Manistee life-saving station saw a small vessel, closely
reefed, scudding across the angry seas like a gull.
The lookout called to his mate: “What do you make her out to be?” The
other shielded his eyes from the sharp blasts of the spray.
“Yawl rigged, twenty-five or thirty feet, carrying jib and jigger. Looks
like she had only three men aboard—never saw her before.”
“Yawl rigged, you say?” The first life-saver stopped to look. “Thirty
feet—sure, that’s her. Do you know what that is?” He turned excitedly to
the other. “Why, that’s the ‘Gazelle.’ Been round the United States
pretty near. Papers are full of it.”
Soon the news was flashed from town to town that the “Gazelle” was safe.
The houses of gloom in St. Joseph brightened, and eyes dimmed with tears
sparkled with joy. Soon the “Gazelle” herself flew into port and dropped
anchor safe and sound.
The people of Manistee turned out to do the young sailors honor.
Again, as if by miracle, the staunch boat had triumphed over the
elements. With two anchors down, and several improvised ones out, she
had ridden the terrific gale safely.
Next day the little ship started out again, feverishly impatient to get
home. Kenneth waited only long enough for the wind to die down a little
and to get some very badly needed sleep.
With gales before them, behind them, battling with them from every side,
the dogged crew kept on, ever heading southward.
Late one day, each of the three families received a telegram that
thrilled them. “At South Haven. All well!” it read. Only twenty miles
away now!
It was over a year since the “Gazelle,” her colors flying, her unstained
sails showing white, had sailed out of St. Joseph harbor, and yet, in
spite of their eagerness to get home, in spite of the yearning of their
parents to have them home, they must needs spend a day in fixing up.
Kenneth was determined to have his vessel look well when he entered the
home port.
But, alas! with only twenty miles of the seven thousand to go, it seemed
as if they were doomed to wait yet another day. A gale was blowing, and
the rollers dashed themselves to spume against the bulkheads protecting
the harbor.
“You can’t do it,” the life-savers told the captain. “You’ll never get
between those breakwaters alive in this wind.”
“Yes, we will.” Kenneth’s mind was made up. A spirit of reckless daring
took possession of him, and he could and would get to St. Joseph that
day.
“We’ll do it, won’t we, boys?” Kenneth turned to the crew that had never
failed him.
“Sure!” was the laconic, but all-sufficient answer.
“Shake!” said the captain, and they gripped firm hands all around.
“Put in a single reef in the main,” the captain ordered, “and hoist
away.”
The boys looked at him a bit doubtfully, but obeyed without a word. The
jigger set, the anchor was hauled aboard and the jib halliards made
taut.
Slowly she began to make headway, her sails filled, and, heeling
gracefully to the wind, she headed for the narrow way between the
breakwaters.
People ashore shouted and cheered, and the boys acknowledged the salute
by waving their caps on high.
“Hurrah, for the last twenty miles!” Kenneth shouted suddenly, then
settled himself for the struggle to come.
It was a dead beat out to the open lake through the
three-hundred-foot-wide channel between the long piers. The wind blew so
hard that the spray obscured the piers from sight at times, and it
seemed impossible that any vessel propelled by sails could make way
against it.
Kenneth planned to clear the south pier with the first long tack. As the
yacht sped down towards the opening to the lake—choked as it was with
the smothering seas—he realized that he had undertaken a very hazardous
thing—realized that failure to clear the breakwater on that tack would
mean instant destruction against the bulkhead.
As they came nearer and nearer the rock-ballasted spiles, Kenneth
noticed that his boat was not pointing as high up into the wind as
usual, and that no matter how hard he jammed the helm over, she would
not head right. Instead of making the long angle that would bring her
clear of the end, the “Gazelle” was heading, in spite of all her skipper
could do, twenty feet in. The yacht acted queerly, but was making
tremendous speed. Nearer and nearer she came to the spiles partly
obscured by the spray; nearer and nearer, till the very slap and hiss of
the waves against them was heard.
The “Gazelle” was pointed straight at a group of logs some twenty feet
from the end. Kenneth was puzzled and worried, almost frantic,
indeed—never had his boat acted in this way before.
Despairingly he looked across at the rapidly narrowing strip of
foam-flecked water, when his quick eye caught a glimpse of the jib sheet
caught on the bitts.
“The jib sheet is fouled. Quick, clear it! Lively now, boys!”
In an instant it was done. The sail flew out to its rightful position,
and the “Gazelle,” like a racehorse that has been pulled in too much,
bounded forward, straight for the end of the pier. In a smother of foam,
amid a swirl of angry waters, the good yacht dashed into the open lake,
missing the end of the pier by a bare yard.
Kenneth could not hear the cheer that rose from the hundred throats
ashore, but he could feel it, and he was grateful.
A little over two hours later, the straining eyes of three boys aboard a
little yacht caught sight, through the mist and spray, of a white tower
on a high bluff, and the words “There it is!” passed from mouth to
mouth. A little later, and a fringe of people could be made out on the
top of the bluff, and some yellow-clad figures on the end of the long
breakwater, where the life-savers took their stand.
There was moisture in the boys’ eyes that could not come from the spray,
for it was salt, and a lump in their throats that would not down.
Suddenly there was a movement among the figures on the beach, a ripple
in the long line bordering the bluff. A flash of white showed here and
there. In three places along the line bits of color waved—red, and blue
and yellow—and the eyes that watched so eagerly for those colors, dimmed
so that only a blur was left.
The yacht was sailing gallantly—speeding over the whitecaps in a way
that rejoiced her builder’s heart. The Stars and Stripes, made by loving
hands, once bright and lustrous, now dim but glorious, spread out flat
by the gale.
Nearer she came to the harbor entrance—nearer to her home port. The
faint sound of people cheering came over the seething sea to the
home-coming trio. The steadfast colors waved, and the steadfast hearts
answered each other across the water.
Kenneth headed as if to cross the harbor’s mouth. Past the long pier the
“Gazelle” flashed, and it seemed as if the boys could hear the people
groan. A little beyond, Kenneth put her helm down, and she spun round on
her heel, heading straight for the inner basin. With sheets eased, the
water boiling at her bow, the waves flowing swiftly alongside, every
stitch drawing, every fibre in the rigging straining, the “Gazelle”
raced with the flying spray into port. Her crew, exhilarated, thankful,
jubilant, could hear nothing but the cheers of their friends, while the
brave bits of color waved them a welcome that had been waiting a long
year—the best welcome of all.
THE END