A WRECK AND SOME WRECKERS.
Dismally barren and lonesome was that desolate bar between the bay and
the ocean. Here and there it swelled up into great drifts and mounds of
sand, which were almost large enough to be called hills; but nowhere did
it show a tree, or a bush, or even a patch of grass. Annie Foster found
herself getting melancholy, as she gazed upon it, and thought of how the
winds must sometimes sweep across it, laden with sea-spray and rain and
hail, or with the bitter sleet and blinding snow of winter.
"Dabney," she said, "was the storm very severe here last night and
yesterday?"
"Worse than it was over on our side of the bay, ten times."
"Were there any vessels wrecked?"
"Most likely, but it's too soon to know just where."
At that moment "The Swallow" was running around a sandy point, jutting
out into the bay from the foot of the highest mound on the bar, not half
a mile from the light-house, and only twice as far from the low wooden
roof of the "wrecking-station," where, as Dab had explained to his
guests, the lifeboats and other apparatus of all sorts were kept safely
housed. The piles of drifted sand had for some time prevented the
brightest eyes on board "The Swallow" from seeing any thing to seaward;
but now, as they came around the point and a broad level lay before
them, Ham Morris sprang to his feet in sudden excitement, as he
exclaimed,--
"In the breakers! Why, she must have been a three-master! It's all up
with her now."
"Look along the shore!" shouted Dab. "Some of 'em saved, anyhow. The
coast-men are there, too, life-boats and all."
So they were; and Ham was right about the vessel, though not a mast was
left standing in her now. If there had been, indeed, she might have been
kept off the breakers, as they afterwards learned. She had been
dismasted in the storm, but had not struck until after daylight that
morning, and help had been close at hand and promptly given. There was
no such thing as saving that unfortunate hull. She would beat to pieces
just where she lay, sooner or later, according to the kind of weather
that might take the job in hand, and the size and force of the waves it
should bring with it.
The work done already by the life-boat men had been a good one; and it
had not been very easy, either, for they had brought the crew and
passengers safely through the boiling surf, and landed them all upon the
sandy beach. They had even saved for them some items of baggage. In a
few hours the coast "wrecking-tugs" would be on hand to look out for the
cargo. There was therefore no chance for the 'long-shore men to turn an
honest penny without working hard for it. Work and wages enough there
would be, to be sure, helping to unload, whenever the sea, now so heavy,
should go down a little; but "work" and "wages" were not the precise
things some of them were most hungry for.
Two of them, at all events,--one a tall, grizzled, weather-beaten,
stoop-shouldered old man, in tattered raiment, and the other more
battered still, but with no "look of the sea" about him,--stood on a
sand-drift, gloomily gazing at the group of shipwrecked people on the
shore, and the helpless mass of timber and spars out there among the
beatings of the surf.
"Not more'n three hunder' yards out She'd break up soon, 'f there was no
one to hender. Wot a show we'd hev!"
"I reckon," growled the shorter man. "'S your name Peter?"
"Ay. I belong yer. Allers lived 'bout high-water mark. Whar'd ye come
from?"
The only answer was a sharp and excited exclamation. Neither of them had
been paying any attention to the bay side of the bar; and, while they
were gazing at the wreck, a very pretty little yacht had cast anchor,
close in shore; and then, with the help of a rowboat, quite a party of
ladies and gentlemen--the latter somewhat young-looking for the greater
part--had made their way to the land, and were now hurrying forward.
They did not pay the slightest attention to Peter and his companion, but
in a few minutes more they were trying to talk to those poor people on
the seaward beach. Trying, but not succeeding very well; for the wreck
had been a Bremen bark, with an assorted cargo and some fifty
passengers, all emigrants. German seemed to be their only tongue, and
none of Mrs. Kinzer's pleasure-party spoke German.
"Too bad," Ford Foster was saying about it, when there came a sort of
wail from a group at a little distance, and it seemed to close with,--
"_Pauvre enfant!_"
"French!" exclaimed Ford. "Why, they look as Dutch as any of the rest.
Come on, Annie, let's try and speak to them."
The rest followed, a good deal like a flock of sheep; and it was a sad
enough scene that lay before them. No lives had been lost in the wreck;
but there had been a good deal of suffering among the poor passengers,
cooped up between decks, with the hatches closed, while the storm
lasted. Nobody drowned, indeed; but all had been dreadfully soaked in
the surf in getting ashore, and among the rest had been the fair-haired
child, now lying there on his mother's lap, so pinched and blue, and
seemingly so nearly lifeless.
French, were they?
Yes and no; for the father, a tall, stout young man, who looked like a
farmer, told Ford they were from Alsace, and spoke both languages.
"The child, was it sick?"
Not so much "sick" as dying of starvation and exposure. Oh, such a sad,
pleading look as the poor mother lifted to the moist eyes of Mrs.
Kinzer, when the portly widow pushed forward and bent over the silent
boy! Such a pretty child he must have been, and not over two years old;
but the salt water was in his tangled curls now, and his poor lips were
parted in a weak, sick way, that told of utter exhaustion.
"Can any thing be done, mother?"
"Yes, Dabney, there can. You and Ham and Ford and Frank go to the yacht,
quick as you can, and bring the spirit-heater, lamp and all, and bread
and milk, and every dry napkin and towel you can find. Bring Keziah's
shawl."
Such quick time they made across that sand-bar!
They were none too soon, either; for, as they came running down to their
boat a mean-looking, slouching sort of fellow walked rapidly away from
it.
"He was going to steal it!"
"Can't go for him now, Dab; but you'll have to mount guard here, while
we go back with the things."
There was a good deal of the "guard mounted" look in Dab's face, when
they left him, a few minutes later, standing there by the boat, and he
had one of the oars in his hand. An oar is almost as good a club as the
lower joint of a fishing-rod, and that was exactly the thought in Dab's
mind.
Ham and Frank and Ford hurried back to the other beach, to find that
Mrs. Kinzer had taken complete possession of that baby. Every rag of his
damp things was already stripped off; and now, while Miranda lighted the
"heater," and made some milk hot in a minute, the good lady began to rub
the little sufferer as only an experienced mother knows how.
Then there was a warm wrapping-up in cloths and shawls, and better
success than anybody had dreamed of in making the seemingly half-dead
child eat something.
"That was about all the matter with him," said Mrs. Kinzer. "Now, if we
can get him and his mother over to the house, we can save both of them.
Ford, how long did you say it was since they'd eaten any thing?"
"About three days, they say."
"Mercy on me! And that cabin of ours holds so little! Glad it's full,
anyhow. Let's get every thing out and over here, right away."
"The cabin?"
"No, Hamilton, the provisions."
Not a soul among them all thought of their own lunch, any more than Mrs.
Kinzer herself did; but Joe and Fuz were not among them just then. On
the contrary, they were over there by the shore, where the "Jenny" had
been pulled up, trying to get Dab Kinzer to put them on board "The
Swallow."
"Somebody ought to be on board of her," said Fuz, in as anxious a tone
as he could assume, "with so many strange people around."
"It isn't safe," added Joe.
"Fact," replied Dab; "but then, I kind o' like to feel a little unsafe."
The Hart boys had a feeling, at that moment, that somehow or other Dab
knew why they were so anxious to go on board; and they were right
enough, for he was saying to himself, "They can wait. They do look
hungry, but they'll live through it. There ain't any cuffs or collars in
Ham's locker."
All there was then in the locker was soon out of it, after Mrs. Kinzer
and the rest came, for they brought with them the officers of the
wrecked bark; and neither Joe nor Fuz had an opportunity to so much as
"help distribute" that supply of provisions. Ham went over to see that
the distribution should be properly made; while Mrs. Kinzer saw her
little patient, with his father and mother, safely stowed on board "The
Swallow."
"I'll save that baby, anyhow," she said to Miranda; "and Ford says his
father's a farmer. We can find plenty for 'em to do. They'll never see a
thing of their baggage, and I guess they hadn't a great deal."
She was just the woman to guess correctly about such a matter.
At that moment Dabney was saying to Annie Foster,--
"Whom do you guess I've seen to-day?"
"I can't guess. Who was it?"
"The tramp!"
"The same one?"
"The very same. There he goes, over the sandhill yonder, with old Peter
the wrecker. We've got to hurry home now, but I'm going to set Ham
Morris on his track before we get through."
"You'll never find him again."
"Do you s'pose old Peter'd befriend a man that did what he did? Right on
the shore of the bay? No, indeed! There isn't a fisherman from here to
Montauk, that wouldn't join to hunt him out. He's safe to be found
whenever Ham wants him, if we don't scare him away now."
"Don't scare him, then," almost whispered Annie.
The wind was fair; and the home sail of "The Swallow" was really a swift
and short one, but it did seem dreadfully long to her passengers.
Mrs. Kinzer was anxious to see that poor baby and his mother safely in
bed. Ham wanted to send a whole load of refreshments back to the
shipwrecked people. Dab Kinzer could not keep his thoughts from
following that "tramp." And then, if the truth must come out, every soul
on board the beautiful little yacht was getting more and more painfully
aware with every minute that passed, that they had had a good deal of
sea-air and excitement, and a splendid sail across the bay, but no
dinner,--not so much as a red herring and a cracker.