IN PERIL ON THE SEA
While Alick Carnegy was absent, enjoying his forbidden pleasure in
Brattlesby Woods with Jerry Blunt, the bird-trainer, and Ned Dempster,
strange things were happening in the quiet little bay at home--things
that will be talked of for years to come in the long winter nights,
when the fisher-wives sit mending their husband's nets round the
peat-fires, and the children crowd close to listen with all their ears
to the story.
'The Theodora,' the boat belonging to the Bunk, had been getting out of
repair for some time back. At first the young folk--even Theo
herself--being a happy-go-lucky, reckless set in most things,
disregarded the leak, never dreaming it to be a serious one, and
laughed at their wet feet; for who ever heard of salt water hurting
anybody? It is just, however, those neglected little things, evils
that are suffered to go on, which increase sometimes, with a sudden
rush, into big mischiefs. That week Theodora, who had not been in the
boat for a few days, was struck afresh with the damage; she saw that it
was high time something should be done to mend matters, if only for the
sake of keeping dry feet. She therefore gave Ned Dempster a few
directions how to remedy the leak. Of course Ned, being a born
fisher-lad, was quite capable of doing the piece of work in his spare
moments. This Theo knew. But, unfortunately, her orders, and
everything else as well, went clean out of Ned's head, owing to the
excitement he had imbibed from Alick about the expedition to Brattlesby
Woods after the finches.
When Theo and Queenie, consequently, got into the boat in the afternoon
to pull across to the little birthday festival at the Vicarage, they
speedily found, to their discomfort, but by no means to their dismay,
that the leak was considerably worse than usual.
'Oh,' screamed Queenie, 'my bestest new shoes is quite wetted, Theo!
Look!'
Queenie certainly was right; the shiny little toes that, dangling, did
not reach the bottom of the boat even, were already wet. Theo's fresh
blue print also was fringed round with sea-water when she looked down
at it.
'I think we might manage to get across, though,' said Theo hopefully.
'It's a pity to turn back. We shouldn't get much wetter than we are
already, should we?'
'Not much wetterer,' acquiesced Queenie equably, as she dipped first
the tip of one shoe, then the other, into the water. Of course, if
Theo didn't mind, it was nothing to Queenie.
The afternoon was a glorious one, with a faint touch of north in the
wind, just enough to bring out colour intensely. The blue of the sea
and the blue of the sky were alike sapphire in hue, against which the
gulls that darted and skimmed hither and thither showed white. It was,
in truth, an afternoon when the world seemed so passing fair, so
secure, that the mind was lured into believing that it was
all-sufficient.
Thus it is with ourselves. When we are getting on too smoothly at
school, or at our work, it all begins to feel such easy plain-sailing,
that we rest on our oars and grow over-confident. We are, in a sense,
off guard. And so it was with the occupants of 'The Theodora,' as it
gradually made its way to the middle of the bay. Of course they would
get across in safety, as Theo declared; they had done it a hundred
times already, since the leak was first sprung.
Nothing had ever happened in the girl's eighteen years of life in the
shape of any serious accident either by land or by sea. It was
difficult to realise that mishaps could possibly occur, and, with her
eyes fixed on the wondrous blue above and below, Theo rowed on, calling
herself lazy because she did not seem, somehow, able to get so fast
through the water as usual.
'Theo! oh, Theo!'
'Queenie!'
Two affrighted shrieks rang out simultaneously; for, suddenly, the
sisters each became aware that 'The Theodora' had shipped a quantity of
water. The boat was so heavy that Theo's oars could hardly move it.
'Oh, what have I done?' cried the elder girl, ashy pale, and stunned
with the shock. 'Oh, my darling Queenie!'
It was for the beloved little sister that the thrill of anxious terror
rushed over Theo. She herself could swim, in a fashion, if the worst
came to the worst; but Queenie, the baby-sister, how was the helpless
little one to be saved? Wildly Theo gazed over the blue, rippling
water.
There, yonder, on the stretch of sands in front of the fisher-folk's
dwellings, her long sight could distinguish the women at their usual
monotonous employment, mending their nets in the doorways, all unaware
of her peril and that of the child in the sunlit bay.
'Help! help!' she shrieked in the agony of fear that encompassed her,
and in her own ears her voice sounded thin and feebly small, as when in
some horrid nightmare we, all in vain, try to scream aloud, and fail.
Would they sit there, those fisher-women, and never so much as raise
their eyes to glance at the distinctly sinking boat?
It was maddening to the distraught girl, simply maddening.
'What is it, Theo?' quavered the frightened child opposite her in the
boat. 'Is we going to be drowned in the water, Theo?'
'Oh, my darling Queenie! what shall we do?' cried out Theo in a frenzy
of helpless terror. The oars were lying helpless in the bottom of the
rapidly filling boat. 'What are we to do?' She fairly shrieked out
the question again.
'Say "Our Father,"' said Queenie promptly; and she clasped her tiny
hands together in Theodora's. The child was too ignorant to realise
their danger. It was only the terror in Theo's face that frightened
her--Theo, the sister who was so strong, so tall, so all-wise, in the
trustful little one's innocent eyes. But though unconscious of all
their peril, the child's unerring instinct pointed to the true,
unfailing Refuge for all human trouble.
'Our Father in heaven, help me to save Queenie!'
The cry, strong and vibrating, floated over the solitary water. Theo,
in the sudden and unexpected approach of great danger, had forgotten
that God's ears are listening always to catch our prayers, even when
belated and half despairing.
But when the little sister's simple words brought back to her mind the
remembrance of the one great Shelter for us all in the 'day of
trouble,' Theo threw her whole soul into the imploring, impassioned cry
for help.
Then, knowing that God is most ready to aid those who aid themselves,
she rapidly collected her scattered wits to plan out what she had best
do in the extremity she found herself. Untying the long, soft, red
sash Queenie wore round her waist, she hastily, but firmly, fastened
the child to herself, never ceasing, meanwhile, to cry her loudest for
help, though her voice grew hoarse and weak under the terrible strain.
Then Theo proceeded to free her own skirts from her feet, lest, being
entangled, she might be sucked down under, when the boat settled down,
as she knew, now, it undoubtedly must.
And overhead, flecking with white the blue glitter of the sky, the busy
gulls skimmed hither and thither, wheeling round in circles. On the
shore the fisher-wives, with bent heads, were still too intent on their
mending to raise their eyes for one moment, and the chatter of their
own high-pitched voices dulled their ears to the despairing cries
floating across the waters. So the tragedy went on.
It was cool and shady in the Vicarage old-fashioned drawing-room. Mrs.
Vesey, the invalid mistress, frail and sweet, was lying, as usual, on
her couch, her dim, patient eyes watching the bay for the boat bringing
over her expected guests from the Bunk.
In the next room tea was spread out: piles of sweet cakes and brown
bread-and-butter; strawberries gleamed ripe and red in large, heaped-up
dishes, and jugs of rich yellow cream stood about. Mrs. Vesey knew
what a feast should be like for hungry boys and girls, and ordered a
lavish repast to be prepared. Nor had she forgotten to provide for
other guests who were bidden to celebrate her birthday. Down in the
village schoolroom, tea and plum-cake, with piles of fruit, were all in
readiness to be laid out the moment that the little scholars departed
from afternoon school--a feast which they would return in due time to
demolish.
Mrs. Vesey was a great sufferer; she had been house-ridden for years of
her life, but she bore her cross of bodily ailments bravely and with
soldierly courage. It was never thrust forward as an excuse to shelter
its bearer from what she felt to be her duty. Although she was totally
unable to preside in person at the treat for the fisher-children, she
had arranged to be represented by Theo Carnegy, when the Vicarage tea
was over. That young lady, after helping the little ones to make merry
over their feast, was finally to marshal a procession up to the
Vicarage, where the children intended to present to Mrs. Vesey such
posies as their busy little fingers had managed to gather in the woods
behind the village.
As Mrs. Vesey lay watching the bay from her open windows, Binks, the
old handy-man, moved about on the lawn outside, now and again
exchanging remarks with his mistress as he passed and repassed.
'Muster Geoff, he've come, ma'am!' said he presently, peering in the
room.
'Oh, has he? Where is he, Binks?'
'He've stepped round to the stable for Splutters and Shutters, ma'am,
that's where he be. B'ys is never content without the dogs arter them.
I dunno where t'other young muster is, but the ladies is on their way
across in their boat,' added Binks, shading his eyes to gaze out over
the water.
'I know they are,' said Mrs. Vesey; 'I've been watching them. I saw
them start from the Bunk pier. The boat's pretty well into the middle
of the bay, now. Can't you see them, Binks?'
There was no answer.
Perhaps Binks resented the question, or perhaps he objected to admit
that his eyesight was not so good as that of his mistress. Anyhow, he
continued perfectly silent as he gazed, with a fixed stare, at some
distant object.
'Hi, Splutters! Heel, Shutters! Come back, sir! Oh, Binks, really I
couldn't prevent them coming round on the lawn; they were too much for
me when I opened the stable door. Oh, good afternoon, Mrs. Vesey! I
didn't know you were at the window.' Polite Geoff, heated and flushed
with his chase after the excitable terriers, stood hat in hand under
the window while Splutters and Shutters tore madly up and down and
across the lawn. Strangely enough, Binks took no notice of their
capers, which, for once, were allowed to go unrebuked. His eyes,
shaded by his wrinkled hand, were still intent on the distant boat.
'Theo and Queenie are on their way, Mrs. Vesey,' continued Geoff. 'I
see the Bunk boat creeping over; they seem in no particular hurry.
Don't you see them, Binks?' demanded the boy, rather astonished at the
old man's stillness. 'Why, I can see them waving something--a long red
thing. They certainly don't get on very fast, though, do they?
Why--why, Binks! Oh, what on earth's the matter? Something's wrong
with the boat; they're so still and---- Binks, _what_ is it?' Geoff
ended with a shout that was almost a scream, as he clutched the old
man's arm wildly.
'Come along, Muster Geoff!' Binks roughly shook off the boy's hand.
'Run for your life; you're fleeter than me. Shove down our boat into
the water, and I'll folly ye quick's ever I can!' roared the old man.
'They're sinkin' out there fast as fast. God help us all!'
Faster than ever he ran in his life tore Geoff, with a face blanched
and drawn, to seize the Vicarage boat, and push her to the water's
edge, putting forth all the strength of his young body to do so
single-handed. To jump on board and take up an oar was the work of
half a minute, and Geoff was pushing off without a thought of anybody
else when a hoarse shout stayed him.
'Stay, muster!' panted Binks, hurrying to the edge. 'Two's better than
one; two oars will reach 'em quicker!' and in scrambled the breathless
old man, drops of perspiration rolling unheeded down his wrinkled
cheeks.
Not another word was spoken by either as the man and boy tore through
the water, with all the strength they possessed. Geoff silently
watched Binks's face, trying to read, in its strained lines, the fate
of those behind his back. But the boy's white, dry lips refused to
utter the terrible question, 'Are they still above water?' Geoff's
brain seemed too paralysed to think. Every sense was merged in the mad
race of trying to cut still faster through the water to the rescue.
The hard, brown visage of Binks was a dead wall as he pulled and puffed
and panted. From it Geoff could gain no information, and, somehow, for
his life, the boy dare not turn his head to see over his shoulder for
himself.
On the shore the women-workers had at last awoke to the fact of the
tragedy being enacted on the blue waters, and in the full blaze of the
summer sunshine, almost within their reach. Wild cries of affright
arose; the brown nets were flung aside this way and that. Bewildered
groups stood close down to the water's edge tremblingly wringing their
hands in miserable helplessness, and their eyes starting out of their
heads as their gaze clung, glued, to the little craft slowly, slowly
settling down.