A STRUGGLE FOR A LIFE.
For half a minute Breeze was lost to the view of those who from the deck
of the schooner watched anxiously to see him emerge from his brave
plunge. They gave a shout as he reappeared. He had only time to draw in
a single breath of air before he was again buried beneath a huge curling
wave that, before it broke, towered many feet above his head. His
comrades were just about to haul him back by means of the line they were
paying out, and the other end of which was knotted about his waist, when
his head was once more seen above the surface.
This time they were astonished to note what a distance he had gained,
for being many feet under water had not prevented his swimming sturdily
towards the object of his efforts. Now how gallantly he dashed forward!
with what splendid overhand strokes he took advantage of the few moments
of surface-swimming granted him before he was again swallowed up! He had
won many a swimming-match in both smooth and storm-tossed waters about
Gloucester. He had taken many a header through green walls of inrushing
breakers, but never before had he swam as now; never before had he
struggled for the prize of a human life.
When for the third time he emerged from the suffocating waters, he saw
the yellow-clad form, to gain which he had fought so bravely, within a
few feet of him. With one more desperate effort, for the line about his
waist was now dragging him back almost irresistibly, he reached it, and
grasped the stern becket of the overturned dory.
Out-stretched upon its flat bottom, with both arms and legs twined about
the life-line,[E] lay the senseless form of a young man, apparently but
little older than the brave swimmer who now tried to rouse him. It was
impossible to do so, and Breeze feared that he was dead. Without casting
loose the line from about his body, he gathered a bight in it, and made
this fast to the becket of the dory. Then he waved his hand as a signal
to those on board the schooner to pull in.
-----
Footnote E:
A fishing dory has a wooden plug in its bottom near the after end that
can be drawn so as to allow water to run out. To the lower end of
this, extending forward along the boat’s bottom to an iron ring, is
often fastened a life-line for use in case of a capsize.
-----
The strain upon the light line was terrible, and in any other hands but
those of expert fishermen it would have parted a dozen times before its
precious burden was drawn as close as was safe under the stern of the
schooner. Then a second line was thrown to Breeze, who, nearly exhausted
as he was, still found strength to secure it about the body of the
senseless lad beside him. He could not, however, undo the clutch of the
rigid fingers from the life-line, and for a moment began to despair,
even within reach of rescue, of saving him for whom he had risked so
much. But help was at hand, and it came as he least expected it.
From the schooner’s deck old Mateo had watched the brave struggles of
his boy, as he called him, in an agony of apprehension. Now, with senses
quickened by affection, he was the first to comprehend the difficulty.
Just as Breeze was about to relax his efforts, feeling that he could do
no more, the old cook’s heavy jack-knife, with the end of a fishing-line
attached to the ring in its horn handle, came flying across the dory,
and dropped into the water beyond it.
Breeze secured it, opened it, and with a last effort cut both ends of
the dory’s life-line, as well as the becket to which he had fastened
himself. Then the knife dropped from his nerveless fingers, and, as the
dory drifted away, two senseless figures were drawn through the wild
waters to the plunging schooner. With a final effort for their
destruction, a huge billow hurled itself bodily upon them, and the lines
had to be slackened for a few moments, or they would have parted. The
limp forms were buried deep beneath the green waters; but again they
were drawn to the surface, and this time they came within reach of the
eagerly out-stretched arms waiting to grasp them.
The unknown lad was carried into the cabin; while Breeze, claimed by
Mateo, was tenderly taken into the forecastle. There, while two men
stripped and rubbed him, the old cook heated blankets, and prepared hot
stimulants, wailing as he bustled about, “Oh, Breeza! ma boy, ma boy!
You no-a die; you must leeve!”
It was half an hour before their efforts were rewarded by a faint sigh
and a flush of returning color in the livid cheeks. Then the boy opened
his eyes, and gazed about him wonderingly for an instant. A few minutes
later, wrapped in hot blankets, he fell asleep and was breathing
regularly.
Almost the same scene was taking place in the cabin, only there it was
so long before the patient showed the least sign of life that some of
those who worked over him were several times ready to give up in
despair. They were only kept at it by the skipper, who exclaimed,
“Great Scott, men! it will be a shame if we cannot fetch him to, after
that boy has nearly given his life to save him. I, for one, shall work
over him from now till noon before I will give him up.”
At last he, too, was brought back to the life from which he had so
nearly departed, and by noon, when the sun came out, both patients were
doing finely. Neither of them was allowed to leave his bunk until the
next morning; but they were kept warm, and encouraged to sleep as much
as possible. In their exhausted condition this was easy to do. So with
only one or two awakenings to take the light nourishment that Mateo
prepared for them, by the aid of his never-failing “lit tin cow,” they
slept through the rest of the day and the whole of the night.
The next morning they awoke, filled with the life and energy that always
wait upon youth and a sound constitution, and almost inclined to believe
their recent adventure to be but a troubled dream. Only a few bruises,
and the marks about their bodies of the ropes by which they had been
drawn aboard the schooner, remained as traces of what they had
undergone.
The sea had gone down so rapidly the day before that the crew of the
_Albatross_ had been able to resume their fishing by noon, and had had
remarkably good-luck until night. By a mutual agreement, suggested by
the man who had been watchmate with Breeze that morning, they devoted
half an hour to their brave young comrade, and the entire catch of fish,
made during that time, was credited to him in the ship’s books.
The next morning when Breeze came on deck he saw the skipper talking to
a well-built young stranger, whose naturally ruddy face had not yet
wholly recovered its color. For an instant he wondered who it could be,
and where he had come from. Then it flashed across him that this was the
person whom he had rescued from the sea; and, not knowing exactly what
to do or say, he stood looking at him curiously.
The young stranger noticing him, said something to the skipper, who
turned quickly and exclaimed,
“Good-morning, Breeze! Why, you are looking as fresh as a daisy. This is
Mr. Wolfe Brady,” he added, indicating the lad who stood beside him.
“Although you two have already been dorymates, he declares he has never
seen you before, and I am certain you have never been introduced. Mr.
Brady, Mr. McCloud.”
In assuming this jesting tone the skipper hoped to put the young men at
their ease, and relieve their first meeting of the embarrassment they
might naturally be expected to feel under the circumstances.
There was a long, firm hand-clasp between the two who had so nearly met
death together; but for a moment neither of them spoke. Then Wolfe Brady
said,
“They tell me you saved my life, and nearly lost your own in doing it. I
can’t thank you, because I haven’t the gift; but if ever the time comes
when you can use it, I will offer my life to you as freely as you
offered yours for me.”
“Thank you,” answered Breeze, simply. “I am very glad I succeeded in
reaching you; but how did you happen to be afloat on that dory?”
[Illustration: THERE WAS A LONG FIRM HAND-CLASP BETWEEN THEM.]
“I hardly know myself. Yesterday morning I belonged to the trawler
_Ibis_ of Boston. Just before daylight, while half the crew, and I among
them, were on deck, we were run down by a large square-rigger scudding
under bare poles. It was so dark that we did not see her until she was
right on top of us, and then, though we cut the cable, it was too late.
She struck us before those below could get on deck, and crushed the
schooner down as though she were a herring-box. Then I’ve no knowledge
of what happened to the others, or even to myself. I only know that I
was under water such a long time that I wonder I did not stay there.
When I came up something was floating close beside me, and I got hold of
it. The rest is a blank. The next thing I knew, I was lying in a bunk
and somebody was trying to pour something down my throat. Your skipper
was just telling me what a splendid fight you made to get me, and how
near you came to losing the number of your mess, and sending your vessel
home with her flag at half-mast in doing it. I’m awfully grateful, and I
hope some time I may be able to prove it; for I’ve been a pretty bad
lot, and was not ready to go up aloft yet.”
“No,” said Breeze, soberly, “I don’t suppose many of us are.” Then he
asked, “Are you an American?” The other’s name, and a foreign accent to
his speech, led to the question.
“Not yet,” answered Wolfe, smiling, "but I hope to be in two years more
when I come of age. At present I am an Irishman. That is, my father is
Irish, my mother is English, and I was born in England, but brought up
in Queenstown, Ireland, where my parents live, and from which I ran away
to sea about a year ago. Before they were married, my father was butler
and my mother lady’s-maid in the household of Sir Wolfe Tresmont. That’s
where I got my first name. My father is now a linen-draper in
Queenstown, where his best customers are Americans. I was sent to school
in England for four years, but I hated it, and from seeing and hearing
so much of Americans, I had a great desire to come to this country. Last
year my father took me from school and set me to work in his shop. I
hated that worse than school, and seeing a chance to run away and ship
on board a bark bound for Boston, I took it and came over here.
“By the time I got on this side I had had enough of merchant sailing;
and, as I could not find anything else to do, thought I would try
fishing. Since then I have made two trips, one of four months to the
Newfoundland Banks, and one to George’s before this one. Now here I am,
and you know more about me than I have told to another living soul since
leaving home.”
“Well,” said Breeze, “you know a good deal more about yourself than I do
about myself. I suppose I must have had a real father and mother, but I
never knew them, for I was picked up at sea, floating in a cask, when I
was a baby. I am almost certain I must be an American, though, for I
know I could never love any other country so well. I’m glad you are
going to be one too, as soon as you can. Don’t you think I look more
like an American than anything else?” he inquired, a little anxiously.
“I don’t know,” replied the other, regarding him attentively. “Yes, on
the whole I think perhaps you do. Still, with light hair and blue eyes,
you know, you might be a Scandinavian, or a Dutchman, or an Englishman,
or a Scotchman, or even an Irishman.”
They both laughed at this, and Breeze said,
“You might as well quote ‘Pinafore’ at once and be done with it.”
So the conversation between the two, which had been rather constrained
at first, became more easy and confidential, until they found themselves
discussing each other’s hopes and plans with the freedom of old friends.
Every now and then a shadow would sweep over Wolfe’s face, and he would
speak in a lower tone as he thought of the probable fate of his recent
shipmates. Still, as grieving could do neither them nor him the
slightest good, he tried to keep cheerful, by remembering how
marvellously he himself had been spared. He confessed to Breeze that he
had caused his parents much trouble and anxiety, by his manner of life,
both in school and at home, but declared that now he really meant to
turn over a new leaf.
“I’ll begin by writing to my mother as soon as ever we reach port,” he
said, “for it makes me feel ashamed of myself to remember that I have
not sent home a single line since I left there. I do not suppose they
have the slightest idea what has become of me, or whether I am alive or
dead.”
To Breeze, his mother was so near and dear, he had thought of her and
written to her so often even during his short absence from home, that
Wolfe’s account of his own neglect was most surprising. Still, he did
not feel at liberty to express his feelings in the matter, and only
said, “I would, if I were you, by all means; she must be feeling awfully
at not hearing.”
The rest of the schooner’s crew had been hard at work catching fish
since daylight, and during their conversation Breeze and Wolfe had also
been busy with their lines. Several other schooners were still in sight,
though at long distances from them. Most of the fleet had been scattered
far and wide by the gale, which, though short, had been one of the
severest of the season. After it was over many of the fishing vessels
returned to port to refit, while the fate of others was told by the
melancholy signs of wreck and disaster that every now and then floated
past the _Albatross_. Her skipper knew that for a time fresh fish would
command an extra price in the Eastern market, and so was anxious to
carry in as large a fare as possible. For this reason, in spite of the
damaged condition of his vessel, he remained on the bank two days longer
before getting up the anchors that had held her so well, and heading for
home.
In the mean time tidings of the gale and its destruction of lives and
vessels had reached Gloucester, and had caused the greatest anxiety
there. As one after another of the schooners that had escaped sailed
into the harbor, their crews were eagerly questioned for news of this
one or that one not yet heard from. At last one came in bringing with
her a dory that she had picked up, and on which was stencilled the name
“_Albatross_.” Her skipper reported that on the night of the awful
storm, during a slight lull, he had caught a momentary glimpse of two
lights. They were so close together that the vessels bearing them must
have been in collision. They bore from him just as the _Albatross_ had
when he last saw her. As he looked the lights suddenly disappeared,
either from the shutting in again of the snow, or because they had gone
to the bottom. Soon afterwards his own craft had parted her cables, but
had managed to weather the gale, and on the following day he had picked
up this dory. That was all, but it seemed to seal the fate of the
schooner, whose return had until then been watched for so hopefully and
so anxiously.
Mrs. McCloud had made Captain Coffin, who was still at home, promise to
bring her the very first tidings, whether good or bad, that should come.
Now with a heavy heart he walked slowly towards the little cottage, in
which sorrow was becoming so familiar a visitor.
The moment he opened the door, and the anxious loving mother caught
sight of his face, she exclaimed, “He is lost; my boy is lost! I know he
is! I can see it in your face!”
“You must not give up all hope yet,” said the captain, soothingly,
seeking to comfort her, though he felt that his words would be in vain.
“We do not yet know certainly the fate of the _Albatross_, though we
have every reason to fear the worst.”