"THE LORD GAVE, AND..."
"Boat ahoy! Whoever you are--this way--boat!"
"Ahoy!" came back from three-quarters--from two different points in the
harbour, and from out to sea.
Then came another whistle from far back on the other side of the
harbour, and in a shrill voice from between his hands Uncle Luke yelled:
"Leslie, another boat, man, for the love of heaven!"
"Here! you there, sir! the nearest boat--quick, pull!" roared the
detective in stentorian tones. "Have you no light?"
"Ay, ay," came back; and a lantern that had been hidden under a
tarpaulin coat shone out, dimly showing the boat's whereabouts.
"That's right; pull, my lads, off here. Man overboard off the rocks.
This way."
An order was given in the boat, and her course was altered.
"No, no," cried the officer; "this way, my lads, this way."
"We know what we're about," came back.
"Yes, yes; they know," said Uncle Luke, hoarsely. "Let them be; the
current sets the way they've taken. He's right out there by now."
The old man's arm was dimly-seen pointing seawards, but the detective
was not convinced.
"It's a trick to throw me on the wrong scent," he said excitedly.
"Here, you,"--to one of the local police--"why don't you speak?"
"Mr Luke Vine's right, sir; he knows the set o' the tide. The poor
lad's swept right out yonder long ago, and Lord ha' mercy upon him, poor
chap. They'll never pick him up."
"Can you see him?" roared the officer, using his hands as a speaking
trumpet.
There was no reply; but the lantern could be seen rising and falling
now, as the little craft began to reach the swell at the harbour bar.
Then there was a hail out of the harbour, as the second boat came along,
and five minutes after the rapid beat of oars told of the coming of
another boat.
"Ahoy, lad! this way," rose from the boat with the lantern.
"Whose boat's that?" said the detective, quickly.
"Dunno," replied the nearest policeman.
"They'll pick him up, and he'll escape after all. Confound it! Here,
hoi! you in that boat. In the Queen's name, stop and take me aboard."
"They won't pick him up," said the nearest policeman solemnly. "You
don't know this coast."
There was a low groan from a figure crouching upon its knees, and
supporting a woman's head, happily insensible to what was passing
around.
"George, lad," whispered Uncle Luke, "for the poor girl's sake, let's
get her home. George! don't you hear me. George! It is I--Luke."
There was no reply, and the excitement increased as a swift boat now
neared the end of the point.
"Where is he? Is he swimming for the boat?" cried a voice, hardly
recognisable in its hoarse excitement for that of Duncan Leslie.
"He jumped off, Mr Leslie, sir," shouted one of the policemen.
"Row, my lads. Pull!" shouted Leslie; "right out."
"No, no," roared the detective; "take me aboard. In the Queen's name,
stop!"
"Pull," cried Leslie to the men; and then turning to the detective,
"while we stopped to take you the man would drown, and you couldn't get
aboard at this time of the tide."
"He's quite right," said the policeman who had last spoken. "It's risky
at any time; it would be madness now."
The detective stamped, as in a weird, strange way the voice kept coming
from out of the darkness, where two dim stars could be seen, as the
lanterns were visible from time to time; and now Leslie's voice followed
the others, as he shouted:
"This way, Vine, this way. Hail, man! Why don't you hail?"
"Is this part of the trick to get him away?" whispered the detective to
one of his men.
The man made no reply, and his silence was more pregnant than any words
he could have spoken.
"But they'll pick him up," he whispered, now impressed by the other's
manner.
"Look out yonder," said the policeman, a native of the place; "is it
likely they'll find him there?"
"Hah!" ejaculated the detective.
"And there's no such current anywhere for miles along the coast as runs
off here."
"Hah!" ejaculated the man again, as he stood now watching the lights,
one of which kept growing more distant, while the hails somehow seemed
to be more faint and wild, and at last to resemble the despairing cries
of drowning men.
"Listen," whispered the detective in an awe-stricken tone, as he strove
to pierce the darkness out to sea.
"It was Master Leslie, that," said the second policeman; "I know his
hail."
Just then there was a wild hysterical fit of sobbing, and George Vine
rose slowly from his knees, and staggered towards the group.
"Luke!" he cried, in a half-stunned, helpless way, "Luke you know--Where
are you? Luke!"
"Here, George," said Uncle Luke sadly, for he had knelt down in the
place his brother had occupied the moment before.
"You know the currents. Will they--Will he--"
He faltered and paused, waiting his brother's reply, and the three
officers of the law shuddered, as, after a few minutes' silence, broken
only by a groan from the kneeling man, George Vine cried in a piteous
voice that sounded wild and thrilling in the solemn darkness of the
night:
"God help me! Oh, my son, my son!"
"Quick, mind! Good heavens, sir! Another step and--"
The detective had caught the stricken father as he tottered and would
have fallen headlong into the tide, while, as he and another of the men
helped him back to where Louise still lay, he was insensible to what
passed around.
But still the dim lights could be seen growing more and more distant,
and each hail sounded more faint, as the occupants of the boats called
to each other, and then to him they sought, while, after each shout, it
seemed to those who stood straining their eyes at the end of the pier,
that there was an answering cry away to their left; but it was only the
faint echo repeating the call from the face of the stupendous cliffs
behind the town.
"Why don't they come back here and search?" cried the officer angrily.
"What for?" said a voice at his elbow; and he turned to see dimly the
shrunken, haggard face of Uncle Luke.
"What for?" retorted the officer. "He may have swum in the other
direction."
"So might the world have rolled in the other direction and the sunrise
to-morrow in the west," said the old man angrily. "No swimmer could
stem that current."
"But why have they gone so far?"
"They have gone where the current took them," said Uncle Luke, coldly.
"Want the help of your men to get these poor creatures home."
The detective made no reply, but stood gazing out to sea and listening
intently. Then turning to his men--
"One of you keep watch here in case they try to land with him. You come
with me."
The two policemen followed his instructions, one taking his place at the
extreme end of the point, the other following just as voices were heard,
and a group of fishermen, who had been awakened to the fact that there
was something wrong, came down the rocky breakwater.
"Here, some of you, I want a boat--a swift boat, and four men to pull.
Ah, you!"
This to a couple of the coastguard who had put in an appearance, and
after a few hurried words one party went toward the head of the
breakwater, while another, full of sympathy for the Vines, went on to
the end of the point.
There was plenty of willing help, but George Vine had now recovered from
his swoon, and rose up to refuse all offers of assistance.
"No, Luke," he said more firmly now; "I must stay."
"But our child, Louise?"
"She must stay with me."
Louise had risen to her feet, as he spoke, and clung to his arm in mute
acquiescence; and once more they stood watching the star-spangled sea.
Ten minutes later a well-manned boat passed out of the harbour, with the
detective officer in her bows and a couple of the strongest lights they
could obtain.
Just as this boat came abreast of the point the rowing ceased, and a
brilliant glare suddenly flashed out as the officer held aloft a blue
signal light; and while the boat was forced slowly along he carefully
scanned the rocks, in the expectation of seeing his quarry clinging
somewhere to their face.
The vivid light illumined the group upon the point, and the water
flashed and sparkled as it ran eddying by, while from time to time a
gleaming drop of golden fire dropped with a sharp hissing explosion into
the water, and a silvery grey cloud of smoke gathered overhead.
The officer stayed till the blue light had burned out, and then tossing
the wooden handle into the water, he gave his orders to the men to row
on out toward the other boats.
The transition from brilliant light to utter darkness was startling as
it was sudden; and as the watchers followed the dim looking lanterns,
they saw that about a mile out they had paused.
George Vine uttered a gasping sigh, and his child clung to him as if
both realised the meaning of that halt. But they were wrong, for when
the men in the detective's boat had ceased rowing, it was because they
were close abreast of the lugger, whose crew had hailed them.
"Got him?"
"No. Is he aboard your boat?"
Without waiting for an answer, the detective and his men boarded the
lugger, and, to the disgust of her crew, searched from end to end.
"Lucky for you, my lads, that he is not here," said the officer.
"Unlucky for him he aren't," said one of the men. "If he had been we
shouldn't have had you aboard to-night."
"What do you mean?"
"Only that we should have been miles away by now."
"Do you think either of the other boats have picked him up?"
"Go and ask 'em," said another of the men sulkily.
"No, sir," said one of the coastguard, "they haven't picked him up."
"Back!" said the detective shortly; and, as soon as they were in the
boat, he gave orders for them to row towards the faint light they could
see right away east. They were not long in coming abreast, for the boat
was returning.
"Got him?" was shouted.
"No."
"Then why did you make the signal?"
The detective officer was a clever man, but it had not occurred to him
that the blue light he had obtained from the coastguard station and
burned would act as a recall. But so it was, and before long the second
boat was reached, and that which contained Duncan Leslie came up, the
latter littering an angry expostulation at being brought back from his
search.
"It's no good, Mr Leslie, sir," said the fisherman who had made the
bargain with Vine.
"No good?" cried Leslie angrily. "You mean you're tired, and have not
the manhood to continue the search."
"No, sir, I don't," said the man quietly. "I mean I know this coast as
well as most men. I'll go on searching everywhere you like; but I don't
think the poor lad can be alive."
"Ay, ay, that's right, mate," growled two others of his fellows.
"He was a great swimmer," continued the man sadly; "but it's my belief
he never come up again."
"Why do you say that?" cried the detective from his boat, as the four
hung clustered together, a singular-looking meeting out there on the
dark sea by lantern light.
"Why do I say that? Why 'cause he never hailed any on us who knew him,
and was ready to take him aboard. Don't matter how good a swimmer a man
is, he'd be glad of a hand out on a dark night, and with the tide
running so gashly strong."
"You may be right," said Leslie, "but I can't go back like this. Now,
my lads, who's for going on?"
"All on us," said the fisherman who had first spoken, and the boats
separated to continue their hopeless task.
All at once there was a faint streak out in the east, a streak of dull
grey, and a strange wild, faint cry came off the sea.
"There!" cried the detective; "pull, my lads, pull! he is swimming
still. No, no, more towards the right."
"Swimming?--all this time, and in his clothes!" said one of the
coastguard quietly. "That was only a gull."
The detective struck his fist into his open left hand, and stood gazing
round over the glistening water, as the stars paled, the light in the
east increased till the surface of the sea seemed steely grey, and by
degrees it grew so light that near the harbour a black speck could be
seen, toward which the officer pointed.
"Buoy," said the nearest rower laconically, and the officer swept the
surface again. Then there was a faint shade of orange nearly in the
zenith, a flock of gulls flew past, and here and there there were flecks
and splashes of the pale silvery water, which ere long showed the
reflection of the orange sky, and grew golden. The rocks that lay at
the foot of the huge wall of cliff were fringed with foam, and wherever
there was a break in the shore and some tiny river gurgled down, a
wreathing cloud of mist hung in the hollow.
Moment by moment the various objects grew more distinct; black masses of
rock fringed with green or brown sea-wrack, about which the tide eddied
and played, now hiding, now revealing for some crested wave to pounce
upon as a sea-monster might upon its prey. The dark slaty rocks
displayed their wreaths of ivy, and the masses of granite stood up piled
in courses of huge cubes, as if by titanic hands, grey with parched
moss, dull and dead looking; and then all at once, as the sun slowly
rose above the sea, glorious in God's light, sparkling as if set with
myriads of gems, the grey became gold, and all around there was a scene
of beauty such as no painter could do more than suggest. Everything was
glorified by the rising sun; sea, sky, the distant houses, and shipping,
all gleamed as if of burnished gold--all was of supreme beauty in the
birth of that new day. No, not at all: here and there slowly using
their oars as they scanned sea and rock, sat a crew of haggard men,
while back on the golden point clustered a crowd watching their efforts,
and hanging back with natural kindly delicacy from the group of three at
the extreme edge of the granite point--two pale-faced, grey, wild-eyed
men, and the girl who sat crouching on a fragment of rock, her hair
loose, her hands clasped round her knees, and a look of agonised sorrow
in the piteous drawn face, ever directed towards the east.
"They're all coming back," said some one close at hand.
The man was right; slowly one by one the boats crept over the glorious
sea towards the harbour, Duncan Leslie's last.
"Nothing?" said Uncle Luke in a low whisper as the coastguard boat was
backed toward the point, and the detective sprang ashore.
"Nothing, sir. Poor foolish, misguided lad! Might have been my boy,
sir, I've only done my duty; but this is a dark night's work I shall
never forget. I feel as if I were answerable for his death."
Ten minutes later Duncan Leslie landed in the same way, and laid his
hand upon Uncle Luke's arm.
"I was obliged to come back," he said; "my men are fagged out."
"No signs of him!"
Leslie shook his head and spoke in a whisper.
"I'll be off again as soon as I can get a fresh crew, and search till I
do find him. For Heaven's sake, sir, do take them home!"
It was a kindly whisper, but Louise heard every word, and shuddered as
she turned, and hid her face in her father's breast. For she knew what
it meant; it was to spare her the agonising sight, when the sea,
according to its wont, threw something up yonder among the rugged
stones, where, to use the fishermen's words, the current bit hardest on
the shore. She fought hard to keep back the wild cry that struggled in
her breast; but it was in vain, and many a rough fellow turned aside as
he heard the poor girl's piteous wail out there in the sunshine of that
glorious morn.
"Harry! brother! what shall I do?"
George Vine's lips parted as he bent down over his child. "The Lord
gave, and--"
His voice failed, but his lips completed poor old stricken Job's words,
and there was a pause. Then he seemed to draw himself up, and held out
his hand for a moment to Duncan Leslie.
"Luke!" he said then calmly and gravely. "Your arm too. Let us go
home."
The little crowd parted left and right, and every hat was doffed in the
midst of a great silence, as the two old men walked slowly up the rough
pier, supporting the stricken girl.
Duncan Leslie followed, and as they passed on through the narrow lane of
humble, sympathising people of the port, these turned in and slowly
followed, two and two, bare-headed, as if it were a funeral procession.
Just then, high above the top of the grand cliff, a lark soared up,
sprinkling the air as from a censer of sound, with his silvery notes
joyous, loud, and thrilling; and one patriarchal fisherman, who had seen
many a scene of sorrow in his time, whispered to the mate walking at his
side--
"Ay, lad, and so it is; midst of life we are in death."
"Ah," sighed his companion; "but on such a morn as this!"