_In Which Billy Topsail Loses His Nerve. Wherein, also,
the Wings of Gulls Seem to Brush Past_
"WONDERFUL queer!" thought Billy Topsail. "Lost on a cliff! 'Tis the
queerest thing I ever knowed."
But that was Billy's case.
"I 'low," he concluded, at last, "that I'd better be goin' up instead
o' down."
It did not appear that he would be unable to go down; the way up was
the shorter way, that was all. Nevertheless, his feeling of security
was pretty well shaken when he again began to climb. His grip was
tighter, his shrinking from the depths stronger and more frequent; in
fact, he hugged the rock more than was good for him.
He knew the symptom for an alarming one--it turned him faint when first
he recognized it--and he tried to fix his attention upon the effort to
climb higher. But now and again the fear of the space behind and below
would creep in. Reason told him that the better part was to return;
but he was in no condition to listen to reason. His whole desire--it
was fast becoming frantic--was to crawl over the brow of the cliff and
be safe.
But where was the brow of the cliff? It seemed to him that he had
climbed a thousand feet.
A few minutes later he caught sight of a shrub; then he knew that he
was within a few feet of the end of the climb. The shrub--a stunted
spruce, which he had good reason to remember--was to his right, peeping
round a projection of rock.
He was then on a ledge, with good foothold and good handhold; and a way
of return to the shore lay open to him. By craning his neck he made out
that if he could pass that projection he would reach shelving, broken
rock, and be safe. Then he studied the face of the rocks between--a
space of some six feet.
There was foothold there, midway, but he shrank from attempting to
reach it. He had never thought in his life to try so perilous a
passage. A survey of the course of a body falling from that point was
almost more than he could support. Nevertheless, strange as it may
seem, the waving shrub tempted him to risk something more to end his
suspense. He summoned courage enough to stretch out his right foot and
search with his right hand for a hold.
Unfortunately, he found both--a ledge for his foot and a crevice for
his fingers.
He drew himself over. It took courage and strength, for it was a long
stretch. Had he been cramped for room, had he not been free to move
at the starting-point, he could not have managed it. But there he
was--both feet on a ledge as wide as his feet were long, both hands
with a comfortable grip on solid rock. He shuffled along until he came
to the end of the ledge.
His last obstacle now lay before him. He must round the projection
which divided him from the broken, shelving rock beyond. Had he
foreseen the slightest difficulty he would not have gone so far. So,
with confidence, he sought a foothold for his right foot--a crevice for
the fingers of his right hand.
And he tried again, with confidence unshaken; again, with patience;
again, with rising fear. There was no hold; the passage was
impracticable. There was nothing for it but to return.
So he shuffled back to the other end of the ledge. Then, keenly
regretting the necessity of return, he sought a foothold for his left
foot--a crevice for the fingers of his left hand. He tried again, in
some wonder; again, with a rush of fear; again, in abject terror.
To his horror, he found that he could not return. From the narrow ledge
it was impossible to pass to the wider, although it had been possible
to pass from the wider to the narrow. For an instant he was on the
point of toppling back; but he let his body fall forward against the
face of the cliff, and there he rested, gripping the rock with both
hands until the faintness passed.
The situation was quite plain to him. He was standing on a ledge, as
wide as his feet were long, some two or three hundred feet above the
sea; his face was to the cliff, and he could neither sit down nor turn
round. There he must stand until--who could tell? In what way could
relief come to him? Who was to see? Who could hear his cries for help?
No fishermen were on the grounds--no punts were out of the harbour; the
sea was too high for that, as he had been told.
There was only one answer to his question. He must stand until--he
fell.
"Yes," he was courageous enough to admit calmly, "I 'low I got t' go."
That once admitted, his terror of that space behind and below in some
measure departed. The sun was still shining; the sky--as he knew, for
he could catch a glimpse of it on each side--was still blue. But soon
he began to think of the night; then his terror returned--not of the
present moment, but of the hours of darkness approaching.
Could he endure until night? He thought not. His position was awkward.
Surely his strength would wear out--his hands weaken, although the
strain upon them was slight; his legs give way.
Of course he followed the natural impulse to cling to his life as long
as he could. Thus, while the afternoon dragged along and the dusk
approached, he stood on the face of the cliff, waiting for the moment
when his weakening strength would fail and he would fall to his death.
"In an hour," he thought; soon it was, "In half an hour."
Before that last half-hour had passed he felt something brush past
his back. It frightened him. What was it? Again he felt it. Again it
startled and frightened him. Then he felt it no more for a time, and he
was glad of that. He was too dull, perhaps, to dwell upon the mystery
of that touch. It passed from his mind. Soon he felt it for the third
time. Was it a wing? He wondered, too, if he had not heard a voice; for
it seemed to him that some one had hailed him.
When next he heard the sound, he knew that his name had been called.
He looked up. A rope was hanging over the brow of the cliff, sweeping
slowly towards him. He could see it, although the light was failing.
When it came near he extended his right hand behind him and caught it,
then gave it a tug, in signal to those above that the search was ended.
Painfully, slowly, for his situation was none too secure, he encircled
his waist with that stout rope, lashed it fast, shouted, "Haul away!"
and fainted.
* * * * *
When Billy Topsail came to his senses, it was to find himself lying
on the moss, with old Arch, the skipper, leaning over him, and half a
dozen fishermen gathered round.
"So you did get out to the salmon net?" he muttered.
"Aye," said Arch; "'twas I that seed you hangin' there. Sure, if I
hadn't had my net set off Shag Rock, and if I hadn't got through the
tickle to see if 'twas all right, and if----"
Billy shuddered.