THE WRECK
Pale moonlight trembled across the foaming sea and faded again as the
_Rowan_, rolling hard, bore up for the Solway. Whitney held the helm,
his lips set and his brows knitted, for with the savage wind astern
the yacht was hard to steer. The small storm-jib ran water as it swung
above the seas, and the black, close-reefed mainsail lurched to and
fro, lifting its heavy boom high above Whitney's head, at the risk of
carrying away the mast if he let it jibe across. Andrew stood in the
cockpit, with the spray rattling like shot on his oilskins, his night
glasses steadied on the cabin top as he searched the sea ahead. He saw
enough to daunt a stranger to the firth.
The hills along the western shore were indicated by a vague blackness
devoid of outline, but Andrew could distinguish a belt of broken water
that stretched across his course and faded into the gloom. The backs
of the seas were toward him and he noted how their crests were cut off
by the wind as they curled against the tide, which was running down
the firth. In some places their length and regularity indicated depth
of water, but, for the most part, they boiled in frothy confusion
across the shoals. A steady beam of light stretched out from the
shore, but this was not much guide to the intricate channel through
the sands. While he watched, the moon came out, and as its light
widened, smooth, bright patches became visible amidst the turmoil.
These were the tops of the banks that the tide was leaving.
Andrew put down the glasses and, stooping under the cabin hatch,
lighted his pipe.
"It's rather late to try for Rough Firth, but I'm not sure I could
find the Barbara Deep if we let her run. If we missed it and went
ashore, she'd soon break up."
"That is not to be thought of," said Whitney.
"Well, I suppose the proper thing would be to set the trysail and try
to beat her out; but with the tide knocking up the sea, she'd nearly
wash us off when she came on the wind."
"She's wet enough running before it, and I don't feel like pumping
hard all night. Can't you think of another plan?"
Andrew occupied himself with the bearing of the light, while Whitney
braced his aching arms against the tiller. He was tired; for they had
spent several nights pushing the dinghy across the flats at the head
of a distant bay, and a couple of bernicle geese and some mallards lay
in the forecastle. The last night had been passed rolling violently at
anchor on a disturbed swell, and they had been at sea since dawn in
weather that made cooking impossible and demanded constant
watchfulness.
"I think," Andrew said presently, "I could find the Horseshoe Spit,
and we'd get shelter behind it. In fact, the sea shouldn't get in at
all after half ebb, and daylight won't be far off when the tide covers
the flats again."
He took the helm and Whitney got down out of the wind and spray.
Andrew would tell him when he was wanted, and in the meantime the
sight of the wet sands that broke out from the welter of surf was not
encouraging. It was reassuring to feel that Andrew knew his business;
for if he made a mistake now, the _Rowan_ would probably be hammered
to pieces in the next half hour.
Fortunately, the moonlight got brighter, and when Andrew called
Whitney they were running up a channel with a strip of glistening sand
astern and a wild turmoil of foaming water close on their port hand.
This, no doubt, marked the Horseshoe Spit, with the tide streaming
across it to meet the surf. Whitney could not see how they had avoided
the bank astern; but he was not given much time to look about.
"Stand by the big anchor!" Andrew called to him. "Drop it when I tell
you and let the kedge go after she sheers!"
The _Rowan_ came up head to wind, and Whitney was hard at work for the
next few minutes, handling heavy chain that ran out furiously and then
stopped until he dragged more up from below, paying out the thick
kedge-warp that coiled all about the deck, and lashing the thrashing
jib to the bowsprit. Then he and Andrew got the mainsail down and the
boat rode to her moorings; though she was not at rest. Sometimes the
wind drove her up against the tide and the short waves washed on deck;
sometimes the current swept her back, while the tightening cable rang
and it looked as if she must drag her anchors and ground upon the
surf-swept bank.
After watching her for a few minutes, Andrew seemed satisfied and
they went below, where Whitney lighted the stove.
"I've eaten nothing but a lump of wet bread and a bit of canned beef
since morning, and now I want a meal," he said.
"Then, you'll have to hold the frying-pan on, and trim the table
cleverly if you want to keep the food off the floor."
"I'll try. There's a charm in small boat sailing, but it's a charm
that only gets you by degrees, and one finds it hard to say what it
consists of on nights like this. I don't like being wet and hungry,
and I hate to feel cold, and yet here I am, in a gale of wind, behind
the Horseshoe Spit!"
"It's curious," said Andrew, smiling. "I dare say there are instincts
in human nature that neither of us understands. But you'd better watch
your job; you're running the ham fat all over the stove."
Whitney dished the ham and made some coffee, cut a loaf that was not
very wet, and took out a sticky jar of marmalade. Leaning forward from
the lockers, they began to eat; but care was needed in taking things
from the table, which swiveled above the centerboard-trunk, for a rash
movement would precipitate all it held upon the sloppy floorings.
Whitney got rather knocked about as he put the things away. For a time
afterward he contrived to lie on the locker; then he knocked out his
pipe and sat listening. The chain cable jarred across the stem, the
halyards slapped the mast, and through the shrill scream of wind came
in deep undertone the roar of the sea.
"It sounds pretty bad, but I've been banged about for the last twelve
hours and nobody could sleep while this racket goes on," he said. "Is
that sand hard, and could one get on to it?"
"I think so, and I'd like to see the channel. We might have some
trouble in pulling across, but it will be smoother coming back."
"Very well," said Whitney. "Things will be a bit more comfortable
then, and I've had enough."
They went on deck, but he half regretted his suggestion as they
launched the dinghy. The moon was covered by driving clouds, and in
the darkness the sea raged about the yacht. It was not high, because
the tide was falling and the water shoaling fast, but it broke angrily
and the air was thick with spray. As soon as the dinghy was overboard
they jumped into her and while Whitney got out the oars Andrew pushed
her clear of the rolling yacht. The current swept them away, but a
furious gust whipped the channel, throwing up a haze of spindrift, and
they were blown back past the _Rowan_ in spite of Whitney's efforts.
It was a minute or two before he could control the craft, but he
fought his way to windward until a ridge of wet sand began to shelter
them. When this was reached they dragged her up and set off across the
bank.
It was hardly possible to see a dozen yards and they struggled on with
lowered heads, sinking in oozy patches and splashing into pools. Then
the sand got firmer, and although it had been under water an hour
before, it drove past them in whistling streams. The surf roared in
the darkness with a rising and falling cadence like the roll of giant
drums, but every now and then its deep tone was drowned by the scream
of the savage wind. The men wore oilskins, sea-boots and sou'westers,
but the spray that swept the bank in a thin mist found out the
openings in their clothing, which the gale distended. It was difficult
to keep one's feet, and Whitney wondered rather anxiously whether
Andrew knew where he was going. Still, there was something that braced
and exhilarated one in the struggle.
They had gone about a mile and a half and were near the other side of
the bank when the moon suddenly shone out. The wet sand flashed into
brightness and Whitney distinguished a belt of tossing white that was
blurred and confused in the foreground but grew into regular, foaming
lines farther off. This must be an inlet that pierced the sands; and
on looking round a little he saw a dark mass with a pole rising from
it some distance away. He touched Andrew and they made for the object.
Whitney imagined it to be a perch, a spar built into a pile of stones
for a beacon. He did not expect to find anything of interest there,
but the pole had been raised by human hands, and made a landmark in
the storm-swept waste. It brought him into touch with his fellow men
in a spot where the strife of wind and sea was daunting. As they got
nearer, however, he saw that he had been mistaken. The pole was too
thick for a perch, and the black mass below did not consist of stones.
Jagged timbers stuck out from the sand like the ribs of a skeleton,
but in one place they were clothed with planks and supported a mast.
It was obviously a wreck they were approaching.
They stopped to lee of the vessel, and Whitney was glad to get his
breath as he studied her. She appeared to have been a schooner of
about two hundred tons, but her after part and mainmast were gone.
The fore end, however, had escaped destruction, and although the
foremast slanted ominously and the topmast and yards had fallen, it
still defied the storms. Standing beneath the swell of the bows, the
men were out of the wind and could make their voices heard.
"Now I see why I didn't notice a perch on the chart, though I once saw
the spar as we came down this side of the Firth," Whitney said. "It's
curious they didn't mark the wreck."
"She wasn't here when the last survey was made. A coaster loaded with
coal. Somebody tried to get her cargo out, but I understand had to
give it up."
Whitney had got his breath, but was silent for a time. He had camped
in the silent Canadian forests and by frozen lakes on the vast snowy
plains, but he did not think he ever had seen anything so savage and
desolate as this strip of surf-beaten sand with the wreck in its
midst. Men had hewn her timbers with skilful toil; but the sea had
shattered them, and now seemed to challenge all attempts to dispute
its power. Whitney was not unduly imaginative, but he felt depressed
and somewhat daunted. It was an eerie spot to linger in at midnight in
a gale of wind.
"The fo'castle doesn't seem broken up. Can we get on board?" he said.
"We'll try," Andrew replied.
Climbing up by the fragments of planking attached to a rib, they
reached a strip of deck. It sloped sharply, but Andrew, grasping the
ragged bulwark, looked up.
"The iron forestay's holding the mast, and there's a couple of blocks
slung round the top," he said. "If it wasn't blowing quite so hard,
I'd go up for them." Then he caught a thin rope that ran down from
the blocks. "Good signal-halyard; I'd like to take it back, but I
didn't bring my knife."
Whitney felt amused. Andrew could seldom resist the temptation of
picking up anything that might be of use on board his yacht. Indeed,
her forecastle was cumbered with what Whitney called truck.
They moved forward a few paces and stopped by two curved beams that
rose above a black hole.
"The remains of the fo'castle hatch. I wonder what it's like below,"
Andrew said.
Kneeling on the wet deck, he struck a match, which blew out; but the
next burned for a moment or two, and Whitney saw the light flicker on
dripping planks and bulging beams. It was obvious that the water
flowed into the vessel and he wondered at Andrew's curiosity. The dark
hole did not look inviting and he was anxious to return to the yacht
in good time. Still, it was bitterly cold standing in the wind.
"We'll go and see, but I'll let you drop down first," he said.
Andrew seized the carline-beam and vanished through the gap. There was
a splash below, and he called to Whitney to be careful how he came
down. As this was impossible, Whitney let go the beam and, touching
the vessel's keelson with his foot, fell against her planking. It
jarred him, but he got up and Andrew struck another match and stooping
down picked something out of the water that lay among the timbers.
"A bit of candle!" he exclaimed. "It's going to burn."
It did so after he had scraped off some smoldering wick and stuck it
on a massive oak knee. The wrecked bulwarks broke the wind, for only
draughts came down, and the light spread about the forecastle. There
was some sand in the vessel's bottom, and the floor and ceilings had
gone. Nothing remained but the heavy timbers and the planks bolted
fast to them. A few shrimps sped up and down a pool and a small crab
that made a crackling noise crawled into a corner. Andrew examined the
beams and knees with interest.
"These old vessels were very well built," he said. "They used picked
material, cutting out the sapwood and seeing that the grain followed
the curve where there was any shape. She broke up aft in pounding with
the coal on board, but now that it's gone, this part of her may stand
a long time. Good, salted oak will last for many years under water."
"How did they get the coal away?" Whitney asked.
"They didn't get much. I wasn't here when they tried to salve it, but
I believe they used carts."
"Then you can reach land at low water?"
"They must have been able to reach it then, though I'm not sure you
could do so now, because the channels are continually changing. It's
possible they had to drive through water that may have got deeper
since; and the tide would not allow them much time for work. I dare
say that stopped the undertaking; and haulage would be expensive,
because it's two or three miles from the beach."
"How long is it since they let up?"
"About two years; I can't say exactly." Andrew stopped to light his
pipe, and then asked with a smile: "Do you think of trying for the
coal?"
"I was wondering whether the men who quit the business left that
candle. Would a candle burn after rolling about for two years in salt
water?"
"I don't know; it's an interesting point," Andrew replied
thoughtfully, and moved toward a timber from which he scraped a patch
of grease. "It was stuck on here when it was used and that must have
been after she took the sharp list. If she'd been upright, the flame
would have scorched the knee and I see no sign of that."
"Would she list over when she struck the bank?"
Andrew knitted his brows as if the question were an important one.
"I'm not sure. She'd have a full cargo, and these vessels are built
with flat floors to lie on the ground. It's only westerly breezes that
drive much broken water up the Firth, and though she lists to the
east, she hasn't gone very far over yet."
"In short, the chances are that she stood nearly upright when they
were working at the coal."
"Yes," said Andrew gravely, "I think she did."
Whitney was silent for a moment or two, listening to the turmoil of
the sea and the uproar of the gale that filled the shadowy hold with
confused sound, through which came the steady trickle of water running
out on the sand. He felt that the wreck had a secret.
"You must see what I'm getting after," he said. "It looks as if
somebody had been here since the salvers gave her up."
Andrew nodded.
"The blocks on the masthead are not the kind they'd use for heaving
cargo out; besides, they'd want a gaff. Then the signal-halyard felt
quite sound."
"If you wanted to get on board, would you take a whammel boat?"
"It depends. A whammeler couldn't get alongside if it was blowing from
the west; and since the tide runs out fast she'd have to leave early
on the ebb. If she came on the flood, the wreck would soon be
covered."
"Then anybody who meant to get on board would, if possible, walk
across the sands, which narrows things down. Now we come to another
point. Why would anybody wish to board her?"
Andrew said nothing for a minute and then answered thoughtfully:
"Of course, I've seen where you were leading. The signal-halyard would
lift the steel triangle they use with a wireless installation, and
they'd get some height at the masthead. Besides, messages travel
farthest at night; and the operator wouldn't be seen crossing the
sands. I don't know whether he could carry the necessary apparatus,
but he might hide it in a watertight box. The candle will be out in a
minute, so we can't look."
"You don't know yet if he could cross the sands."
"That's true. I'm going to find out. You had better climb up while the
light lasts."
Whitney reached the deck with some difficulty, and it was dark below
when Andrew joined him.
"We haven't much time to lose if we're to see whether it's possible to
get here from the beach."
They dropped over the side and set off across the bank. The wind
buffeted them and driving sand rattled on their oilskins. Whitney
hoped that Andrew was going straight, because the moon was obscured
again, and the Solway tide rises remarkably fast. For a time they saw
nothing but shallow pools in winding hollows and balls of foam that
seemed half solidified as they blew along the ground. Whitney thought
it must be past low-water, but Andrew trudged quietly on and he made
no protest. At last they came to a broad stream of water, and he noted
with mixed feelings that there was no way of getting round. He was not
sorry that it threatened to stop their advance; but his comrade was
not easily daunted and might try to wade across.
"As there's not likely to be another big gutter between us and the
beach, it would be a pity to turn back now," Andrew shouted.
"I'll wait and see how you get on," Whitney replied.
Andrew plunged in and was soon knee-deep. When he had gone a few yards
farther, the water splashed about the skirts of his oilskin jacket and
he came out.
"We might have crossed, but the bottom's soft, and there's some
stream," he said.
"Which way is it running?"
"Up, but not very fast yet."
"Then we're going back at once," Whitney said firmly.
They started, and Whitney did his best as he heard the growl of the
surf grow louder. It would be remarkably unpleasant to find themselves
cut off from the dinghy, and there were several gutters to be crossed,
with the tide steadily running up. Andrew seemed to realize this, for
he went on a quick trot, the water pumping into his sea-boots. It was
easier to make progress with the gale behind them, and Whitney felt
relieved when they passed the wreck at some distance. Andrew was
heading straight across the sands, though Whitney could not tell what
he was steering by. After a time, they came to a stretch of water that
widened as they splashed through, but when they had floundered across
the soft sand at its edge and reached a higher level they were
comparatively safe. Breathing hard, they made their way across firmer
ground, and Whitney was conscious of keen satisfaction when he saw the
dinghy lying a few yards from the glistening water.
When they had launched her, the wind blew them towards the _Rowan_,
and they were soon on board. She was riding easier, and would continue
to do so for a while.
"Have you decided whether it's possible to wade out to the wreck?"
Whitney asked as they took off their wet oilskins.
"I think it is," said Andrew. "There was about three feet of water in
the gutter that turned us back; but the tides are low now and don't
run out very far. As they get higher, the gutter would dry toward the
last of the ebb."
"The last of the ebb on a big tide would be between five and seven
o'clock, and it would be dark then, night and morning," Whitney
remarked. "This means that, supposing there was a wireless
installation, it could be used only at fixed intervals; roughly
speaking, it wouldn't be available one week out of two."
"Yes," said Andrew. "It rather upsets the supposition, but we may find
out something more."