TO THE RESCUE
A person leaving the wharf at Southport would ordinarily take one of
three roads: the one directly ahead leading up through the village and
past the hotel; the one to the left passing by, though at some distance
from, the cottages that were scattered irregularly along the south shore
of the bay; the road to the right leading similarly to the cottages on
that shore. The shore there, however, made a deep sweep, bordering on a
cove of some considerable extent.
From the shore in all directions the land sloped back, with a gradual
rise for about a mile. Cottages dotted the slope here and there.
To the right of the wharf and the farthest away from it of any dwelling
was the Warren cottage. Somewhat hidden in a grove of spruce-trees, its
broad piazza commanded a fine view of the bay and the islands in the
distance.
On this particular evening, however, there was little inducement of wind
or weather for one to linger there. The rain, driven by the wind through
fluttering tree-branches, dashed itself against the cottage windows as
though the drops were drawn, like moths, to the light which shone from
within; then fell in pools and was swept away by driving gusts. Nought to
be seen there now but sea and sky in wild commotion; darkness in all the
air, blackness over all the bay.
But, despite the dreariness of the storm outside, there was pleasing
comfort within the cottage. The increasing darkness of the night, the
dashing rain and the noisy wind, like unwelcome guests, came only to the
threshold and gained no admittance. A fire of driftwood blazed in the big
stone fireplace, and the soft rays shed by a lamp suspended from the
ceiling further lighted up the cosy room.
There were four occupants of the room. Mrs. Warren, a sweet-faced, cheery
little woman, and the three brothers, were seated about the fire. They
were conversing earnestly, and, as the talk progressed, it seemed as
though the influence of the storm was getting into the room.
“It’s no use, mother,” said George Warren, who stood in front of the
fireplace, facing the others, “trying to make us think that Tom and Bob
did not start to cross the bay. Ever since the boys were out in the big
storm on Moosehead Lake they’ve been afraid of nothing. Tom Harris
declares his canoe will stand as rough a sea as a dory,—and, what’s more,
the storm hadn’t begun by the time they must have left the mouth of the
river.”
“Yes, but Captain Chase would warn them not to cross.”
“I’ve no doubt he did, mother; and, if he did, that might make it so much
the worse. If the boys had been in a sailboat they probably would have
listened to him; but the captain would sneer at that canoe, and would
like as not tell them it wasn’t fit to cross the bay in at any time, much
less in rough water. And that would be just enough to put them on their
mettle. They’d make the attempt, even if they had to put back.”
“Yes, and Tom said in the note that they would be here to-night,” broke
in young Joe. “And when he gave that to Captain Chase to bring, it showed
he meant to start, anyway.”
“But when the storm increased they would put back,” urged Mrs. Warren.
“No,” answered George, “they must have gotten two-thirds of the way
across the bay before the worst of the storm broke. The storm seemed to
hold up for an hour or two during the latter part of the afternoon, and
then increased all of a sudden with the turn of the tide. The boys would
have gotten so far across that it would be too late to turn back, and
they would have to keep on.”
“And yet you boys want to imitate their recklessness!” cried Mrs. Warren,
impatiently. “Come, Arthur,” and she turned to the boy who had remained
silent thus far during the discussion. “Help me convince your brothers of
their mistake. You don’t agree with them, I am sure.”
The boy thus addressed, though a year younger than his elder brother, was
the one on whose judgment the mother more often relied. He was fully as
active as the other two, but his was a calmer temperament than theirs.
This confidence in him really extended to his brothers, though they joked
him on his moderate, studious ways, and called him the “professor,”
because he was a little near-sighted and sometimes wore glasses. He came
forward now and stood by his mother’s chair.
“I can’t help thinking, mother, that George and Joe are right,” he said,
deliberately, while poor Mrs. Warren gasped with dismay. “You wouldn’t
have us play the parts of cowards while the boys may be in danger, and
when we can perhaps save them. There isn’t half the danger you imagine,
either. The wind is blowing now squarely from the east, and once we have
beaten out of the cove we can sail alongshore without heading out to sea.
“Then, too,” he continued, “the yacht is nearly new, and was fitted with
new rigging this year. We’ll promise to sail only a little past the head
of the island and return, or run into Bryant’s Cove and walk back. It’s
no more than we ought to do for the best friends we’ve got. There’s not
another sailboat in the harbour to-night that is as stiff as ours, except
Jack Harvey’s, and it’s out of the question to ask him. The other boats
went out to the races at Seal Harbour, or we would get Captain Sam to go
in his yacht. We can’t ask Jack Harvey to go—that’s certain.”
“Wouldn’t he laugh at us, though!” said George. “He would offer to tow
our boat along, too, or something of that sort, just to be mean, and then
there’d be a nice row.”
Besieged on all sides, Mrs. Warren could but yield a partial consent.
“You and George can go,” she said, turning to Arthur, “but Joe must stay
with me. I can’t spare you all to take such an awful risk.”
“I won’t stay!” cried young Joe, hotly. “That is to say, I—I don’t want
to,” he hastened to add, as Mrs. Warren looked reproachfully at him.
“They need me to help sail the _Spray_,—don’t you, fellows?”
“There ought to be three to manage the boat in this wind,” said George,
somewhat reluctantly. “I guess you’ll have to let him go, mother—”
But at this moment there was the sound of footsteps upon the piazza. Some
one walked around the house, gave a premonitory knock at the door, and
let himself in.
It was Henry Burns. He was equipped for the storm, in oilskins, rubber
boots, and a tarpaulin hat. The water ran from his clothing in little
streams and made a series of pools on the polished wood floor. Declining
Mrs. Warren’s offer of a seat, on the ground that he was too wet, Henry
Burns stood by the mantel near the fireplace, and, with tarpaulin
removed, still looked the pale and delicate student, despite his rough
garments.
“Ahoy there, shipmates,” he said, with great gravity, waving the
tarpaulin at the group. “You weren’t thinking of cruising for your health
this evening, were you? Because, if you were, my health isn’t as good as
it might be, and I think a little salt air would do it good.”
“Bravo!” cried George Warren. “You might know Henry Burns would be on
hand if there was any excitement going on. Never knew him to fail,—Joe,
you’ll have to stay at home now and keep mother company. We don’t need
more than three. Come, Arthur, hurry! We mustn’t lose a minute longer.”
And while young Joe turned away, almost in tears at the verdict, the
other two boys scrambled about, hastily donning reefers, oilskins, and
heavy boots. Then they were gone with a rush and a bang of the door, and
Mrs. Warren and Joe composed themselves as best they could to await their
return.
And could any of them have imagined then, looking forth through the
darkness and the storm, an overturned canoe pounding helplessly upon the
beach of that island shore, it surely would not have comforted the
watchers nor have given courage to those who went forth to rescue.
Descending the bank to the shore of the cove, the boys quickly launched a
rowboat, the tender to the yacht, and, with Henry Burns seated in the
stern, tiller-ropes in hand, the brothers, about equal in strength,
pulled vigorously across the cove, where the sloop lay at anchor under
the lee of the bluff. It was no easy task to cross the cove in that sea;
and often Henry Burns turned the boat from its course and headed out
toward the entrance, to meet some enormous wave that, had it broken over
the side of the boat, would have filled and swamped it.
The yacht _Spray_, sheltered as it was from the brunt of the storm, was
tossing about uneasily as the boys climbed aboard and made the tender
fast astern. It was a small craft, about twenty-five feet over all, with
the hull painted black. It was trim and was able for its size, but, safe
to say, not a fisherman in the village would have cared to put out in it
this night. Still, the boat had been built on an outer island of the bay
for fishing in heavy weather, and was seaworthy.
There were three sets of reefing-points in the mainsail, and, after some
discussion, it was decided to reef the sail down to its smallest size.
While Henry Burns hoisted the sail slightly, the brothers hastily tied in
the reefs, and the halyards were then drawn taut at throat and peak and
made fast. The tender was tied to the buoy. There was no use trying to
tow it in that sea. Then, with George Warren at the tiller, Arthur and
Henry Burns cast off, and the voyage was begun.
When Mr. Warren purchased the boat for his boys, he had it rigged with
especial care for an emergency. The main-sheet was rigged to run through
a double set of pulleys, so that the mainsail could be hauled with
comparative ease in a heavy gale. The sail he had cut down smaller than
the boat had been carrying, so there was less danger of her capsizing.
That very precaution was, however, to prove a source of trouble on this
particular night.
Arthur Warren and Henry Burns now came aft, the iron centreboard was
dropped, and the yacht was almost instantly under headway, standing out
by the bluff and heading almost directly across the cove. Arthur Warren
held the main-sheet, while Henry Burns seated himself, with feet braced
against the centreboard-box, ready for any emergency.
For a moment they were in comparatively smooth water, and then, as they
emerged from the lee of the headland, it seemed as though they had been
suddenly transported into another sea. The wind that struck them careened
the boat over violently, as they were as yet under but little headway.
Easing the yacht for a moment with the sheet, they righted somewhat, but
the prospect was not pleasing. The _Spray_ did not head into the wind
well, and they soon found they could not make even a straight course
across the harbour, with the slant of wind they had.
“We may make something on the next tack,” said George, “but it doesn’t
look very encouraging.”
“Supposing you see how she comes about before we run in near shore,”
suggested Arthur, after some minutes.
In answer, George put the tiller hard down, after giving the little boat
a good headway. The yacht went sluggishly in stays, hung almost in the
eye of the wind for a moment, and then, failing to make headway against
the heavy seas, fell off once more and would not come about.
“There’s only one thing we can do, boys,” said George. “We must run in
under the shelter of the wharf and shake out that last reef. The sail is
too small to reef down so close. I’m sure she will beat under a double
reef. It’s the only thing left to do.”
It was the work of but a few minutes to carry out this plan. The third
reef was shaken out and the sail hoisted. Once more the yacht emerged
from shelter. The change for the better in its working was at once
apparent. It pointed higher into the wind, though careening over so that
the water came unpleasantly near the top of the high wash-boards. But the
yacht would stand this. The question now to be tested was, would she act
and come about under the still small sail she was carrying against the
force of such a sea.
“Now, then,” said George, as they neared the bluff again, “we will try
her once more. If she fails now we are beaten. We cannot carry more sail.
That’s sure.”
He put the tiller down as he spoke, and the _Spray_, responding bravely,
headed into the seas. They strove angrily to overwhelm the little craft,
and dashed furiously against her bows, while the wind worried the
flapping sails as though it would tear them from boom and mast; but the
_Spray_ held on and came about nobly, and they were away again on the
other tack, standing across the harbour.
It seemed an hour before they had beaten out where they dared to stand
past the bluff and head alongshore. They had left all shelter hopelessly
behind; on one side of them a wilderness of foaming waves rushed upon
them from the darkness; on the other side lay the lee shore, high and
rock-bound for the most part, but now and then broken by small stretches
of beach. Against the former, the seas broke with heavy crashings; upon
the other, with an ominous booming.
But they headed off the wind a trifle, eased the sheet, made by the
point, and stood along the shore as near as they dared to run. It was
well for them that the little yacht was a good sea boat. Again and again,
as some wave, lifting its white crest above the others, threatened to
overwhelm them, the yacht was headed out to sea, and then the wave,
lifting the boat high on its crest and rolling rapidly from beneath it
till half the length of the yacht seemed poised in air, left it to fall
heavily upon the next oncoming wave, or, worse still, to plunge into a
watery gulf, there to be half-buried by the next big sea.
But the yacht lived through it all and kept bravely on its course. Henry
Burns’s arms ached with bailing out the cockpit, where the seas broke in
over the quarter, or came aboard in clouds of spray as they headed into
the wind.
They dared not sail near the shore, and could see it but indistinctly,
save when some larger wave broke upon the beach and carved out a white
line of foam, which vanished as quickly as it appeared. So against the
cliffs that they passed they could see a sudden blur of white as a big
wave hurled itself to destruction. Beyond this all was blear and
indistinct.
They were now within half a mile of the head of the island, and, looking
ahead into the darkness, which, with the rain, had greatly increased
within the last hour, like the beginning of a fog, they realized how
useless was the search they had begun. They could see but the merest
distance in any direction. The storm was steadily increasing, and already
a new condition confronted them. The wind was shifting to the southeast,
from east, so that their return was rendered impossible. It was worse
than folly to think of beating back in such a head sea. The wind on their
quarter was driving them along furiously. It was madness to dream of
keeping on past the head of the island.
“We can’t make Bryant’s Cove any too soon to suit me,” said George. “The
_Spray_ has got more wind now than she knows what to do with.”
The little boat was, indeed, burying her bows under at every plunge, and
trembled in all her timbers at the fearful strain. It was plain that she
had reached the limit of her seaworthiness. Bryant’s Cove was a short
distance around the head of the island. Once there, they would be
sheltered from the storm.
The boys had ceased to speak of a possible rescue of their friends. It
was a question of their own salvation now, and the instinct of
self-preservation asserted itself. Henry Burns peered eagerly ahead, but
looked only for the point of land behind which lay their safety. Suddenly
he turned and uttered a shrill cry of fright, such as no one had ever
heard from him before.
“Luff her, George! Luff quick—quick, for your life!” he cried, and,
springing for the tiller, threw his weight against it ere the startled
helmsman could find strength to act.
The yacht, with sails slatting, came into the wind amid a cloud of spray.
The boom, striking a wave, had nearly snapped in two. But it was not an
instant too soon.
A black object that looked enormous rose suddenly out of the sea in front
of the _Spray_. The next wave lifted it high in the air, and hurled it
down upon them. It was a ship’s yawl-boat, of immense size, fully as
large as the yacht itself. Down the watery declivity it shot, swift and
straight, like some sea-monster in pursuit of its quarry.
But the little yacht had answered her helm well. There was a crash and a
splintering of wood, and the yawl drifted rapidly past and was lost in
the darkness. The yacht _Spray_, her bowsprit and fore-rigging torn away,
once more fell off the wind and was driven on by the storm. It was an
escape so narrow that a moment more and they had been dashed to pieces.
Henry Burns was the first to regain his courage.
“It’s better the bowsprit than the rudder,” he said, coolly. And his
courage gave them strength. A few minutes later they had passed the head
of the island and gained the lee of the land, and in fifteen minutes more
they had cast anchor in Bryant’s Cove.
“I am willing to do whatever you boys think is best,” said George Warren,
as they lowered and furled the sail and made the yacht snug for the
night. “But I think it’s of no use for us to make any search for the boys
along this shore. If they capsized in the bay to-night, neither they nor
their canoe would come ashore here. The canoe would be blown across the
bay; and they— Well, we’re bound to believe that they didn’t start, or,
if they did, that they put back.”
“I don’t see but what we have done all we can to-night,” responded his
brother; “and, as we have got five miles of muddy road to travel, the
sooner we start the better. We could stay in the boat to-night, but we
must get back on mother’s account. Depend upon it, she has worried every
single minute we have been gone, and I don’t blame her, either. Now it’s
all over, I don’t mind saying I think we were fools to come out. But we
meant well, so perhaps the less said the better. We’ll have to leave the
_Spray_ to herself till the storm goes down. Nobody will harm her.”
“I don’t mind staying here to-night and looking after her,” said Henry
Burns. “To be sure, old Witham doesn’t know I have left the hotel, but I
tumbled my bed up before I came away, and he will only think I got up
early in the morning, if he wonders where I am.”
“No, no, old fellow. We won’t let you stay. We won’t hear of it,” said
both brothers. “The sooner we all get home and get dry clothes on, the
better. There’s no need of any of us staying. The _Spray_ won’t sail out
of the cove of herself, and every one on the island knows her.”
So, as they had left the tender behind, they removed their clothing, tied
it into bundles, slung them around their necks, and, slipping overboard,
swam to shore.
“If I ever was more glad to get on land alive than I am at present,” said
Henry Burns, his teeth chattering with the cold, as he hastily scrambled
into his clothes, “I don’t happen to remember it just at this instant. I
wonder if my aunt would send me down here again for my health if she
could see me now.”
There was something so ludicrous in the idea that the boys could not help
bursting into roars of laughter,—though they felt little enough like
merriment.
“The more I think of it,” said Henry Burns, “the more I believe the boys
are snug ashore at Millville, and that they haven’t been within ten miles
of Grand Island to-night.”
“I think you are right, Henry,” responded Arthur.
“It must be so,” said George.
And yet not one of them dared to believe absolutely that what he said was
true.
They started off across lots now, walking as rapidly as their wet and
heavy clothing would allow, to strike the road which led to the harbour.
Coming at length into this road, they had walked but a short distance,
and were at the top of a hill at a turn of the road where it left the
shore, when Henry Burns, pointing down along the shore, said:
“We ought to remember that part of the bay as long as we live, for we
shall never be much nearer to death than we were right there.”
“Sure enough,” responded Arthur, “it was just about off there that the
big yawl smashed our bowsprit off.”
“The yawl must have been driven ashore by this time,” said George. “Wait
a minute and I will take a look.” And he disappeared over the bank and
was lost in the bushes. The two boys seated themselves by the side of the
road to await his return, but started up with a horror in their hearts as
a shrill cry came up to them from the shore. There was that in the cry
that told them that George Warren had found other than the ship’s
long-boat. They scarcely dared to think what. Then they, too, dashed down
the slope to the shore.
When they reached his side, George Warren could scarcely speak from
emotion.
“Look! Look!” he cried, in a trembling, choking voice, and pointed out
upon the beach where the tide had gone down.
There were two strange objects there that the sea had buffeted in its
wild play that night, and then, as though grown tired of them, had cast
upon the shore, among the rocks and seaweed.
One was the long-boat, no longer an object of danger, for the sea had
hurled it against a rock and stove its side in. The other was a canoe.
The sea had overturned it and tossed it upon the shore. Two of its
thwarts were smashed where it had been dropped down and pinioned upon a
rock—and the rock held it fast.