STORM DRIVEN
When they awoke next morning the wind was blowing heavily from the
northwest, and, while the sun was as yet shining brightly, the sky was
darkened here and there with banks of clouds, which moved with great
rapidity, driven by violent currents. Inside the snug harbour the water
was calm, but, looking out beyond on the bay, they could see its surface
broken already into big waves.
“Looks like a nasty day outside,” remarked George Warren. “I wonder
whether we ought to lie in here to-day, or take the chance of clearing
the foot of the island before it gets heavier.”
“I’d hate to stay here another whole day,” said Joe.
“Do you think it’s going to blow much harder, George?” inquired Tom.
“I can’t say for certain,” replied the other, “but it looks as though the
wind was going to increase right along.”
“But don’t you think we could get around the foot of the island before it
got much worse?” asked Arthur. “There is only about a mile to run before
we get under the lee of the islands in the other bay.”
“Of course, if we can reach the eastern bay all right, we shall be in
smooth water then,” said George, “for the island will shut off the wind
to a great extent, and there won’t be much sea. Well, if you fellows are
willing to take the chance, I am. I guess it won’t get any worse than the
night we ran to Bryant’s Cove. The _Spray_ stood that all right.”
Breakfast being finished, they double-reefed the mainsail of the little
yacht, and did not set the jib, as they would be running with the wind
about on their quarter and would not need it. Then they stood out of the
harbour into the bay.
They were almost immediately in rough water, and the very first plunge of
the yacht into the heavy sea sent the spray flying over them. Young Joe
and Arthur went scurrying into the cabin for the oilskins, of which they
had a good supply, and the boys prepared themselves for wet weather.
“We’ll get it right along now,” said George, “until we can clear that
point about a mile ahead there. The _Spray_ does the best she can, but
she does throw the water bad in a heavy sea. It isn’t her fault. And
there’s one good thing about her; you can’t tip her over. She will stand
up till the mast and sail are blown out of her.”
The boys now realized how deceptive wind and water viewed from a distance
always are. Gusts of wind that were seen from shore to blacken the water
and send the spray flying from the crests of waves, were found now to be
of far greater violence than they had supposed. Viewed from the harbour,
the waves had not seemed to be of unusual size, but, now that they threw
the little yacht about like a toy, they assumed a more terrific aspect.
The wind increased, and the _Spray_ rolled dangerously in the seas.
“She won’t stand this,” said George, at length. “We have got to put the
third reef in and do it quick.”
They got the yacht into the wind for a moment, lowered the sail, and tied
in a few reef-points; but the yacht would not hold in the wind, and they
had to be content with a few knots tied at twice or three times the usual
distance.
“We’re blowing offshore at a great rate,” exclaimed George, “but I can’t
help it. I can’t hold her up any higher. She won’t stand it.”
“Then we cannot make the point,” said Arthur.
“I am afraid not,” returned George. “I don’t like the prospect of getting
out into that bay, either, but I’m afraid we are in for it. I had no idea
there was any such a sea running, nor anything like this wind.”
The prospect was, indeed, not encouraging. Across the wide stretch of bay
for some eighteen miles the sea was one mass of whitecaps, a tumbling
confusion of waves, which already broke aboard the yacht, covering the
boys with spray and necessitating the use of bailing-dish and boat-sponge
to keep the water from standing in the cockpit.
“We’ve got to get that topping-lift up higher, Arthur,” said George
Warren, as the yacht rolled heavily, bringing the boom down dangerously
near the waves.
His brother sprang to the halyards at the warning, but it was a moment
too late. At that instant a wave, rolling higher than any they had yet
encountered, raised the _Spray_ on its crest and hurled it forward, at
the same time causing the little craft to yaw so that the boom was buried
for a moment deep in the seas. That moment was enough. There was a sharp
snap as the boom, splintered in two in the middle, emerged from the
waves, a useless thing. The yacht nearly broached to, while the next
oncoming wave broke fairly aboard, filling the cockpit half-full of
water.
They thought it was all over with them then, but they kept their heads
and saved themselves. Henry Burns and Arthur Warren, at the risk of going
overboard, managed to get the broken boom aboard, after they had let the
halyards run, and lashed it astern, so that the yacht was utterly without
sail. At the same time Tom and Bob, who knew little about handling a
yacht, but were ready for any emergency, bailed furiously with pails to
clear the boat of water.
Fortunately, the hatch had been shut, and the deluge of water had not
gone into the cabin, or the boat must have foundered. As it was, she
rolled heavily till they had bailed the cockpit dry again.
“That does settle it, with a vengeance,” said George Warren, when they
had recovered a little from the shock. “We have got to run for it now,
clear across this bay. I think we can do it all right, but you fellows
will have to bail lively. That won’t be the only sea we take aboard.”
“Where do we run to?” asked Henry Burns.
“That’s the worst of it,” replied George Warren. “I’m not sure, by any
means, whether we get blown out to the shoals, or whether we can head
over to the eastward any, ever so slightly, and strike the Gull Island
Thoroughfare. If we can land under the lee of Gull Island, we may be able
to do something. The first thing, though, is to get there.”
It was no easy thing to hold the yacht on its course, even with no sail
to drive it up to windward. Every wave threatened to throw it broadside
on, and it required now and again the united efforts of George and Arthur
Warren to steady it. Then a wave would come aboard astern, rolling in and
nearly filling the cockpit. Several times it did this, and at each and
every time it seemed as though the little yacht was going down. They
bailed desperately then, every one of them falling to except George
Warren.
To their credit, though, not one of them lost his courage. Their faces
were drawn and set, but they had confidence that the little _Spray_ would
somehow bring them through.
Toward the middle of the afternoon they had got the Thoroughfare well in
sight, big Gull Island lying nearly dead ahead and the smaller Gull
Islands lying away to the eastward.
“If we can manage to get a scrap of sail on her just as we pass the end
of Gull Island,” said George Warren, “I think we can swing her in and not
capsize. We’ve got to keep headway on, though, or one of these big
rollers will get under us and tip us over. We shall have a few rods to
run broadside on, for, as we are running now, and the best we can head,
we cannot come nearer than that to the island.”
“I’ll give her a scrap of sail that she can carry,” exclaimed Arthur, and
dived into the companionway, shutting the door quickly to keep the seas
out. He returned in a moment, bringing a hand-saw. With this he severed
clean the broken half of the boom, tying the ends of the rigging to the
short stub that was left. This left the sail a huge, clumsy bag, that
would evidently not hoist up but a foot or so on the mast, but might
possibly be of some service in the emergency.
A torrent of rain now began to pour, falling so dense as almost to shut
out the islands ahead. Their outlines became obscured, making the effort
to run into the Thoroughfare a more difficult and dangerous one.
Moreover, the wind continued to increase.
“Now, fellows,” said George Warren, as they came abreast of the end of
Big Gull Island, “everybody up to windward and hold on hard. She’s going
to lay over when she gets these seas broadside. Hoist the sail, Arthur,
just as we begin to head in.”
Arthur sprang to the halyards, but they were tangled and did not pull
true. Try as best he could, the sail would hoist but a little ways on the
mast. It bagged out like a huge balloon, holding the wind and nearly
capsizing them. Henry Burns, handling the main-sheet, let it run just in
time to save them. Still the sail gave them headway, and, carefully
managed, would answer to fetch them in.
Twice they had to head off fairly before the wind again, at the onrush of
some enormous wave, but they got quickly on their course again, and,
rolling frightfully, with the boys clinging far out to windward, the
little yacht all at once felt the relief which the sheltering extremity
of Gull Island afforded from the awful strain. Almost before they knew
it, they were in smooth water once more, riding easily at the entrance to
the Thoroughfare.
“Whew!” cried George Warren, as he dropped the tiller and shook his
hands, which were numb and aching from the strain and the cold rain.
“That was a ride for life that I don’t care to repeat again in a hurry.
Didn’t the little _Spray_ do well, though, eh, Arthur? She had a good
excuse to founder if she hadn’t been staunch. If she was only a little
larger she wouldn’t have minded this at all.”
“We did come flying across that bay and no mistake,” said Tom. “I thought
we were going to founder twice or three times, though.”
“Looks as though we were stranded here for some days, that’s the worst of
it,” said George Warren. “This storm has just begun, by the looks of it.
It’s a lonesome hole, too, down in this reach. Nobody ever comes here,
except a few fishermen in the fall and spring. The Thoroughfare is all
right, but it doesn’t lead to any particular place in the course of
vessels, so it isn’t a regular thoroughfare really, like those over to
the eastward more. Now and then a yacht goes through, just for the sail,
but one has got to know the channel very well, for it isn’t charted
accurately,—at least, so Cap’n Sam says.”
“Well,” returned Arthur, “we are not making a race against time, so I
don’t see as it matters much whether we stay here or some other part of
the bay. We’ll just lie snug aboard here to-night, and then to-morrow
we’ll get out and explore. There are some fishermen’s shanties around on
the other side of some of those smaller islands, and we ought to be able
to build up a fire in one of them and live there till the storm is over,
so we won’t have to stay in this little cabin all the time.”
“I’ll be glad enough to go down there for awhile now,” said Henry Burns,
“and get dry and warm. Come on, Bob, let’s you and me start some coffee
and biscuit going. You do the cooking, because you know how, and I’ll
look on. I’ll get the dishes out, anyway.”
There was scarcely room in the cabin of the _Spray_ for more than four of
them to sit and eat, so they threw the mainsail over the stub of the boom
and made a shelter out of it against the rain. There, just outside the
cabin, Tom and Bob sat as they all ate supper, with the rain pouring down
all around and spattering in under the edges of the canvas. It was
uncomfortable and dreary at best, and they were all glad when time came
to turn in, which they did by all crowding into the cabin, where they
could at least keep dry, although stowed away like sardines.
“Ouch!” exclaimed Henry Burns, as he awoke next morning, feeling stiff
and sore. “I feel as though I was creased and starched and ironed, and
every time I move I take out a crease. It will take me half a day to
straighten out again, I’ve got so many kinks in my neck and back.”
They were all cramped and lame from the uncomfortable positions in which
they had lain, for on fair nights they had been accustomed to make up two
bunks just outside the cabin, in the cockpit. It was still raining hard,
but as soon as they had had breakfast they set out to seek for new
quarters.
With the scrap of a sail set, and with the use of the sweeps with which
the yacht was provided, they worked their way about a quarter of a mile
along into the Thoroughfare, till they got abreast of one of the smaller
of the Gull Islands. The shores of this were very bold, the rocks going
down sheer, without any outlying reefs or ledges, so that they were able
to run the yacht close alongside, making her fast at bow and stern with
ropes carried out on land.
“It seems good to stretch one’s legs again,” said Bob, as they all sprang
out on to the rocks. They were indeed glad to be on land once more.
The island on which they now were was about three-quarters of a mile long
and about half a mile wide, quite densely wooded with a growth of spruce
and young birches. From a little elevation they could look out to sea
toward the southward.
“The shanties are on the other side, if I remember rightly,” said George
Warren. “I was down here once in the fishing season. We may as well
strike directly across to the south shore. That’s where the fishermen
build their weirs for the salmon that run in along the islands.”
They tramped across through the woods in the pouring rain. It was a
relief to get even the shelter that the trees afforded from the driving
storm. Presently they came in sight of the fishermen’s cabins, a cluster
of four standing in a clearing at the edge of the woods, facing the sea.
One of the huts was somewhat larger than the other three, and toward this
they directed their steps.
“I don’t just like to break into other people’s property,” said George
Warren, advancing toward the door, hatchet in hand, “but it only means
forcing a staple, and we can replace that without any harm being done.
It’s the only—hulloa! Why, somebody’s been here before us. The door is
ajar.”
Somebody had, indeed, forced the door, and had not taken pains to
refasten it. The staple, which had been drawn, lay on the ground by the
door, just where it had been dropped. The boys threw open the door and
stepped inside.
The one room, for a shanty of the kind, was fairly commodious. Along the
two ends were ranged tiers of bunks, three at either end, making just
enough for them.
“Looks as though they were built expressly for us,” remarked Henry Burns.
The bunks were rough, clumsily made affairs, a few boards knocked
together, with a thin layer of hay thrown in at the bottom of each; but
with the blankets from the yacht they would be comfortable.
In the centre of the room was a large sheet-iron stove, with a funnel
running up through the roof. In one corner of the room—there was only one
room in the cabin—was a sort of cupboard, on the shelves of which were
piled a few tin dishes. A rusty axe was apparently the only tool left on
the premises.
There was a scrap of kindling and one or two dry sticks of wood beside
the stove, and with this they started a fire. Driftwood lined the shore,
and a number of dead spruces, which had not yet rotted, furnished them
with an ample supply of fuel. They piled the stove full, and soon had a
fire roaring that turned the stove red-hot and which sent out a grateful
warmth throughout the cabin.
“That will dry us out in good shape,” exclaimed Arthur, as the steam came
from his wet clothing. “We’ll have this old shanty as comfortable as a
parlour. This is a better house than Crusoe ever had.”
It was, in fact, a comfortable shelter against the storm. The roof and
sides were shingled, so that it kept out the rain, and though the wind,
which by this time was blowing a gale, shook it till it rattled, it stood
firm.
After the boys had brought in a supply of firewood, enough to last them
through the evening, and had stowed it near the stove to dry, they set
out again for the yacht, and brought back each a blanket, the yacht’s two
lanterns, and a supply of food.
“It’s lucky we put a good supply aboard,” said young Joe, as they stowed
the stuff away on the cabin shelves. “Looks as though we were in for a
couple of days here, at least. It wouldn’t have been any fun to have to
fish for our suppers in this storm.”
“You would never have survived it, Joe,” returned Arthur, “though you did
eat enough at that picnic to last you several days.”
“Well, here’s a funny thing,” cried Henry Burns, who had been rummaging
about in the cupboard. “The parties who were here before us didn’t
believe in starving. And they didn’t believe in living on fishermen’s
fare, either.” And Henry Burns brought forth three empty wine-bottles and
a half-emptied jar of imported preserves. “Here are some tins that
contained turkey and some kinds of game,” he added. “The fishermen don’t
buy that sort of canned stuff. It must have been a party of yachtsmen
that used this place last.”
“They might have had the fairness to fasten the door after them, whoever
they were,” said George Warren.
“Perhaps the wine accounts for that,” said Henry Burns.
“I’m glad they left us some preserves,” said young Joe.
They slept soundly in the shanty that night, with the wind howling about
their ears and the rain dashing against the single window and beating
like mad upon the roof. Nor did the storm abate the following day, nor
the next night. Not till the third morning did the sunlight welcome them
as they awoke, but then it poured through every chink and crack in the
shanty, as though to make amends for the length of its absence.
When the woods had dried sufficiently so they could venture abroad, they
set out to hunt for a young spruce that would do for a boom for the
_Spray_. After cutting several and finding they had been deceived in
their length, they finally secured one which would do. Then they brought
up the stub of the boom from the yacht and got the exact measure of the
old one from the sail, which they disentangled from the snarl of rigging,
and spread out.
“I am afraid Captain Sam would laugh at this spar-making effort of mine,”
said George Warren, as he trimmed away at the slender trunk of spruce,
from which he had peeled the bark; “but it will do to take us on our
cruise again. And what’s the use of going on a cruise if you don’t have
adventures?”
When he had fashioned the stick as well as his one tool—a hatchet from
the locker of the _Spray_—would admit of, he unscrewed the jaws from the
old boom, fastened them upon the new, and the boom was done.
Then they set about mending several tears in the mainsail, with a needle
and twine, also from the yacht’s locker, and by noon everything was in
readiness for rigging the sail once more. This proved the most difficult
task of all, for they found that it is one thing to know the running
rigging of a sailboat, and another thing to reeve it when it has been
displaced. It was not until the middle of the afternoon that they had the
job completed, and then, as the wind was dying out, they decided it was
useless to attempt to set sail till the following morning.
In the meantime, Henry Burns, finding that he was of no service in the
work of rigging the yacht, had volunteered to get a mess of fish for
supper. Accordingly he set out, equipped with a short alder pole and line
and a basket, to try for some cunners and small cod off the ledges on the
seaward side of the island. He succeeded in getting a fairly good catch,
and then continued along the shore in search of mussels, as the tide was
several hours ebbed.
His search brought him at length to the northernmost extremity of the
island, where he sat down on the beach to rest. Then, as he started to
resume his walk, he noticed that the receding tide had left bare a narrow
sand-bar, that connected the island on which the cabins stood and the
adjacent island, so that he could now pass from one to the other almost
dry-shod.
Fondness for exploring was ever Henry Burns’s ruling passion, so he set
out across the sand-bar to the neighbouring island, and was pleased to
find that the mussel-beds were far more plenty there than he had found
them before. This island was not so large as the other Gull Island. It
was not more than a half-mile long and about a quarter of a mile across
in its widest part. It had, however, the same characteristic of the
other, in that its shores were abrupt, and deep water lay all around it.
There was but one small strip of beach, extending out into mud-flats,
where Henry Burns could gather mussels; but he soon filled his basket
here, and, setting it down in the shade of an overhanging rock, climbed
the ledge that now barred his way, and started to make a circuit of the
island along the edge of its steep banks.
Henry Burns had a habit of day-dreaming as he walked, unless he happened
to be in search of some particular thing, when he was the most alert of
youths. So, as he walked, his mind was far away just then, back in the
town of Medford, where he pictured to himself familiar objects, and
wondered what was happening there.
So it happened that he passed a certain tree close by the shore, only
half-noticing that the end of a stout hawser was tied to it, and not
paying any attention to it. When he had gone on a rod or two, it suddenly
struck him that this was an odd thing, as the hawser was new, and so he
went back to look at it. There was a short length of the rope dangling
from where it had been made fast about the tree-trunk, and he noticed
upon examination that the free end had been severed cleanly by the stroke
of a knife.
“That’s odd,” said Henry Burns. “Fishermen don’t usually waste a good
piece of hawser like that. Some one was extravagant and in a hurry, or
impatient—By Jove! You don’t suppose—”
Henry Burns had lost his preoccupied air in a moment. Following the line
from the rope to the edge of the bank, he scrambled carefully down over
the face of the ledge to the water’s edge.
Henry Burns was not surprised to discover that the rock was smeared all
over with spots of black paint. Moreover, if further evidence were needed
that some one had been at work there, there lay in a niche of the ledge
an empty keg in which paint had been mixed.
But what elated Henry Burns still more was a discovery he made by a
closer examination of the ledge just under water. There at a depth of
from one to two feet under water were rough, jagged edges of the rock
which had been in contact with some object—an object that had left upon
their surface unmistakable smearings or scrapings of paint which was
white.
“Hooray!” cried Henry Burns, excitedly, for him. “There it is—the old and
the new. There’s where he rubbed against the ledge as he made fast, and
here’s the evidence all about on these rocks of his new disguise. And
there, right close to the bank, are the trees to which he fastened his
tackle. If it isn’t just as Miles Burton said, to the letter, then
there’s no trusting one’s eyes.”
Henry Burns lay flat on a shelving bit of rock, with his face close to
the water, and peered down to the bed below. The water was not very
clear, but he could discern distinctly a deep, narrow trench in the hard
sand, which might have been made by the keel of a boat, if the boat had
touched bottom at low water.
Any one observing Henry Burns at this moment would have been puzzled
indeed. He suddenly sprang up, tore off his jacket and trousers, bared
himself in the quickest possible time, and, poising for one brief moment
on the brink of the water, dived in. He swam to the bottom with two
strokes, clutched at something that lay on the bottom, grasped it in his
right hand, came to the surface, and, drawing himself out on land once
more, stuffed the object into his trousers pocket and scrambled into his
clothing again, as though his life depended on his haste. Then he started
on a run for the sand-bar, crossed it, paused never a moment for his
basket of fish and clams, and dashed back to the shanty as fast as his
legs could carry him.
It was not constitutional with Henry Burns, however, to continue long in
a state of excitement, and by the time he had regained his companions his
composure had returned. Still, they were familiar enough with him to
perceive that something unusual had happened.
“What’s the matter, Henry?” exclaimed George Warren. “We saw you running
along the beach up there as if somebody was after you. We didn’t know but
what you had found another burglar.”
“No,” replied Henry Burns, “it was the same one.”
It was their turn now to become excited.
“You don’t mean really——” began George Warren.
“Yes, I do,” interrupted Henry Burns. “Say, do you remember the strange
black yacht that came into the harbour at the foot of Grand Island the
other night, and that was in such a hurry to get out again when it saw
us? Well, that was Chambers, and the yacht was the _Eagle_.”
“Well, but she was black,” said George Warren, “and she had no topmast.
The _Eagle_ was white.”
“Yes, but don’t you recall what Burton said about Chambers, what a hand
he was for changing a yacht over so she’d look like a different craft?
Well, that’s what he has done, and I’ve found the place where he did it.
There’s the white paint back there on the edges of the rocks where the
yacht rubbed alongside, and the rock is all covered with spots of black
paint.”
Henry Burns rapidly recounted what he had discovered, including the end
of hawser made fast to the tree.
“But that isn’t all,” exclaimed Henry Burns, triumphantly, as he fished a
hand into his right trousers pocket. “See here, what do you make of this?
I saw it shining down in the water just where the stern of the yacht must
have laid.”
Henry Burns drew forth a glittering object from his pocket and held it up
to their gaze.
It was a gilt letter “E.”
“‘E’ for ‘_Eagle_,’” cried Henry Burns. “This letter got away from him.
It’s clear as daylight now. Say, fellows, let’s start for Southport early
in the morning. That man Chambers is in the bay. He’s up to something,
and we want to get them after him quick.”