If there should be a fog,--and hardly a day or a night passes without
one,--the danger is great. When the white veil settles down over the
schooners the men on deck can hardly see their cross-trees. Foot-power
horns are blown, the ship’s bell is tolled steadily, while conch shells
bellow their resonant note from the trawlers in the dories. But it is all
to no purpose. For the great siren comes nearer and nearer every second,
and the pounding of the waves against the great hulk and the rush of
resisting water grow horribly distinct.
There is a hazy glimmer of a row of lights, a roar and a splutter of
steam, a shock and the inrush of the great volume of water, a shout or
two from the towering decks and bridge, and the great body dashes by
disdainfully, speed undiminished, her passengers careless, and unmindful
that the lives and fortunes of half a dozen human beings have hung for a
moment in the balance of Life and Death. But records have to be made, and
the gold-laced officers forget to mention the occurrence. The men on the
schooner do not forget it, though. More than one face is white with the
nearness to calamity.
“What was she, Jim?”
“The ‘Frederick.’ I’d know her bloomin’ bellow in a thousand.”
They lean out over the rail and peer into the gray blackness, shaking
their fists at the place where she vanished in the fog.
The man who gets his name in the newspaper and a medal from his government
is not the only hero. And the modesty with which the Gloucester fisherman
hides his sterling merit is only convincing proof of the fact,--Gloucester
is a city of heroes.
For grit and devotion the case of Howard Blackburn surpasses understanding.