UPON THE ROCKY REEF
ADAMS had been in the right when he thought he saw a woman on board the
barque "Sunlight." There was a woman, the Captain's sister; and there
was also a little baby girl, the Captain's child.
They had come in for very bad weather this voyage. A heavy gale,
lasting two days, had carried away the masts and gear. Jury-masts had
been rigged, but another terrible storm carried these also by the
board, and washed away a great portion of the gunwale. Somewhat later
both the rudder and the boats were swept clean away, and three of the
crew went with them. After this the disabled barque could do little
more than drift whither wind or current should bear her. A brief lull
succeeded: but before any other vessel could be sighted and summoned to
her aid, the weather again changed for the worse, a fresh gale coming
on. The damaged ship was now steadily nearing the shore, and a long
white gleam of breakers ahead spoke of hidden rocks.
On the deck stood a young woman, probably under thirty, her serious
eyes bent landward, and one hand resting on the head of a large
powerful Newfoundland dog, while the other held fast to a rope, as she
swayed to and fro with the heaving of the ship. She looked both grave
and sad. A dark ulster clothed her from head to foot, and she wore a
round sailor hat, with a black ribbon.
Mildred Pattison had lost both her parents in one week, shortly before
starting on this voyage with her brother and his wife; and only two
weeks before this date her brother's wife had been left below the deep
Atlantic waters. No near relative remained to her on earth save her
brother and his little one. Now death stared them all in the face.
Captain Pattison, a bronzed and kind-faced man, many years older than
herself, made his way to her side. He too looked sad and anxious.
"It's a bad look-out, Millie."
"If we go on like this, we shall soon be on those rocks," she replied.
It was not easy to make him hear, though she had a penetrating voice.
"We're setting for them straight. The wind and tide are carrying us
fast to leeward."
"And nothing can be done?"
He made a negative sign. "They see us from the shore. Perhaps they'll
try something or other. But look at those breakers. Not much chance for
us when we get among them!"
"I'll bring Louey on deck. She was sound asleep, and I left her for ten
minutes. Poor little dear!"
The Captain sighed. "I'm glad to think Lucy passed away as she did—so
peacefully. Do you remember what a still day it was, just before all
our troubles began?"
Millie nodded, with moist eyes.
"She wasn't frightened to go, but she'd have been frightened at this.
Louey's too young to understand, and that's a mercy. Well, going Home
early means being spared a lot of trouble."
His strong voice, well used to making itself heard against boisterous
winds, reached Millie more easily than hers reached him.
"I wonder if Lucy sees us now," she murmured.
"I shouldn't wonder if we're all together again this evening—you and
me and Lucy and little Lou—up there." For an instant the Captain half
bared his head, despite the bitter blast, with a reverent upward
glance, and a light of hope sprang into the bronzed features. "So long
as One is aboard, it don't much matter which way we get into port."
"Is HE aboard?" questioned Millie to herself. Then aloud, "I don't seem
to feel anything much, Phil, good or bad. I'm stupefied with all I've
gone through this last year."
The Captain's hand came on her shoulder. "Poor Millie! Poor old girl!
But HE knows what's best for us, Millie."
"Hadn't I better get Louey on deck?"
"Don't wake the child. If she's asleep, let her sleep."
"Yes, but, Phil, I can't stay down there any longer, boxed up." Millie
shuddered. "I must see what's coming. And, Phil, listen to me. Phil,
remember one thing: you are to look to Lou. If anybody can do anything
for me, Hero will do it. You've got to save little Lou, for Lucy's
sake."
"God bless you, Millie. You're a brave woman."
"Am I?" A smile flickered, as she thought how little he could guess at
the deadly heart-sinking below. "I hope I know what is right, at all
events."
Perhaps he failed to catch her words. His eyes were strained shoreward
as the barque swayed and lurched under their feet, tossed to and fro by
the surging billows, which again and again broke over the deck. It was
marvellous how Millie managed to stand at all.
Each minute the broad irregular line of breakers seemed to draw nearer;
each minute their angry crests seemed to leap higher. The very terror
of the sight was fascinating, for in a short time they would themselves
be in the grip of those furious waters. The rudderless vessel could not
be guided, a makeshift attempt at a rudder having proved valueless;
and in any case she could not, without masts, have escaped from the
clutch of the strong current which dragged her onwards to her fate.
But whatever Mildred Pattison felt below the surface, she remained
outwardly composed. She was not one of the shrieking and hysterical
kind.
Apathetic indifference seemed to have settled down for a while upon
the crew, only seven of whom remained. Nothing further could be done.
Not even a boat was left to them, or they would no doubt have tried
launching it, however hopelessly.
Nearer, and nearer, and yet nearer, they drew to the rocks. It was
worse, waiting thus for the final crash, than if the crash had come
unexpectedly; worse in some respects. The end was so sure, yet so
gradual.
True, time was given them for thought and prayer, and for this they
might well be grateful. But Millie felt herself unable either to think
or to pray. This may have been a mistake. She did think unconsciously;
and while definite words or sentences of petition were impossible, the
whole attitude of her heart was a despairing cry for help. She had not,
perhaps, sufficiently practised habits of steady prayer in happier
hours, and during late months she had yielded herself too much of a
victim to a spirit of heavy repining. Now, in dire danger, she could
not shake herself free from the clog which she had hung round her own
neck. She seemed to be dulled, wordless, helpless.
Was Christ indeed on board this barque, as He had been on board the
boat which crossed Galilee's waters, not in Bodily Form, but none the
less absolutely present? To Captain Pattison, a man of childlike trust,
it was so undoubtedly. But to Millie Pattison? If things spiritual are
verily to us "according to our faith," then, according to Millie's lack
of trust, she had not that Divine Presence to bear her through the
bitter hour, not consciously and comfortingly at all events.
The Captain would not let her go down below. He had noted her shudder
at the thought, and crossing the deck was no easy or safe matter. He
went himself, and brought the fair-haired child of two, still half
asleep, wrapped warmly in a thick shawl and folded in his arms.
"Shall I take her?" asked Millie.
"No, no; you keep yourself free. I've told Bill Jonson to mind and see
if he can do anything for you, and he will. They're trying on shore to
launch a boat."
"It's been thrown back twice. And how can they get to us, with those
rocks between?"
"They won't try. There's a break in the line of rocks some way off: But
in this sea—no, they won't try. They'll just keep near, if they can,
and pick up some of us. That's the one chance. Time for your lifebelt!"
She put it on obediently, only murmuring, "What is the use? It may just
mean longer torture."
In the distance they had glimpses of the boat, which, after two
failures, was at length fairly off. It seemed a mere cockle-shell,
tossed from billow to billow, and its advance in the teeth of the
rising tide was of necessity slow. Millie saw it, and lost it, and saw
it, and lost it anew. Was it afloat still, or had it gone down?
[Illustration: In the distance they had glimpses of the boat.]
Then she found that the shore was blotted out as by a veil, the air
around having grown thick with flying spray; and the thundering crash
of breakers was suddenly close at hand. She had not known that they
were quite so near. The barque seemed for a moment to pause, almost to
draw back, and to plunge forward with a fearful crash.
Millie was dashed flat on her face by the concussion, and when she
slowly struggled to her knees, clinging for support to rope and
bulwark, she found the deck so slanting that to stand upright was no
longer possible. The barque was lying over almost on her side, and
Millie was alone. Even Hero had vanished, and through the masses of
flying spray, which half blinded and half stifled her, she could catch
no glimpse of her brother or the child.
For one instant the veil of spray was flung aside by the wind, and
she saw two of the crew, clinging to the vessel as she herself clung;
but the Captain was not there. A faint whining next became audible,
and Hero struggled, dripping, to her side, to seize her dress in his
jaws, with an evident determination that they two should not be again
separated.
The barque seemed to be settling slowly over, and every plank quivered
with the shock of those heavy seas, which swept her from stem to
stern. Millie held on determinately; but she knew that it would not be
possible to hold on long. Breath and strength were fast failing.
Yet somehow she no longer felt afraid. In the booming rush of billows
and the blinding dash of spray, a vision had come to her eyes of a
distant lull and a Cross thereupon, and ONE whom she knew hanging
patiently on the Cross; and her whole soul leapt up in a passionate
prayer for pardon, because she had doubted His love.
"I shall never doubt Him again. He will take me now Home," she thought.
And when another momentary break allowed her to see something swept to
and fro in the surge below, which she recognised as her brother, almost
a smile came.
"It is over for him! It will soon be over for me too."
Then her hand went to the dog's rough coat. "Dear old Hero! You can't
do any more for me. Poor old fellow! It's nearly over!"
A mountainous wave rushed past, and Millie was all but torn away. She
held on, gasping, and knew that she could not withstand such another.
The return rush of water swept a small bundle to her very feet, and
Millie quitted her hold to grasp it. As she saw, close to her own, the
white still face of Louey, fixed in eternal peace, it was torn away by
the next giant billow, which came crashing up from behind.
On Millie's part there was a momentary sense of helplessness, of
whirling noise and darkness and bewilderment, and then she remembered
no more. When the great green mass of water had passed by, neither
Millie nor Hero remained on the deck. They had together been lifted
clean over the rocky reef, and swept far into the troubled waters
beyond. With this last shock the barque parted amidships.
The Maxham boat, in imminent danger each moment of being capsized, was
drawing slowly nearer, and old Adams, at the stern, witnessed what had
happened. He said nothing at first, till Mr. Gilbert, glancing round,
exclaimed,—
"She's gone!"
"Ay, she be gone, sir. Broke up like a bit of matchwood. And I'm
afeared them aboard be gone with her."
"The tide is coming in. Some of them may be carried this way. We'll not
give up yet," shouted Gilbert.
"No, sir."
Again they bent to their oars, rising and falling as one big wave after
another swept under them. But for the practised skill of Adams, they
would soon have found themselves struggling in the water.
Another shout from Gilbert. "See there: something yonder!" And soon to
one and another became apparent a small dark object, half swimming,
half borne along, and a larger object, floating or dragged with it.
"A dog, and he's got hold of something. Steady, boys, steady! Ease a
bit! Now then!"
Another minute, and they were beside the almost exhausted Hero,
whose teeth held firmly still a portion of Millie's dress. With
difficulty they hauled her in—a dripping senseless figure, perhaps past
recovery—and Hero was helped to climb in after.
Millie was laid in the bottom of the boat, and for a few minutes still
they lingered, but in vain. No other body could be seen. Longer delay
might mean the certainty of death for the one whom they had rescued;
and soon they turned towards the shore.
This was quicker work, for now the incoming tide was in their favour,
and wave after wave carried them on. The worst was, or seemed to be,
over, when, near the land, a heavy swell caught the boat, carried it
forward, turned it as before broadside to the beach, then, as if with a
last expiring effort dashed it, bottom up, upon the shingle.