[Illustration: 9117]
HE storm that culminated on that November morning was the worst that
had been known on the Moorlow coast for years. The wind, which was
north-east, blew a hurricane averaging eighty-four miles an hour. The
beach was flooded by a furious surf, and, strangely enough for that time
of the year, the weather was freezing cold. In less than ten minutes
after the second vessel stranded Captain Murray's crew was abreast of
her, but in the meantime she had worked to within a hundred yards of the
beach, and Joe Burton, running down behind a receding wave, cast a line
on board with a vigorous throw of the heaving-stick.
“Hurrah for Burton!” cried Harry. “He's a fine fellow, I tell you.”
[Illustration: 0118]
As soon as the line reached the ship, the sailors on board of her tugged
away at it until they had pulled up the larger line, on which Captain
Murray purposed to send out the breeches-buoy. But before the buoy could
be rigged up, the sailors, ignorant of his purpose, showed that they
were going to endeavour to reach the land by coming hand-over-hand along
the rope. Captain Murray and his men shouted from the shore, and wildly
gesticulated, for it seemed impossible that any of them could reach the
shore alive in that way. The surf was very violent, but the greatest
danger lay in the fact that the position of the brig in the set of the
strong current caused an enormous swirl of water between her and the
beach, which retained eddying masses of wreckage, mainly cord-wood from
the wreck of the _Starlings_ and which masses were continually swept out
by the undertow, and hurled in by the breakers.
“Oh, those foolish men! those foolish men! why don't they understand and
see their danger?” cried Sister Julia, attempting to draw the children
away from a sight so distressing; but the boys were immovable. Mrs.
Murray, Sister Julia, and Nan went down to the little kitchen to wait,
since they no longer had the heart to watch.
“There, one of the fellows has started!” cried Harry, with long pauses
between his sentences, “and he's all right so far. No; my goodness,
there he goes! a wave has flung him over the rope, and his head is
caught between the cords of the whip-line. He will choke to death. No!
there goes Burton again right into the surf holding on to the line.
There! he's got him, he's got the sailor; but how can he ever bring him
to land? See, Rex, he's clinging to a piece of driftwood with one hand,
and holding on to the sailor with the other.”
“Oh! but another man is trying it now!” exclaimed Rex. “Oh! why don't
they wait? Look there--and another one of the crew has plunged in after
him; but, goodness! the driftwood has knocked him completely under.
Ah! there go two more of the men in to his rescue, and Burton is in the
breakers again, too. Who's that with him, Harry?”
“I can't make out, but--hurrah! they've reached the sailor; they'll save
him, I know.”
And Harry was right; they did save him, and five others besides, all of
whom attempted the same foolhardy method of reaching the land, and all
of whom were rescued by the same hand-to-hand struggle in the surf on
the part of Captain Murray's gallant crew.
[Illustration: 0120]
“I never saw such bravery, never!” called Mr. Vale, and it could
plainly be seen that his enthusiasm cheered the men wonderfully in their
perilous work. He longed to plunge in with them, but he knew that he
would be powerless to render any aid. It was their long experience
that was standing the crew in such good stead. By this time a crowd had
gathered on the beach, that is, every able-bodied resident of Moorlow
was there, and as the last sailor was brought safely to shore a hearty
cheer went up that, for the moment, even rose above the pounding of the
breakers on the shore. Stretched on the sand, in such shelter from the
wind and rain as the side of the surf-boat afforded, the disabled seamen
were laid. They were all Spaniards, and only two of them were able to
stand upon their feet.
“Which of you is captain of the brig?” asked Captain Murray, looking
kindly down upon this second group of shipwrecked mariners.
“He no here,” answered one of them who had been the least hurt, in
broken English; “when he think his ship go to pieces, he go below and
make hisself dead;” but the man's gestures told more plainly than his
words that the captain had shot himself in the head.
Captain Murray turned to his men with a look that meant, “Our work is
not over yet.”
“What shall be done with these poor fellows?” ventured Mr. Vale, when
he saw that the thought of how he should reach the man still on the brig
had driven all other thoughts from the captain's mind.
“Lord knows!” answered Captain Murray, sorely puzzled. “It'll be more'n
a week before some of them will get out of bed, when they once get into
it. There's some ugly bruises among 'em.”
“Do you think we could make them comfortable in the chapel on the beach
yonder? It would serve splendidly for a hospital.”
“The very thing! I'll leave the arrangements to you, sir,” said Captain
Murray, confident now that this really was Nan's new friend, the
minister, about whom she had talked so much.
The first thing to be done was to get the exhausted Spaniards up to
the Station, where Rex and Harry and Nan, with excited, earnest faces,
waited to receive them. Over and over again the children had begged and
entreated to be allowed to run down to the scene of the wreck, but Mrs.
Murray had thought best to refuse them.
Captain Murray could not have left the preparation of the hospital
in better hands than Mr. Vale's. Won by his handsome face and simple
manner, the villagers crowded about him, eager to do his bidding. The
sexton of the little church hurried home for the keys as fast as his
rheumatic old limbs could carry him, and with the aid of Joe and Jim
Croxson, he soon had a roaring fire blazing in the big chapel stove.
Two men, harnessing up Captain Murray's Dobbin with all possible haste,
drove to the Branch for doctor and surgeon, for both were needed. Two
others, borrowing the largest waggon the town afforded, went off for a
load of cots. There was something for every one to do, and every one was
happy in doing it.
[Illustration: 0122]
Meanwhile Captain Murray was hard at work in an effort to board the
brig, with such of his crew as were still able to assist him. Three of
his men had been helped or carried to their homes, too much exhausted
and bruised to be of further service. When at last the little party had
succeeded in reaching the brig, they had the good fortune to find the
captain still alive, but unconscious from the ugly wound he had himself
inflicted. They wasted no time in lowering the poor fellow into the
surf-boat, and then made for the shore, for the vessel was fast going to
pieces. The rescue of the Spanish captain completed the heroic labours
of Epher Murray's crew for that morning, and the brave and wearied
fellows went to their homes for a well-earned rest. Half-a-dozen
fishermen volunteered their services to get the tackle once again in
order. Indeed, none of the Moorlow people thought of setting about their
regular occupations that eventful November morning, and all seemed proud
to lend a hand in whatever way they could. Fortunately in a few hours
the crew of the _Starling_ were so far refreshed and rested as to be
sent by the afternoon train to New York, where most of them lived when
on land. There was literally no place in Moorlow where they could have
been accommodated, unless in the chapel, that was fast being converted
into a hospital. Sister Julia was superintending the work there, and by
four o'clock everything was in readiness. Mrs. Murray had devoted her
time to caring for the crew of the brig in the Life-saving Station.
As soon as damp clothing had been removed, those who had sustained the
severest injuries were made comfortable on mattresses brought from the
bunks in the loft, and laid on the floor of the large room. The surgeon
and doctor found considerable to do when they arrived, and the captain's
wound claimed their first attention.
Sister Julia had remained to wait upon them, until all the bruises
and wounds had been dressed. Meanwhile, Mrs. Murray had improved the
opportunity to slip home and prepare a second breakfast, and Harry and
Rex and Nan again trudged to and fro, laden with good things, only with
much less difficulty now, for the storm had greatly abated.
All through that busy day of preparation, Ned and Hereward had kept up
an incessant racing in and out of the chapel. Now and then they would
brush against Sister Julia's black dress, and she could never resist the
temptation, no matter how busy she might be, of giving them a friendly
little pat. Then the two fellows would go bounding out of doors, as
though through her touch they had received some special command which
they must hasten to execute.
Early in the morning, to meet the first need of the surgeon, Sister
Julia had taught some of the women, who were helping in the chapel, how
to prepare a bandage. She showed them how they must tear off the muslin
in strips, twice the width needed, and then must fold them evenly
lengthwise through the centre, and cut them apart with scissors, because
tearing both edges was likely to stretch them. Then she instructed them
in the art of “rolling firmly,” for there is not a more useless thing
in the world than a poorly-rolled bandage. As she sat now by the side
of one, and now by another, she would ask some simple question betraying
her deep interest in them, and so more than one Moorlow woman, almost
unconsciously, unburdened her heart to this new sweet friend, or told
the story of her life. As Mr. Vale's work threw him into the company
of many of the men, one after the other, he would enter into a friendly
conversation with them, and some of the Moorlow men had their eyes
opened to the fact that a minister might be something more than a mere
preacher, standing quite apart from the common interests of their lives;
that he might be an earnest, sympathetic man, a man subject to the same
temptations and same trials as themselves, but able to rise above them,
and even triumph in them, through the Spirit of God, which not only was
in him, but which shone out in well-nigh every look and word and deed.
Oh! how welcome was the sight of the beds and the cheery fire to the
eyes of those Spanish sailors, when they were tenderly carried into the
chapel at sunset. Only a few hours before they had thought the bottom of
the ocean would be the only bed they should ever know. No wonder their
faces looked grateful and happy, notwithstanding every one of them was
suffering more or less from the injuries he had received. When at last
there was nothing more to be done, and with the exception of Sister
Julia and her assistants the Moorlow folk were making ready to go home,
the Spanish captain, who had regained consciousness soon after being
brought ashore, beckoned to Mr. Vale. The poor fellow was quite too weak
to speak, but knowing him to be a minister, he glanced round the chapel,
and then, slightly raising his hand, pointed upward. Mr. Vale readily
understood that the captain did not want the little company to break up
till they had united in thanking God for the preservation of the crew
of his vessel. Stepping into the reading desk, he easily gained the
attention of everyone.
“The captain of the _Christina_,” he said, “has indicated to me that
he would like us to give God thanks for the rescue of his crew. Will as
many of you as are willing remain for a few moments?”
[Illustration: 0125]
The women and children took their seats in the pews near which they were
standing, and not a man went out. Never was a sweeter or more earnest
service held in the little chapel, and there were tears in many eyes at
its close. Every face looked tranquil and happy. For one whole day
those Moorlow folk had not had so much as a thought of self, and nothing
brings a happier look into the face than pure unselfishness. It had been
a wonderful day for them all, and who of the number would ever forget
it?
Out into the glow of the sunset and homeward went the little
congregation, leaving Sister Julia and three or four women whom she had
chosen as assistants in charge of the hospital. Regie and Harry and Nan,
reluctant to leave, lingered in the doorway, till Sister Julia came and
urged their going.
“Come, children,” she said, “hurry home. Little Nan there looks ready to
drop.”
“Yes, I am tired,” Nan admitted; “it has been such a long, long day,”
and without further urging the little trio trudged silently home;
silently, because they had so much to think over. Two shipwrecks in one
day! Regie remembered self-reproachfully that he had had his wish. For
Nan, the excitement and fatigue had proved too much, and she fell asleep
at the table before she had eaten a mouthful of supper, and knew nothing
more till she woke late the next morning, with the sunlight streaming
so brightly into her room as to make storms and shipwrecks seem the most
improbable things that could ever happen.
[Illustration: 0126]
[Illustration: 0127]