OUR HERO TAKES A SWIM.
Memphis was passed and numerous points of historical interest. Points
that had dyed the river crimson in the days gone by. But the river
shows no stain--let us sincerely hope the country does not. The
Argenta had passed Napoleon early in the evening. Napoleon is situated
in Arkansas--that is in the aqueous part of that commonwealth--for
Napoleon lies at the bottom of the river. Some years ago the stream
made a highwater dinner off of several plantations and then ate up
Napoleon by way of desert.
It was a lovely starlit night, and the soft, balmy air of the southern
country had a soothing lullaby in it, that entranced our travellers as
they lounged at full length on the guards of the port side. Ben lay
with his elbow on a pile of ropes and his head resting on his hand.
Tommy had nestled close to him and was softly humming a tune, all to
himself. On the deck above was heard the murmur of voices and ripples
of laughter proceeding from the cabin passengers, as they also sat
out enjoying the evening. Suddenly a rich soprano voice broke out in
Foster's lovely melody, "Way down upon the Swannee River," and the
notes went floating over the waters, and way off to the dark line of
timber that skirted the horizon of their vision. In the chorus there
mingled fine tenor and bass voices. Ben lay entranced. He recognized
his infatuation from the first note. He listened for a verse or two and
then unconsciously joined in the refrain himself:
"All the world is sad and dreary,
Every where I roam;
Oh, darkies, how--"
The song was never finished. There was a harsh, groaning, crunching
noise; the boat quivered from stem to stern and lurched over like a
drunken man; a crashing of timbers followed; and Ben found himself
hurled far out into the river. Even in his transit through the air he
heard the cries of alarm and shouts of fear that rent the stillness of
the night. Then the great river embraced him, and he commenced battling
for life. Down, down he sank, and when he rose to the surface, his head
struck against a plank and he seized upon it, and found to his joy that
it would just about support his full weight. For an instant the glare
from the open fires of the boilers shot a broad avenue of light over
the waters, and there in the center of the illuminated pathway, there
flashed from darkness into light and from light into darkness again,
the face of Tommy as he clung to one end of a spar while at the other
extremity was Blackoat, his countenance ghastly with a supernatural
terror that something worse than the fear of death had produced.
It was but a moment that they were in view and then the current had
swept them into the gloom. But the light had revealed another form
to Ben. A form that had turned a beseeching face toward him from the
cruel waters, and then sank beneath them. The next instant he felt his
limbs grasped from below, and reaching down a hand to release himself
it became tangled in the meshes of a woman's hair. With an effort he
raised the body, and there in the cold starlight was the countenance of
Bertha facing him! A thrill of joy even in that terrible moment shot
through his frame. He tried to draw her semi-insensible form upon the
plank, but found that it sank beneath their united weights. With an arm
over the plank he slid into the water, and after much exertion managed
to get her upon the preserver he had deserted. It not only bore her
weight, but allowed him to hang upon it with his hands, and partially
kept him up. Ben was a good swimmer and with this support had a chance
for life. But the Argenta, their only hope of rescue, where was she?
Afar off--it appeared to Ben miles away--her cabin lights were seen on
the waters; and another light moving about in her near vicinity that
Ben surmised must be the steamer's yawl boat searching for those thrown
overboard.
Would they find him? Could they hear him? Every moment the distance
between rescue and himself was growing greater and greater. He shouted
with all his strength. Again and again he called for help! Alas! The
river and the night swallowed up his cries. The plank with its precious
freight drifted swiftly away from succor.
The causes leading to Cleveland's shipwreck are briefly told. The
Argenta was hugging a point on the left bank, and just as she had made
it and was about to shoot for the opposite bend, a long, slimy snag
caught in her larboard guard and went crashing through to her "Texas,"
scattering to right and left everything in its course, and throwing
our two friends, and the party of cabin passengers, sitting on the
deck above them, into the river. The headway of the boat tore her
loose from the snag with a loss of guards and decking, but no serious
injury to the craft's hull, and the motion she was under carried her
far out into the stream before the engines could be reversed and her
headway checked. When she at last controlled herself the victims of
the disaster were being rapidly swept away, out of hearing and reach,
by the point current. The steamer's boat picked up one man clinging to
the end of a spar. His face was ashy, his eyes wild, and his mouth set
agape with a speechless terror. When spoken to he did not answer, and
they were compelled to drag him forcibly from the spar into the yawl.
Fright had evidently overthrown reason, and he remained in this dumb
terrified state long after the steamboat was regained.
It was Blackoat.
He was the only one found. The Argenta steamed up and down and across
the river in every direction. But in vain. The flood surrendered no
more, and at last the captain was compelled to relinquish his search
and the vessel's head turned toward its destination.
But how fared our voyagers on the plank? Ben saw the Argenta's lights
grow fainter and fainter with a sickening feeling of despair, and
when at last they faded entirely from view and he was left alone on
the face of the cruel flood his heart sank within him. Like many
another shipwrecked person he might have lost strength when he lost
heart, and quietly surrendered himself to the remorseless waters. He
might have done so, and whispered to himself as he relinquished life:
"It's not worth an exertion," as perhaps men have done before him.
But there on the plank, by which he buoyed himself, lay his whole
world. Life was dearer and sweeter to him at that moment than ever
before. His eyes tried to pierce the gloom that surrounded them and
discover a shore that he might point the plank with its precious burden
toward. But the starlight gave him no aid. All was black and dark. An
impenetrable gloom enshrouded them. He had managed to arrange the young
woman's person on the plank so that it upheld her in safety, and to
make assurance doubly sure he took a scarf that was pinned about her
shoulders and bound her to the board while he trod water.
"Should I get cramped and go under, she may float to some landing," he
thought.
For half an hour this strange voyage continued in silence, the swift
river's current drifting them along at a rapid speed. Then the form on
the plank gave evidence of returning consciousness and Bertha murmured:
"For heaven's sake, where am I?"
"There has been an accident. You and I are floating on the river. Be
calm. Cling to the plank. We are all right. We will drift on shore or
be picked up. Be of good heart."
"Oh, will you save me, will you save me? I don't want to drown--I can't
die so! Oh, will you try and save me?" and in her fright she clutched
Ben's shoulder.
"Yes, yes, I will save you--or die attempting to. Compose yourself,"
replied Ben, earnestly. "There is no immediate danger so long as you
keep the plank. Don't hang on to me so, please, or I will go under."
The girl withdrew her hand and laying her cold wet cheek against his,
he having his chin resting on the plank, she murmured:
"You will save me, I know you will. You are so good. Don't let me
drown, will you?"
"No," answered Ben, stoutly; "you shall not drown. We will drift
somewhere soon where we can be rescued. You shall be saved, fear not.
Have confidence in me, my darling, for I love you!"
"I will, I do. I _know_ that you will save me," she earnestly replied.
On, on drifted this young couple through the darkness. Now she would
pray, long and earnestly, and Ben would say amen. Then she would beg
him not to desert her, and he would valiantly protest that his life was
at her service. Between prayer and supplications they got tolerably
well acquainted. She promised the love and gratitude of a life time,
and he vowed that to save her life at a sacrifice of his own would be
charming.
Though treading on the tail of Death's coat, strange to say, Ben was
happy. He caressed her, as well as circumstances would permit, and
now and then kissed her hand and even her cheek, which she did not
withdraw from him, but would arouse herself and ask: "Are we near the
shore? Do you see the shore yet?"
"Not yet; not quite. Be of good heart," he would reply.
Then a silence would follow, broken again by her pleadings: "Are we
near the shore? Do you see the shore?"
So several long dreary hours wore by.
"Are we near the shore?" Do you see the shore?"
And Ben's voice grew weaker and weaker, and his answers slower and
slower, when he replied to her supplications:
"Yes, yes, dear; near the shore. Near the shore, I pray God," for there
was a dead faintness and a loss of energy coming over him.
He was growing exhausted and several times his hold upon the plank grew
so heavy that it sank deep in the water; at which Bertha would cry out
that she was drowning and call piteously upon him to save her. Then
mastering himself, for a time our hero would strive to float without
hanging to the board, but each attempt grew shorter than the preceding
one, and he felt himself swiftly drifting into Eternity. Once his hold
on the plank loosened and he began to sink. A spasmodic effort regained
his buoy, but his grasp caused it to sink, and with a shriek the maiden
implored him to save her! Her voice aroused his drooping energies, and
gave him new strength. But presently it faded away, and death closed in
upon him.
"Are we near the shore?"
"I hope so--I pray God so," said Ben in a weak voice. "Will you--will
you kiss me--just once?"
She would have kissed him a thousand times had it been possible.
"Thank you. God bless you, and save and protect you, darling. Cling
tight to the plank. For I feel myself going;--I--I--can't hold
out,--no, not much longer. Don't--let go--good-bye;--I--I always loved
you. Good. Don't let go. Hang tight. Good--What! Thank God! Thank God!
We are saved! Saved! Saved! Bertha we are saved! My feet touch the
bottom! I can _walk_!"
It was indeed a joyful fact and one that was much needed at that
identical moment. A few seconds later and Ben would have been too weak
to keep his feet. But now a new life and a new strength was given him.
"Wait; I will see if this is the shore," he said. Then with his face
close to the water he peered around him.
"I cannot tell," he presently said. "There is a dark line to the right
and I will make for it. Hold tight to the plank for should I step into
deep water you will need it."
Slowly pushing the plank in front of him he made his way toward the
dark line he had taken for the shore. For several minutes he cautiously
waded through the flood, and the water fell from his chin to his breast
and from his breast to his thighs and then he could see land ahead of
him with bushes on it. At this happy discovery he set up a great cry
of joy, and unlashing Bertha from the plank, took her in his arms
and floundered through the shallow water to the shore. And when they
reached it they both went on their knees, and prayed such a prayer of
thanksgiving, with such heartfelt earnestness, that we are sorry to
reflect that it requires such severe causes to produce such commendable
effects.
Ben arose from his knees first and stood looking upon his beautiful
companion. When she had completed her offering, she arose also,
and taking both of Ben's hands in both of hers, she kissed them
passionately.
"You saved my life," she said, "and I will never, _never_ forget it."
The words were music in his ears, but he modestly protested that the
services he had rendered were his duty, and nothing more.
"No! No!" she exclaimed. "You and I have been too near death's door to
hold any reserve between us. You saved my life, and to my dying day
I will love you for it, and pray to my God that he will reward your
courage and goodness."
Ben actually thought then and there that it was worth a dozen wrecks,
and a score of close calls from the Great Reaper to earn such a reward.
"I was fortunate in having the opportunity to do you a service," he
gallantly replied; "pray do not again mention it. I suppose there are
houses in the vicinity, and if you will wait here I will make a search
for a road."
"No, rather let me go with you. It is so lonely here and I am chilled;"
and the unfortunate young lady's teeth chattered in verification of the
last statement.
In spite of her protests, Ben took off his coat, and wringing the
water out of it as thoroughly as he could, wrapped it around his fair
companion's shoulders. Then confidingly nestling her hand in his the
castaways started on a voyage of discovery.