Though it was nearly eleven o'clock at night, the light had not quite
gone and the sea glimmered about the sloop as she rose and fell at her
moorings by the wreck. To the north the sky was barred with streaks of
ragged cloud and the edge of the sea-plain was harshly clear; to the
east the horizon was hidden by a cold, blue haze, and the tide was near
the lowest of its ebb. An angry white surf broke along the uncovered
shoals with a tremulous roar, and the swell, though smooth as oil on its
surface, was high and steep. No breath of wind touched the water, but
Jimmy agreed with Moran that there was plenty on the way.
A light burned in the low-roofed cabin where the men waited for the meal
which Bethune was cooking. They felt languid as well as tired and
hungry, for supper had been long deferred to enable them to continue
diving, and they had been under water much oftener than was good for
them during the day. The bulkhead they strove to clear of sand was still
inaccessible, and, as bad weather had frequently hindered work, they
felt compelled to make good use of every favorable minute. This was why
they had held on to the wreck, instead of entering the bight before the
falling tide rendered its approach dangerous. Moreover, their provisions
were running low, and Bethune was experimenting with some damaged flour
which had lain forgotten in a flooded locker for several days while they
rode out a gale. The bannocks he turned in the frying-pan had a sour,
unappetizing smell.
"They may taste better than they promise," he said encouragingly. "If
the sky had looked as bad at half-tide as it does now, I'd have made you
take her in. We won't get much done to-morrow."
Moran stretched himself out listlessly on the port locker.
"We ought to tie two reefs in the mainsail handy, but I feel played out,
and the breeze may not come before morning. It strikes me the most
important thing is the question of grub. We can't hang on much longer if
that flour's too bad to eat. I can't see how it went so moldy in a day
or two. You can leave a flour-bag in the water for quite a while and
then find the stuff all right except for an inch on the outside."
"That's so," Jimmy put in. "My notion is that the flour was bad when we
got it. The ship-chandler fellow had a greedy eye. But when you deal
with the man who finds the money you can't be particular."
"He's pretty safe," grumbled Bethune. "With a bond on the boat for his
loan and a big profit on everything he supplied, the only risk he runs
is of our losing her--though I'll admit that nearly happened once or
twice. However, you can try the flour."
Taking the frying-pan off the stove, he served out a thick, greasy
bannock and a very small piece of pork to each of his companions. The
food was too hot to eat, and Jimmy, breaking his with his knife, waited
with some anxiety while it cooled. If they could use the flour, it would
enable them to remain a week or two longer at the wreck; and he believed
it would not take many days to reach the strong-room. Failing this, it
looked as if he must return to his toil at the sawmill and the dreary
life in the cheap hotels.
He believed that he had learned on board the sailing ships not to be
dainty, but he sniffed at the food with repugnance and then resolutely
cut off a piece. When he had eaten a bite of it he threw down his knife.
"It's rank!" he exclaimed.
Moran, reaching up through the scuttle, threw his bannock overboard.
"Very well!" said Bethune. "That shortens our stay. Perhaps we had
better get the pumps down into the cockpit when you have finished the
pork and tea."
They did so, grumbling, and then lay on the lockers, smoking and
disinclined for sleep. There was a tension in the air, and something
ominous in the roar of the surf, which seemed to grow louder and more
insistent.
"Whether we'll find the gold or not is doubtful; the only thing certain
is that we'll have an opportunity for doing a lot of work," Bethune
observed after a while. "In a way, Hank's more to be pitied than either
of us. He hadn't the option of taking things easily when he came out
West."
"The big lobsters were most killed off; you couldn't make your grub with
the traps," Moran explained. "Then I got some little books showing it
was easy to get rich by fishing in British Columbia. Wish I had the
liars who wrote them out in a half-swamped dory picking up a trawl."
"I don't see that I had much more option than he had," Jimmy objected.
"You could have stayed on board the liner, wearing smart uniforms and
faring sumptuously, with a Chinese steward to look after you, if you'd
exercised a little tact and shown a proper respect for authority. When
the skipper disapproved of a man with heart trouble steering his ship,
as he had every right to do, you should have agreed with him."
"I'm glad I didn't," Jimmy said stubbornly. "Anyhow, you're no better
off, even if you practise what you preach."
"That would be too much to expect; but then I admit that I am a fool,"
Bethune laughed. "If I doubted it, the number of times it has been
delicately pointed out would have convinced me. After all, it's easy to
conform outwardly, which is all that is required, and you can do what
you like in private. A concession to popular opinion here and there
doesn't cost one much."
"If you mean I ought to have got the quartermaster sacked after he'd
prevented a ton of cargo from dropping on my head, I'd rather starve."
"There's a risk of your doing so if you persist in your foolishness. If
you had stopped to reason, you would have seen it was your duty to agree
with your skipper. Misguided pity is a dangerous thing."
"Moralizing of this kind makes my headache worse!" said Jimmy
disgustedly. "Drop it and light your pipe!"
"Let him alone; he has to talk," Moran interposed. "It doesn't matter so
long as you don't worry about what he means."
"Well," drawled Bethune, "I'll conclude. Which of you is going to wash
up?"
Moran picked up the dirty plates and thrust them into a locker.
"I'm played out and homesick! Wish I was back East, where I did my
fishing in the natural way--on top of the water! But it's a sure thing
none of us will be down at the wreck to-morrow."
There was silence except for the rumble of the surf and the occasional
rap of a halyard against the mast. The sound became more frequent as
Jimmy got drowsy, but he was used to the approach of bad weather.
Stretched out comfortably on the locker, he soon fell asleep; and it was
as dark as it ever is in the North in summer when he was rudely awakened
by a terrific jar. The sloop seemed to be rearing upright, and Moran's
hoarse shouts were all but drowned by the rattle of chain on deck.
Scrambling out quickly, Jimmy saw the fisherman stooping forward where
the cable crossed the bits, and a narrow stretch of smoking sea ahead.
Individual combers emerged from it, and the sloop alternately reeled
over them with a white surge boiling at her bows and plunged into the
hollows. Jimmy, however, wasted no time in looking about; they had hung
on to their moorings longer than was prudent, and prompt action was
needed.
With Bethune's assistance he close-reefed the mainsail and got the
shortened canvas up; then all three were needed to break out the anchor,
and Jimmy crouched in the water that swept the forward deck as he stowed
it while his comrades hoisted a storm-jib. After that she drove away
before the sea, and the men anxiously watched for the entrance to the
channel. Though dawn had not broken, it was by no means dark, and they
could see the streaky backs of the rollers that ran up the shoals, and
beyond them a broad, white band of surf. Presently a break opened up,
but it was narrow and crooked, and it seemed impossible that the sloop
could get through. When they had run on for a minute or two longer,
Moran stood up on deck to command a better view.
"We'd have about two feet under her at the bend, and if she didn't luff
up handy she'd sure go ashore," he said. "Seems to me the chances are
too blamed steep."
They might reach shelter by taking the risk, and to refuse it meant a
struggle with the sea; but Jimmy reluctantly agreed with Moran.
"Yes," he said; "we had better stand off. Look out while I jibe her
round."
She swung on before the sea as he put up his helm, followed close by a
comber that reared its crest astern, her boom flung on end with the
patch of wet mainsail swelling like a balloon. Moran and Bethune were
desperately busy with the sheet, for safety depended on their speed.
Jimmy moved his wheel another spoke, and sail and heavy spar swung over,
while the _Cetacea_, coming round, buried her lee deck in the sea. With
a wild plunge she shook off the water, and, while Bethune and his
comrade flattened in the sheets, drove out to windward away from the
dangerous shoal. Since they could not reach the bight, she would be
safer in open water.
When dawn broke, ominously red, the _Cetacea_ was hove to with a small
trysail set, rising and falling with a drunken stagger, as the long,
white seas rolled up on her weather bow. Though she shipped no heavy
water, she was drifting fast to leeward: the island had faded to a gray
streak on the horizon. It would be a day's work to beat back again, even
if the wind abated, and it showed no sign of doing so. By noon the land
was out of sight, and the sea had grown heavier. For an hour or two
there was misty sunshine, and the oncoming walls of water glistened
luminously blue beneath their incandescent crests. Some of them curled
dangerously, and the trysail flapped, half empty, when the _Cetacea_
sank into the trough. She lay there a few moments while her crew watched
the comber that rose ahead. With slanted mast and rag of drenched sail
she looked uncomfortably small; but somehow she staggered up the slope
before the roller broke. Jimmy could not tell how far he helped her with
the helm, but the sweat of nervous strain dripped from his face as he
turned his wheel. Now and then she was a few seconds slow in responding
to it, and when her bows swung clear her after-half was buried in a rush
of spouting foam. It sluiced off, however, and the sharp swoop into the
trough was repeated as comber after comber swept upon them.
When Moran relieved him, Jimmy felt worn out. He had had only an hour or
two's sleep after a day of exhausting work; his breakfast had consisted
of a morsel of stale, cold fish, hurriedly torn with his fingers from
the lump in the pan; and they had had no opportunity for cooking dinner.
"I'll try to make some coffee," he said, as he went below.
It was difficult to light the stove. The cabin trickled with moisture
like a dripping-well. Grate and wood were wet; and when at last the fire
began to crackle, Jimmy had to kneel on a locker as he held the kettle
on, in order to keep his feet out of the water which washed up from the
bilge. There seemed to be a good deal of it.
"Can't you start the pump?" he called to Bethune.
"I might. I don't know that it would do much good. The suction's
uncovered, and the delivery under water half the time."
"Then come in and cook, while I get at it!"
"Oh, I'll try!" Bethune answered morosely; and Jimmy resumed his watch
on the kettle and left his companion alone.
He knew the curious slackness which sometimes seizes men exposed to the
fury of the sea. It differs from fatigue in being moral rather than
physical, and it is distinct from fear; its victim is overwhelmed by a
sense of the futility of anything that he can do. Determined effort is
its best cure, and Jimmy smiled as he heard the clatter of the pump. He
thought Bethune would feel better presently.
He made the coffee, found a few of the tough cakes Moran called
biscuits, and recklessly opened a can of meat. After the meal, which
they all found a luxurious change from fish, Jimmy lay down, wet through
as he was, on a locker, and, wedging himself fast with parts of the
dismantled diving pump, sank into broken sleep.
It was midnight when he went up again to take the helm. There was no
moon, and gray scud obscured the sea. Foam-tipped ridges came rolling
out of it, and the _Cetacea_ labored heavily. Jimmy watched Moran pump a
while before he went below, and then he pulled himself together to keep
his dreary watch. The slow whitening of the east brought no change. Dawn
came, and throughout another wearing day they still lay hove to. The
sloop did not give them much trouble, and they could easily pump out all
the water she shipped; but toward evening they began to feel anxious.
The gale had increased. They must already have made a good deal of
leeway and they might be drifting near the land; if so, she would not
carry enough sail to drive her clear, and there would soon be an end of
her if she were blown ashore.
Jimmy was on deck at dawn the next morning, but saw nothing except a
narrow circle of foaming sea and the flying scud that dimmed the
horizon. Toward noon, however, it began to clear, and, getting out the
glasses, he waited eagerly during an hour or two of fitful sunshine. The
wind seemed to be falling, and the haze had thinned. Slowly it blew
away, and a high, gray mass rose into view, four or five miles off.
Moran called out as he saw it, but Jimmy quietly studied the land
through his glasses.
"The head, sure enough!" he said. "If it had kept thick, we'd have been
ashore and breaking up long before dark. Now we have to decide what it's
best to do. She might stand a three-reefed mainsail."
"It would take us a week to beat back to the island, and we wouldn't
have many provisions left when we got there," Bethune pointed out. "I
don't feel keen on facing the long thrash to windward."
"She wouldn't be long making Comox with this breeze over her quarter,"
Moran suggested. "We might get somebody to grubstake us at one of the
stores."
"Considering that there's a bond on her, it isn't likely," Jimmy
replied.
They let her drift while they looked gloomily to windward, where the
island lay. It would need a stern effort to reach it unless the wind
should change; a long stretch of foaming sea which the sloop must be
driven across close-hauled divided the men from the wreck. They were all
worn out and depressed; and neither of Moran's comrades protested when
he got up abruptly and slacked off the mainsheet.
"I guess we'll go where there's something to eat," he said. "You can
square off for the straits while I loose the mainsail."
Jimmy put up his helm with a keen sense of relief, and the _Cetacea_
swung away swiftly for the south with the sea behind her. It was nervous
work steering, and Jimmy advised Moran to leave the mainsail furled; but
the worst of the strain had passed, and rest and shelter lay ahead.