IN THE SURF.
A new day was breaking when the life-saving crew were beat back upon
the shore by the waves after their heroic but vain struggle in the
surf-boat.
The wind gave evidence of gaining strength as the sun rose, and
steadily the waves increased in violence. Now they were dashing against
the steamer with the same force as upon the rocky cliffs, and to those
ashore it appeared as if every billow of foaming water passed directly
over the stranded vessel.
In the minds of the life-saving crew, at least, it was no longer simply
a question of the passengers’ discomfort, but whether the steamer could
withstand the terrific beating and pounding to which she was subjected.
“She must either go to pieces, or be driven nearer inshore,” Joe
Cushing said, when the crew halted for a moment upon the cliff after
their terrible struggle with the surf, and his mates fully agreed with
that conclusion.
It was more than probable the captain of the steamer had by this time
taken quite as gloomy a view of the situation, for he continued to
sound his signals of distress, although, as Sam Hardy said impatiently,
“he should have had sufficient sense to know that everything in human
power would be done to aid him.”
“He may be ignorant of the waters round about here, and have an idea
that a tug can get near enough to pass him a hawser,” Dick Sawyer
suggested, and Keeper Downey replied:
“It will only be necessary for him to look at his chart, which he
had better have done yesterday afternoon, in order to learn that no
help can be expected from seaward. I am at a loss to know just what
is wisest to do, and ask each of you to give his opinion. The tide is
now so low that we cannot hope to get the life-boat over the shoals.
Perhaps there’s one chance in twenty, by putting out into deep water,
we might drop down so near as to take off a few; but certain it is all
could not be brought ashore in that manner. The question to be decided
is, whether we shall make such an attempt, or put forth all our efforts
toward getting a line aboard.”
The men gave an opinion according to their station numbers, Sam Hardy
speaking first, as a matter of course, and his view of the situation
appeared to be that of all the others.
“While I’m ready to try what can be done with the life-boat, and will
go aboard of her cheerfully, to my mind there are too many chances of
failure--which would probably mean death to all concerned--and too few
of success to warrant making the attempt. I believe, as Joe Cushing
does, that if the steamer isn’t stove by the waves she must be driven
nearer ashore, in which case we can get a line out to her. Therefore I
vote that we put all our dependence upon what may be done from here.”
Learning that the others were of the same opinion, and understanding
that they might not have very much time at their disposal, Keeper
Downey at once gave the necessary orders for setting about this
last plan of rescue, which necessitated the bringing up of the
beach-apparatus.
“No. 1 and No. 8 are to remain here on duty in order to prevent, if
possible, by signal, any effort of the captain toward landing with
his own boats, as he suggested,” Tom Downey said, speaking hurriedly.
“The remainder of the crew will go back to the station with me for the
beach-wagon.”
Exercise was what the men most needed, wet to the skin as they were
after the battle in the surf, and as soon as the order was given they
set off at full speed, while Sam Hardy was left with Benny upon the
cliff to bear the discomforts as best they might.
“You ought to have gone with the others,” No. 8 said solicitously.
“Your wet clothes will be frozen long before they can get back, and it
don’t seem to me as if there was much need of keeping anybody out here
in the wind.”
“It is necessary, lad, if for no other reason than that the order
has been given. In Tom Downey’s place I should have made much the
same arrangement. Some one of the crew must grin an’ bear it in wet
clothing, an’ because of havin’ first been stationed here, I’m the one
to bear the brunt.”
“But you will freeze to death,” Benny cried sharply.
“Not quite so bad as that, lad, for I’ll keep movin’ about,” and Sam
suited the action to the words, Benny following close by his side as
the surfman ran swiftly to and fro, beating his arms upon his breast
for additional exercise.
“Of course we don’t always get it quite as tough as this,” Sam said
when he halted to regain his breath after ten minutes of this most
violent exertion, “an’ then again, there are times when it comes
harder; so you see, lad, that belonging to a life-saving crew ain’t
quite as pleasant as you may have thought.”
“I didn’t count it was an easy life.”
“But you can see now that it’s best you don’t hold to the idea of bein’
one of ’em.”
“If I was going to be discouraged because of hard work on such a job as
this, then I’d best not think of ever bein’ a surfman,” Benny replied
stoutly. “It wasn’t on my own account that I said anything; my clothes
are dry, and I can keep warm; but I was afraid you’d freeze after
having been overboard so long.”
“You’re a gritty little chap,” Sam said admiringly, “almost too much
so for one of your years an’ build; but don’t worry about me. I’ve
been in worse places than this, an’ never come to any great harm. If
it wasn’t that all the work might have been done readily an’ without
risk, I shouldn’t feel like grumblin’; but when a man realizes that the
situation has all come about through a pig-headed captain who wouldn’t
allow we knew anything of the coast, then it seems tough. Howsomever,
we’re in a box, an’ have not only got to get out of it ourselves, but
pull others with us,--an’ we’ll do it, No. 8, we’ll do it.”
Then Sam resumed the exercise, Benny copying his every movement, and
thus alternately running and halting to regain breath, the two passed
the time until they could see in the distance the crew, dragging the
beach-wagon over the rocks.
“Now that the apparatus is here it can’t be used while the steamer lays
so far off,” Hardy said half to himself, and at that instant a cry of
dismay caused him to gaze seaward.
When the waves began to run high the master of the vessel had gotten
out anchors fore and aft to prevent her from being driven shoreward.
The parting of the stern cables had caused the cry of dismay from
Benny, and as Sam looked in that direction the ships stern was swung
violently around until she lay broadside to the waves, in such position
as proved that she would soon be driven inshore virtually a wreck.
“I reckon we’ll be able to put a line aboard of her mighty soon,” Sam
said grimly, waving his arms to attract the attention of the crew that
they might hasten their movements, and Benny, seeing an opportunity to
be of some slight assistance, ran at full speed to meet the wagon.
“What has happened?” Keeper Downey asked, as the lad joined him at
the rear of the cart, the cook holding Sam Hardy’s station at the
handle-bar.
“The stern cable has parted, sir.”
“Shove her along, boys! Shove her along! We’ll be able to get a line
out now,” and as the men strained yet more energetically at the ropes
and the handle-bar, Benny put all his little strength into the effort,
performing, as Joe Cushing afterward said, “considerably more than half
a man’s work.”
Sam Hardy also joined the crew, and the wagon had no more than been
hauled down to the strip of pebbly beach, the only point from which the
work could be carried on, when the life savers had yet further evidence
of the captain’s “pig-headedness.”
When he laid alongside the steamer, while urging that the passengers at
least be taken ashore, Tom Downey had said all a man might to prevent
the master from holding to the plan of launching his own boats; and yet
despite such advice, which should have been considered well worthy of
being followed, that very manœuvre was now about to be attempted.
The life-saving crew could see that one of the port boats was being
hoisted out, and every man ashore knew beyond the shadow of a doubt
that such a craft could not live five minutes in that boiling, yeasty
swirl of waters.
With a hope of yet persuading the wilful captain, Tom Downey ignited
a Coston signal, and, waving it violently above his head, showed as
plainly as man might by such means, that there was danger in the
contemplated move.
“It seems to me as if deep-water sailors lose their heads at such a
time,” Joe Cushing cried, observing that the work went on aboard the
steamer despite the keeper’s warnings. “The captain must have seen that
we failed to keep the surf-boat on her bottom, but yet he expects to
do with his cockleshell what we couldn’t with a craft built especially
for the purpose!”
Joe was not the only member of the crew who criticised harshly the
methods of the steamer’s commander; every man gave words to the
indignation in his heart, but yet the foolhardy work went on rapidly,
as if those on board the stranded craft were eager to meet their doom.
That they were anxious to leave their steamer seemed probable, even
to Benny, for the waves were now rolling completely over her, and at
every surge she was driven higher and higher up on the shoal until the
surfmen began to fear she would be rolled completely over.
The work of making ready to send out a line was begun as soon as the
wagon had been placed in position, and the men labored none the less
energetically and expeditiously because they glanced from time to time
at the tiny boat swinging at the davits, in which the steamer’s crew
were taking their stations.
The gun was not yet loaded when the boat, with a crew of eight men,
dropped into the water at a moment when the receding waves made such a
manœuvre possible, and then, to the surprise of the life savers, all
the sailors were seen working at the oars, while no one appeared to be
steering.
[Illustration: THE BOAT FROM THE STEAMER. _Page 195_]
“It isn’t enough that they must attempt an impossibility!” Tom Downey
cried angrily. “They’re bent on doing all within their power to provoke
destruction. What kind of a sailor can he be who believes it possible
to put a craft of any kind through the surf without a helmsman?”
No one made reply to this outburst. The surfmen on shore understood
that even though the oncoming craft had been a life-boat, it meant
certain disaster to handle her in such manner.
And that disaster came even sooner than they expected.
Before the little craft had cleared more than a third of the distance
from the steamer to the shore, she was overturned by a heavy breaker
which raised the stern higher and higher until the bow was forced into
the trough of the sea, and the boat disappeared entirely.
As the waves rose the eight men could be seen struggling amid the
foaming waters, and this sight caused the life savers to forget their
previous failure--their late struggle amid that same surf, wherein
death so nearly overtook them.
“Come on, boys!” Downey shouted, throwing off his outer clothing as he
ran swiftly to where the surf-boat, having drifted ashore, was lying
beyond reach of the waves. “We can’t stand here and see them drown,
however the disaster has been caused!”
Benny ran with the crew, clutching at Sam Hardy’s garments as if
begging him not to make the venture which apparently meant positive
death; but yet daring to speak no word.
Once more they ran breast-deep into the water, and, clambering over
the gunwale as the surf-boat was borne swiftly outward by the receding
wave, took up their oars. Again they battled against wind and tide,
heading straight onward to where the seven struggling wretches could
be seen--one had already disappeared. Two of the steamer’s men were
striking out for the shore, and appeared to be making fair headway,
while five others were clustered near the capsized boat, apparently
making no decided effort to save themselves, except by keeping their
heads above water.
It seemed to Benny that the surf-boat must be turned end over end
before she was thirty yards from the shore, in the same manner as
during the first attempt to put off; but Keeper Downey handled her with
consummate skill, and, owing to the fact that the tide was ebbing, he
succeeded in keeping her on a comparatively even keel, avoiding the two
swimmers in order to direct his first efforts toward those who appeared
unable to help themselves.
The lad ashore followed with his eyes every movement made by his
comrades, literally ceasing to breathe when the surf-boat was thrown
high up by the swell, and then panting heavily, as if sharing in the
exercise, when the crew strained every muscle to force her over the
next foaming wave.
Inch by inch, combating both wind and current, their lives hanging
in the balance when the little craft was poised on the crest of some
gigantic roller, the brave life savers advanced until they had come to
the group of five who still paddled wildly around the overturned boat.
This was a moment most fraught with peril, and Benny clenched his hands
until the nails almost cut the flesh, so great was his suspense and
fear, as one after another of the men was hauled over the boat’s rail,
saved, if the crew could gain the shore again.
The two who had been swimming were by this time within the line of
shore-breakers, moving slowly as if nearly exhausted, and No. 8 saw his
opportunity of doing real life-saving work.
Seizing a coil of rope from the beach-wagon, he ran with all speed to
the very edge of the water, when, standing motionless for an instant to
make certain of his aim, he flung one end out over the waves.
Fortunately the wind forced the rope slightly aside, otherwise it would
have gone so far to windward of the struggling men as to be of no avail.
As it was, however, this seeming accident was of the greatest possible
advantage, since the coils dropped almost directly upon the heads of
the struggling men, as fairly as Tom Downey or Sam Hardy could have
sent it.
Both the swimmers clutched it at the same instant, and then it was
Benny began to fear he had attempted what it would be impossible to
carry out. His strength was not sufficient to enable him to pull both
the sailors in--in fact, a single man drawn back by that undertow would
have been too heavy a burden for the lad--and while one might have
counted five he stood irresolute, trembling with fear, for it seemed
that he had begun the work only to meet with failure.
Glancing quickly around as if hoping to see some one who would lend
assistance, his eyes rested upon a spare tail-block in the beach-wagon,
and now did his experience on shipboard serve him in good stead.
With the least possible delay he made this fast to the wheel of the
wagon in such fashion that the drag would come upon the cart sideways,
and, as soon as might be, rove the casting-line through the block.
Now he had a purchase which was equivalent to the strength of three men
when used on the rope without a block, and he strained every muscle in
this his first attempt at life-saving, believing that unless he was
successful the sailors would perish in the surf. The strain forced the
wheel of the wagon deep into the pebbly beach, and, consequently, the
purchase held fast, while he, bracing himself against the wheel, hauled
and tugged until the skin on the inner side of his fingers was broken
in several places; but he finally succeeded in the effort.
Lest it appear incredible that a lad only twelve years of age should be
able to perform such a feat, let it be borne in mind that Benny knew
full well the value of such a purchase as was formed by the tail-block,
having learned this while on shipboard, and that his excitement and
desire to save life lent him a certain fictitious strength, for
positive it is on that day Benny Foster, unaided, except by the rope
and block, saved two lives.
While the rescued men were so near inshore as to be able to gain a
footing, their hold upon the rope prevented them from being carried
back by the undertow, giving them a means of standing steadily when
otherwise the surf would have swept them out to sea again, and during
the momentary lull both succeeded in running beyond reach of the waters.
Then it was they fell on the shore as if dead; but the lad who rescued
them knew full well they were only exhausted. Not until he was assured
of their safety, did Benny allow himself to look seaward, and then his
heart was filled with thankfulness, for the surf-boat laden gunwale
deep with her crew and those that had been snatched from the raging
waters, was coming like an arrow toward the shore on the crest of a
wave that had in it such force as must land her beyond the reach of
danger.
Out of eight men who had tempted death in a venture which was the
height of foolhardiness, seven were brought safely to land by the
life-saving crew, among whom should be numbered Benny Foster.
The lad only waited to assure himself that his comrades were safe, when
he turned his attention to the men whom he had dragged ashore; but they
stood in little need of his services, for by this time both were fully
conscious, and before Benny could so much as speak, Sam Hardy, having
leaped out of the boat, had caught the boy in his arms.
“You’ve done that, No. 8, of which any one of us might well be proud,
and he who says you’re not a member of this crew, is makin’ the mistake
of his life! You were born to the work, my boy, and have got the heart
to carry it through!”
So great had been the lad’s excitement that he was hardly aware of the
service he had rendered, until each of the men in turn had some word of
praise or congratulation to bestow, and not the least was that which
came from Tom Downey, who said as he hurried on toward the gun:
“If you don’t get a medal for this morning’s work, No. 8, it’s because
we can’t tell the story in the proper way, for you’ve earned one if
ever man did!”
No more than two or three minutes in all had been spent by the life
savers upon the lad, for each had greeted him while pressing on to take
his proper station, and by the time Benny fully understood what the
keeper’s words signified, every member of the crew was performing the
necessary work toward sending out the breeches-buoy.
While the rescue was being effected the steamer had been driven yet
higher up on the shoal, and was now so near the shore as to render it
a comparatively simple matter to send the line-carrying shot over her
deck.
Once communication was established Benny took his station at the whip
in the rear of the shifting-man, hauling with a will, and heeding not
the laborious exertion until one after another, first the passengers,
then the crew, and lastly the captain were brought ashore.
The master of the steamer made no verbal comment upon the work when he
clambered out from the breeches-buoy.
He clasped Keeper Downey’s hand for an instant, looking into the
latter’s eyes as if acknowledging his fault, and then turning to Benny,
said:
“I saw what you did, lad, and the best man of your crew couldn’t have
accomplished the rescue more expeditiously.”
The two men whom the lad had saved now came forward as if to give
words to their thankfulness, but Keeper Downey prevented any further
conversation by saying sharply:
“Captain, you will get your people together and start them at once
for the station. No. 8 will show the way, and see to it that you are
provided with dry clothing.”
The captain looked around as if asking who No. 8 might be, when Joe
Cushing cried:
“He’s that whifflet in front of you, captain. It may seem strange that
a lad of his size is a member of a life-saving crew, an’ it’s true he
don’t figure on the list; but all the same he has his place with us,
an’ always will till he himself shall want to leave the service.”
Benny’s face was crimsoned when he turned to conduct the rescued party
along the coast, and he walked some distance in advance fearing lest
further praise might be bestowed upon him.
Before having gone a dozen yards he heard Tom Downey say to the cook:
“Follow on, my man, for the chances are those people will need
something warm; but you’ll remember that No. 8 is in charge until I get
back.”
This was the height of honor, so Benny believed, and he no longer
thought of the medal which might possibly be his, because of the fact
that the keeper had shown most conclusively that he was a member of the
crew of equal standing with the others.