THE PICNIC ON THE SANDS--THE MIDSHIPMAN--HARRY MERRYWEATHER AND DAVID
MORETON CAUGHT BY THE TIDE--THE ALARM.
Few parts of the shores of old England present more beautiful and
romantic scenery than is to be found on the coast of Cornwall. There
are deep bays, and bold headlands, and wild rocks, and lofty cliffs, and
wooded heights, and bare downs, and yellow sands full of the most minute
and delicate shells, so delicate that it is surprising how they could
have existed in the rough and boisterous ocean, and been cast up whole
from the depths below. In one of those beautiful bays, many years ago,
a large party was collected, on a bright afternoon in the early part of
autumn. Among the party were persons of all ages, but most of them were
young, and all were apparently very busy. Some were engaged in tending
a fire over which a pot was boiling, and others were collecting
drift-wood thrown up close under the cliff, with which to feed it. Two
or three young ladies, under the superintendence of a venerable matron,
were spreading a tablecloth, though the sand looked so smooth and clear
that it did not seem as if the most dainty of people could have required
one. Several were very eager in unpacking sundry hampers and baskets,
and in carrying the dishes and plates, and bottles of wine, and the
numerous other articles which they contained, to the tablecloth. Two
young ladies had volunteered to go with a couple of pails to fetch water
from a spring which gushed out of the cliff, cool and fresh, at some
distance off, and two young gentlemen had offered to go and, assist
them, which was very kind in the young gentlemen, as they certainly
before had not thought of troubling themselves about the matter. To be
sure the young ladies were very pretty and very agreeable, and it is
possible that their companions might not have considered the trouble
over-excessive. The youngest members of the party were as busy as the
rest, close down to the water collecting the beautiful shells which have
been mentioned. The shells were far too small to be picked up singly,
and they therefore came provided with sheets of thick letter-paper, into
which they swept them from off the sand where they had been left by the
previous high tide. A loud shout from a hilarious old gentleman, who
had constituted himself director of the entertainment, and who claimed
consequently the right of making more noise than anybody else, or indeed
than all the rest put together, now summoned them up to the tablecloth,
to which at the sound, with no lingering steps, they came, exhibiting
their treasures on their arrival to their older friends. The party
forthwith began to seat themselves round the ample tablecloth, but they
took up a good deal more room than had it been spread on a table. The
variety of attitudes they assumed was amusing. The more elderly ladies
sat very upright, with their plates on their laps; the younger ones who
had gone for the water, and their friends of the same age, managed to
assume more graceful attitudes; while the young men who had been to
school and college, and had read how the Romans took their meals,
stretched themselves out at the feet of the former, leaning on their
elbows, and occasionally, when not actually engaged in conveying ham and
chicken or pie to their mouths, giving glances at the bright and
laughing eyes above them. The hilarious old gentleman tried kneeling,
that he might carve a round of beef placed before him, but soon found
that attitude anything but pleasant to his feelings; then he sat with
one side to the cloth, then with the other. At last he scraped a trench
in the sand sufficient to admit his outstretched legs, and, placing the
beef before him, carved vigorously away till all claimants were
supplied. The younger boys and girls, tucking their legs under them
like Turks, speedily bestowed their undivided attention to the task of
stowing away the good things spread out before their eyes.
"This is jolly, don't you think so, Mary?" exclaimed a fine boy of about
fourteen to a pretty little girl who sat next to him; "there is only one
thing wanting to make it perfect--Harry Merryweather ought to be here.
He wrote word that he expected to be with us this morning, and I told
him where the picnic was to take place, that should he be too late to
get home, he might come here direct. Oh, he is such a capital fellow,
and now that he is in the navy, and has actually been in a battle, he
will have so much to tell us about."
Mary Rymer fully agreed with David Moreton, for Harry was a favourite
with every one who knew him. Although Harry Merryweather had not
arrived for the picnic, his friends appeared to be enjoying themselves
very much, judging by the smiles and giggling and the chattering, and
the occasional shouts of laughter which arose when old Mr Tom Sowton,
and florid, fat Mr Billy Burnaby, uttered some of their jokes. Not
that they were the only people who uttered good things, but they were
professed jokers, and seemed to consider it their duty to make people
merry; Mr Burnaby, indeed, if he could not make people laugh at what he
said, made them laugh at what he did.
The party had come from various quarters in the neighbourhood, some from
a distance inland, in carriages, and two or three families who lived on
or near the coast, in two pretty yachts, which lay at anchor in the bay.
One of them belonged to Mr Moreton, David's father, and the other to
Captain Rymer, with whose family David was as much at home as with his
own; and he and his sisters looked upon Mary, Captain Rymer's daughter,
quite in the light of a sister. She was, indeed, a very charming little
girl, well worthy of their affections. The first course of the picnic
was concluded--that is to say, the chickens, and hams, and pies, and
cold beef, and tongues, and a few other substantials were pushed back;
the potatoes, which had been boiled in salt water, having been
pronounced excellent. The tarts and cakes and fruit, peaches and figs
and grapes, were brought to the front, and underwent the admiration they
deserved, when suddenly David Moreton, looking up, raised a loud shout,
and, jumping to his feet, clapped his hands and waved them vehemently.
The shout was echoed in different keys by many others, and all turning
their eyes in the direction David was pointing, they saw, on the top of
the cliff a boy, on whose jacket and cap the glitter of a little gold
lace and his snow-white trousers proclaimed him to be that hero in
embryo, a midshipman. Having looked about him for a few seconds, he
began to descend the cliff at so seemingly breakneck a speed, that
several of the ladies shrieked out to him to take care, and Mary Rymer
turned somewhat pale and stood looking anxiously as the young sailor
dropped from one point of rock to another, or slid down a steep incline,
or swung himself by the branches of shrubs or tufts of grass to the
ledge below him, and ran along it as if it had been a broad highway,
though a false step might have proved his destruction. Once he stopped.
To go back was impossible, and to attempt to descend seemed almost
certain destruction. Mr Sowton and Billy Burnaby jumped up, almost
dragging away the tablecloth, upsetting tarts, and fruit-dishes, and
bottles of wine, and all the other things, when Harry gave a tremendous
spring to a ledge which his sharp eye had detected, and was in a few
seconds afterwards standing safe on the sands and shaking hands warmly
with everybody present. When he came to Mr Tom Sowton and Billy
Burnaby, it might have been supposed from the way in which they wrung
each other's hands, that there was a wager pending as to which should
first twist off his friend's fist.
"Fortunately, we haven't eaten up all the good things, Harry," exclaimed
Mr Sowton, dragging the midshipman, nothing loth, to the well-spread
cloth. "Now open your mouth, and Burnaby and I will try and feed you.
What will you have first,--beef, or pudding, or a peach, or a tongue, or
a cold chicken? Oh dear me, there is but a drumstick and a merrythought
left. Which will you have? No! I see I am wrong again, the drumstick
is in the dish, and the merrythought is in my head, with numerous
companions. Does anybody wish to know what they are? I'll fill my
naval friend's plate first with cold beef and mustard, and then inform
you." Thus the old gentleman ran on. He kept his word with regard to
Harry, who very soon by diligent application caught up the rest of the
party, and was able to commence on the tarts and peaches. All the
gentlemen asked him to take wine, and the ladies were eager to hear his
adventures. He briefly recounted them in an animated manner, for as he
had been little more than a year at sea, everything he had seen and done
had the freshness of novelty. He belonged to the gallant _Arethusa_
frigate, which had put into Plymouth from a successful cruise in the Bay
of Biscay, where, after capturing several minor prizes of considerable
value, she had taken an enemy's frigate of equal force. He had
consequently got leave for a few days to come home and see his widowed
mother. He was her only son; her husband had been an officer in the
army, and was killed in battle; her daughter Jane could never be induced
to leave her, but they had promised to send Harry on to the picnic after
he had indulged them with a little of his society. He had come by a
chance conveyance, knowing that he should be able to return with some of
his friends.
In those days it was the custom to sit long after dinner, and even at a
picnic people consumed a considerable amount of time round the cloth.
At length, however, they got up and broke into separate parties. Some
went in one direction, some in another. The elders were more inclined
to sit still, or went only a little way up the cliff; but several of the
grown-up young ladies and gentlemen climbed up by somewhat steep paths
to the downs above. The younger ones, the tide being low, very
naturally preferred scrambling out on the rocks in search of
sea-anemones, and other marine curiosities. There were numerous
projecting rocks forming small bays in the large bay, and thus
completely hiding the different parties from each other. No two boys
could have had a more sincere regard for each other than had David
Moreton and Harry Merryweather. David was longing to go to sea with
Harry, but his father was greatly averse to his going. He was the
eldest son, and heir to a large property. As the boys had been
separated for so long a time (long in their lives), they had a great
deal to say to each other. They consequently strolled away, forgetting
what Mary Rymer or the rest of their fair companions might have thought
of their gallantry, in and out along the sands, round the points and
over the rocks, till they had got to a considerable distance from the
place where the picnic had been held. A dry rock, high above the water,
which they could reach by going along a ledge connecting it with the
mainland, tempted them to scramble out to it. There they chose a nice
cosy, dry nook, where, sitting down, the water immediately around them
was hidden from their sight. This circumstance must be remembered. It
was very delightful. They had not yet said one-half of what they had
got to say to each other, so they sat on talking eagerly, looking out
seaward and watching the white sails which glided by coming up channel
in the distant horizon. David was so delighted with the accounts Harry
gave him, that he resolved to make a further attempt to induce his
father to allow him to go to sea. It must be owned that Harry, full of
life and happiness himself, had pictured only the bright side of
everything. He had described the courage and determination to win with
which he and his shipmates had gone into action, and the enthusiasm and
delight they had felt on gaining the victory and capturing the prize;
but he forgot to speak of the death of some cut down in their prime, and
the wounds and sufferings of others, many maimed and crippled for life.
Thus they talked on without marking how the time went by. Harry's
watch, which he had locked up carefully before going into action, had
been destroyed by a shot which had knocked the desk and everything in it
to pieces; and David had forgotten to wind his up. Suddenly it occurred
to them that the sun was getting very low, and that it was high time for
them to return.
They jumped up to scramble back over the rock, but no sooner had they
done so than Harry cried out, "We are caught!" and David exclaimed, "The
tide has risen tremendously, how shall we get to the shore?"
"Swim there," answered Harry; "I see no other way. If we were to shout
ever so loud we should not be heard, and I do not suppose any one knows
where we are." By this time they had got to the inner end of the rock,
where they found that the distance between them and the shore was not
only considerable, but that a strong current swept round the rock, and
that though before the sea had been calm, it had got up somewhat, and
caused a surf to break on the shore. What was to be done? David was a
first-rate swimmer, and would not have had much difficulty by himself in
stemming the current, and landing through the surf; but Harry, though a
sailor, had not learned that art before he went to sea, and could swim
very little. It is extraordinary how many sailors in those days could
not swim, and lost their lives in consequence. They stood looking at
the foaming, swirling waters, not knowing what to do.
"I would try it," said Harry at length, "but I am afraid if I were to
give in that I should drown you as well as myself."
"I think that I might support you, and we should drift in somewhere a
little further down, perhaps," said David.
"Much more likely that we should be swept out to sea," answered Harry.
"No, no, David, that will never do. You can swim on shore before the
surf gets heavier, and your father or Captain Rymer will send a boat for
me very soon."
"But these are spring tides, and if the sea gets up at all, it will soon
wash right over this rock," said David.
"The more reason for you to hurry to get a boat from the yachts,"
observed the midshipman.
While they were speaking, they observed the two yachts, which had
hitherto been hid by a point of land, standing out to sea. They had
come from the east with a fine northerly smooth water breeze, but the
wind had drawn off shore to the east, and as the tide was at flood
running up channel, the vessels had stood off shore to get the full
strength of it. This the boys at once understood, but how they should
have gone off without them was the puzzle. Matters were growing
serious. Even should David reach the shore, he might not find a boat,
and it was a long way he feared from any house where he could get help,
so that Harry might be lost before he could get back. They retraced
their steps to the highest part of the rock, and waved and shouted, even
though they knew that their voices could not be heard, but the yachts
stood on at some distance from each other; it should be remarked,
Captain Rymer's leading. It was evident that they were not seen. The
hot tide came rushing in, rising higher and higher. Both the boys
became very anxious, David more on his friend's account than his own.
So many persons have lost their lives much in the same way, that it
seemed probable the two boys would lose theirs.
We must now go back to the picnic party. Mr Sowton and Mr Burnaby,
and a few of the other more elderly ladies and gentlemen, began at
length to think it time to return home. The hampers were repacked and
carried, some up the cliffs by the servants, and others on board the
yachts; and Mr Sowton and Billy Burnaby acting, as they said, as
whippers-in, began shouting and screeching at the top of their voices.
Captain Rymer and Mr Moreton had gone on board their vessels to get
ready, and thus there was no one actually in command. The boats to take
off the party were rather small, and several trips had to be made. In
the meantime, those who were returning home by land climbed up the steep
path to the top of the cliff, where their carriages were waiting for
them. When they were fairly off, each party inquired what had become of
Harry and David. Captain Rymer's yacht, the _Arrow_, was off the first,
for the _Psyche_, Mr Moreton's, fouled her anchor, and it was some time
before it could be got up.
Mr Moreton thought that his son, and the young midshipman had,
attracted by sweet Mary Rymer, gone on board the _Arrow_; while Mary,
who, it must be owned, was rather sorry not to see them, took it for
granted that Harry was returning, as he had come, by land, and that
David had gone with him.
The yachts had a long beat back. As they got away from the land, the
wind increased very much, and came in strong sharp cold gusts which made
it necessary first to take in the gaff-topsails, and then one reef and
then another in the mainsails. As the wind increased the sea got up,
and the little vessels, more suited to fine weather than foul, had hard
work to look up to the rising gale. Still there was no help for it.
The tide helped them along, but by its meeting the wind much more sea
was knocked up than if both had been going the same way. Had such been
the case, the vessels could not have made good their passage. Darkness
coming on made matters worse: poor old Mr Sowton became wonderfully
silent, and Mr Burnaby, who was sitting on the deck of the cabin,
holding on by the leg of the table, looked the very picture of woe.
Mary Rymer, who was well accustomed to yachting, and a few others, kept
up their spirits, though all hailed with no little satisfaction the
lights which showed the entrance to Pencliffe harbour, into which they
were bound.
Mr Moreton's party had been at home some time, and most of the family
had retired to their rooms, when they began to wonder why David had not
appeared.
"He is probably still at the Rymers', or has accompanied Harry to Mrs
Merryweather's," said Mrs Moreton to her husband; still, as night drew
on, she became somewhat anxious. Her anxiety increased when a servant
came with a message from Mrs Merryweather to inquire why Mr Harry did
not come home.
Mr Moreton himself now became even more anxious than his wife. Neither
his daughters, nor some friends staying with them, remembered seeing
either Harry or David for some time before they embarked.
Mr Moreton, putting on a thick coat, for it was now blowing very hard,
went off to Captain Rymer's house, which was close down to the bay,
accompanied by Mrs Merryweather's servant, and greatly alarmed the
family by asking for his son and Harry.
"Why, did they not come back with you?" asked the captain. "No, we
thought they were on board the _Arrow_," answered Mr Moreton. "They
may have gone with the Trevanians, but I do not think that Harry would
have failed to come back to his mother. I will go back and see her.
They must have set off by land, and there may have been an upset or a
break-down. It will be all right tomorrow."
The morrow, however, came, but the boys did not appear. Mr Moreton
therefore rode over early to the Trevanians, but they knew nothing of
the boys.
He now became seriously alarmed. As it was blowing too hard to go by
sea, he sent a messenger to say that he should not be home for some
hours, and continued on to the bay where the picnic had been held. Then
he made inquiries at the nearest cottages, but no one had seen his son
or Harry Merryweather. He went from cottage to cottage in vain, making
inquiries.
At last a fisherman suggested that the beach should be searched. Mr
Moreton at once set out with a party quickly assembled to perform the
anxious task, dreading to find the mangled body of his son and his brave
young friend. No signs of them could be found. Still his anxiety was
in no respect lessened.
He stopped on his way back at one cottage which he had not before
visited. He found the inmate, an old woman, in deep affliction. Her
husband, old Jonathan Jefferies, a fisherman, when out on his calling,
had perished during the gale in the night. He could sympathise with
her, and as far as money help was concerned, he promised all in his
power. With an almost broken heart he returned home to give the sad
news to his wife and family.
Poor Mrs Merryweather, she was even still more to be pitied. To have
her son restored to her, and then to find him snatched away again so
suddenly, perhaps for ever!
Day after day passed by, and no news came of the much-loved missing
ones.