Richard Frayne opened his eyes, to gaze about him dreamily for some
little time before he could grasp what had happened and where he was.
Then a throbbing in his head and a sensation of smarting assailed him,
but he did not stir, for his legs were cramped; and _wash, wash, wash_,
the waters were sweeping along nearly to his chest.
At last, with a bound, full consciousness returned, and he realised that
he was lying wedged in amongst a pile of broken woodwork, evidently a
great shed or barn which had been swept down the river till its progress
had been checked by a clump of elm-trees, and the force of the water had
rent it up and piled the broken posts and rafters, driving them, and
pressing them by its weight into a chaotic mass, over and through which
the torrent rushed.
The drowning lad had been driven heavily by the force of the stream
right upon this wreck, head and shoulders above the surface, and, though
the water had torn and dragged at him afterwards, it was only to wedge
him in more firmly, so that it was some time before he could free his
legs from where they were, fast between two beams, the heavy pressure of
the water forcing them ever down toward where it rushed furiously
through the timbers. But at last he managed to climb higher and rest,
panting, upon the sloping mass of woodwork, with the water streaming
from him and the hot sunshine beginning to send a glow into his benumbed
limbs.
He was so far down the river now that the country round beyond the
flooded meadows looked strange; but he soon grasped the fact that he was
on the far side of the river at the edge of a wood, among whose trees
the stream was hissing as it ran, and that about a hundred yards away
the land rose in a sunny coppice, edged by tall timber trees, whose
continuity was suggestive of a road.
It was pleasant and warm there, and he lay for some time without feeling
the slightest disposition to stir, till a creaking and cracking sound
startled him into action, suggestive as it was of the breaking up of the
pile of timber. And now, in an agony of fear, Richard rose to his knees
and looked wildly round for a way of escape.
On three sides there was the rushing flood; on the fourth the water,
broken into hundreds of little torrents, tearing among the trees.
What should he do?
His brain was active enough now, and, to a great extent, his strength
had returned; but he hesitated to move, till another sharp crack told
him that the wreck was really breaking up; and, with the wood quivering
beneath his feet, he sprang from rafter to beam till he reached one of
the trees which held the barn anchored, and was beginning to climb up,
when the wood before him tempted him to try if he could not pass from
tree to tree, clinging to them in turn till he could reach the slope,
where he would be safe.
The risk was terrible, for, as he held on to a tree-trunk and lowered
himself down into the water, it bore him off his feet; and, had he not
clung with all his might, he would have been whirled away and dashed
against the one beyond.
But, working himself round, he stood, with his breath catching, pressed
hard against the tree, and tried to think of what to do next and whether
he had not better climb back upon the pile of wood.
That question was soon decided, for a loud crackling sound came from the
place he had so lately left, and, to his horror, he saw the wreck
crumble away and begin to sink steadily beneath the surface, long
rafters raising their ends in the air and then diving down out of sight,
while several shot by him, one of which he seized and held on to, in
spite of the heavy drag of the water seeming to try and snatch it away.
The brain acts rapidly sometimes in moments of emergency, and Richard
Frayne had seen in that rafter which he seized the life-rail which would
help him to safety; for to have attempted to wade from place to place he
found would be madness, and his only chance would have been to let
himself go with the current--driven from tree to tree--while he strove
to move diagonally, getting farther towards dry land and safety at each
attempt. But he had no faith in this; and, feeling that a third battle
with the river must be fatal, he clung to the great rafter which was to
be his narrow road to safety.
He glanced once at the spot where the pile of wood had been, and
shuddered; then, calling up all the energy which remained--feeling, as
he did, that at any time the tree against which he was held might give
way--he wound his legs round it, gripping hard, and tried to pass the
rafter along till its end rested against the next stem, about nine feet
away.
But every time he tried the piece was dragged down by the rushing water
foaming between the trunks, and twice over he nearly lost it, while once
he was within an ace of going with it through the wood.
He saved it, though, and held on, panting, beaten as he was by the
enormous power of the water, which acted on the end as if it were the
lever with which the poor puny human being was to be dislodged.
For a few minutes he was in despair, for he felt that it was impossible
to get the square piece of quartering resting from tree to tree, and
that he might as well give it up and try to climb.
Then the way to succeed came like a flash, and he wondered that he had
not thought of it before. It was to hold the rafter as firmly as he
could, and, instead of thrusting it sideways across the stream, to push
it straight upwards, guiding it so that the water only pressed upon its
end.
This he tried, and passed it backwards--holding it tightly beneath his
arm--farther and farther, till there was only another yard. Then, he
felt the long end begin to move: the stream had caught it, and in a few
seconds it was swept down, he forcing it outward the while and feeling
it checked by the tree he wished to reach. Then there was a short
struggle, and he had fixed his end between his chest and the tree to
which his legs clung, and there was a rail for him to cling to as he
tried to pass on.
He did not pause now. The rafter was pressed tightly against the trees,
but it looked terribly unsafe, bending ominously in the middle. But it
seemed to be his only chance, and, seizing it firmly, he began to work
himself along, his legs being swept away directly, and the force of the
current so great that he could hardly stir.
He succeeded, though, for the distance was short, and in a couple of
minutes was pressed against the second tree, holding on again with his
legs, and working the other end of the rafter free for it to be swept
downward, and once more nearly snatched from his grasp.
This time he managed better, working it under his left arm, end to the
current, keeping it as straight as possible, and guiding it so that he
had less difficulty when the point began to sway round and, in turn, was
swept against the next tree, while he passed the near end over his head
and dropped it between him and the trunk.
The passing along it, too, he managed more easily, though he shuddered
as he felt how it bent when he reached the middle, and hurried so as to
get to the next tree to rest.
The third stage was easier still, and he crept on in this way from tree
to tree, six, eight, and ten feet at a time, till, to his great delight,
he found the water waist instead of breast-high. Ten minutes later it
was not more than half-way up this height, and in another five he left
the rafter still pressed against two trunks, and waded through the
rushing stream, holding on by bough after bough, till he stood
triumphantly upon dry land. Then after walking a few yards to an open
patch by a pit where the sun shone warmly, he dropped upon his knees in
hot, loose, yellow sand, and crouched there till his breath came
regularly and he could look more calmly round.
The place was in the wood, shut in by a few trees and great patches of
golden-blossomed furze. The sun came down warmly, birds twittered in
the boughs, and a couple of rabbits showed their white cottony tails for
a moment or two as they plunged down into their burrows, while above
all, in a low, deep, roaring bass, there was the heavy thunder of the
river as it swept sand, gravel, trees, and everything it could tear from
its flooded banks, toward the sea.
Richard Frayne felt that he must be miles away from Primchilsea, and
that he was in as lonely a country place as he could have selected; and
now for the first time the discomforts of his personal condition began
to make themselves felt, as there was no more serious call upon his
brain.
His hat had gone when he first plunged into the river, but he did not
seem to have lost anything else, for his jacket was buttoned tightly
over the little case; but the hot sunshine now, paradoxical as it may
sound, began to make him feel chilly--of course, from the great
evaporation going on.
Taking off his garments, then, one by one, he wrung and spread them on
the hot sand, emptying his boots and serving them the same, when, after
wringing out his socks and placing them to dry, a good idea occurred to
him, and he filled his boots with the hottest, dryest sand he could
find.
His next course was to roll in the same, which felt grateful indeed to
his benumbed and chilled limbs, the skin being blue with the cold; and
the next minute he was lying down in a sunny hollow and dragging the
sand over him till he was covered to the neck, a little loosening of the
dry fluent stuff making it trickle down over his free arm. There he
was, luxuriating in the sunny warmth, with a feeling of drowsiness
gradually creeping over him, till all was blank once more, exhausted
nature bearing him into a pleasant, restful oblivion, from which he did
not awaken till all overhead was starlight. The consequence was that he
dropped asleep again--a heavy, dreamless rest of so reposeful a nature
that the troubles of the last forty-eight hours died away, and he did
nothing but sleep--sleep on with all his might.