By this time half the town was out to watch the lugger in which John
Tregenna was trying to make his escape, and, the story of his
wrong-doing having passed from lip to lip, the crowd upon the harbour
wall and the cliff began rapidly to increase.
Geoffrey heard of what had taken place, and hurried down to the cliff,
and old Prawle was pointed out to him seated upon the pier, where the
sea was already beginning to beat furiously as the wind rapidly gathered
force.
"Why, Prawle," he cried, when he had hurried down to his side, "what
have you been doing?"
"Doing, lad? Trying to do to him as he did to me and mine. He's got
away," cried the old man, hoarsely; "but I'll have him yet."
"Yes, but you must leave him to the law," cried Geoffrey. "Come: walk
home with me. You must not take this into your own hands."
"Come home!" said the old man, with a fierce look in his eye. "Yes,
when I have seen him drown, for it will come to that before many hours
are past."
Finding him immovable, Geoffrey stayed by the old man's side till they
were driven back to the head of the harbour by the waves that now dashed
right over the wall where they had been standing but a few minutes
before; and from thence Prawle, after some three hours' watching,
climbed to the cliff, where he leaned over the iron rail and gazed out
to sea through his hands, held telescope fashion.
"She's labouring hard," he said, with a grim chuckle, "and they've taken
in all sail they can. Look yonder, Trethick: see. There, I told you
so. Tom Jennen's give it up, and he'll run for the harbour now."
Geoffrey strained his eyes to try and make out what the old man had
described; but he could only dimly see the two-masted vessel far out in
the hazy spray, and that she was tossing up and down, for the sea was
rising still, and the wind rapidly increasing to almost hurricane force.
Old Prawle was right, as the excitement upon the cliff showed, for,
after hours of brave effort, the crew of the lugger had proved the
hopelessness of their task, and were now running for home.
What had been a long and weary fight in the teeth of the wind resolved
itself into quite a short run, with scarcely any sail hoisted, and the
great white-topped waves seeming to chase the buoyant lugger as she
raced for shelter from the storm.
The fishermen stood watching her through the haze, and shook their heads
as they glanced down at the harbour, where the rocks were now bare, now
covered by the huge waves that thundered amidst them, tossing the great
boulders over and over as if they had been pebbles, and leaving them to
rumble back with a noise like thunder, but only to be cast up again.
All the eastern side of the bay was now a sheet of white foam, which the
wind caught up and sent flying inland like yeast; and so fierce was the
wind now in its more furious gusts, that posts, corners, rocks, and the
lee of boats were sought by the watchers as shelter from the cutting
blast.
Old Prawle seemed to mind the furious gale no more than the softest
breeze, and at length he descended the cliff slope towards where the
waves came tumbling in a hundred yards or so beyond the end of the huge
wall of masonry that formed the harbour; and as he saw the sturdy
fishermen taking the same direction, with coils of rope over their
shoulders, Geoffrey needed no telling that the lugger would come ashore
there, for, if expected to make the harbour, the men would have made no
such preparations as these.
As they went down along the rugged slope Geoffrey touched the old man on
the shoulder, and pointed to the harbour.
"No," shouted old Prawle, in his ear; "she can't do it, nor yet with
three times her crew."
The crowd had rapidly increased, for it was known now that Tom Jennen's
"boot" must be wrecked, and quite a hundred men had gathered on the
shore ready to lend a hand to save. No vessel could have lived in the
chaos of foam between them and the lugger unless it were the lifeboat,
and that was seven miles away, while the lugger was now not as many
hundred yards.
Through the dim haze Geoffrey could make out the figures of the men on
board when the lugger rose to the top of some wave, but for the most
part they were hidden from his sight; and as he stood there, drenched
with the spray, he shuddered as he thought of the fate of these, now so
full of vigour, if their seamanship should really prove unavailing to
guide them into a place of safety.
"Is there danger, Trethick?" said a voice at his ear; and, turning,
there stood the Reverend Edward Lee, his white face bedewed with the
spray, and his glasses in his hand, as he wiped off the thick film of
salt water.
"I fear so. Poor fellows!" was the reply.
"Is it true that that unhappy man is on board?"
Geoffrey nodded, and their eyes met for a few moments.
"God forgive him!" said the vicar, softly. "Trethick, can we do any
thing to save his life?"
As he spoke, Geoffrey for answer pointed to one of the huge green
rollers that now came sweeping in, curled over, and broke with a roar
like thunder upon the rocky beach.
"Nothing but stand ready with a rope," was the reply; and then the two
young men stood watching the lugger till one of the fishermen came up
with a great oilskin coat.
"Put it on, sir," he roared to the vicar. "It'll keep some of it off."
The vicar was about to refuse, but his good feeling prompted him to
accept the offer, and a few minutes later another came up and offered
one to Geoffrey, who shook his head, and, in place of taking it,
stripped off his coat and moved farther down to meet the waves.
The vicar followed him quickly, for the crucial time had come. As far
as those ashore could make out, the crew of the lugger had hoisted their
fore-sail a few feet higher, and, as they raced in, there was just a
chance that she might obey her rudder and swing round into shelter; but
it was the faintest of chances, and so it proved.
On she came, light as a duck; and, as she neared the shore, she seemed
almost to leap from wave to wave, till at last, when she came in, riding
as it were upon one huge green wall of water, nearer and nearer, with
the speed almost of a race-horse.
"Now--now--now, Tom!" rose in chorus, heard for a moment above the wind;
and, as if in obedience to the call, the head of the lugger was seen to
curve round, and in another minute she would have been in shelter, when,
as if fearful of missing their prey, the waves leaped at her, deluging
her with water; she was swept on and on towards where the crowd had
gathered; and then there was a shriek as the lugger was seen to be
lifted and dashed down upon the rocks--once, twice--and there was
something dark, like broken timbers, churning about among the yeasty
foam. The boat was in a hundred pieces tossing here and there.
For a few moments the fishermen ashore stood motionless, and then a man
was seen to run out, rope in hand, into the white foam towards something
dark, catch at it, and those ashore gave a steady haul, and one of the
crew was brought in, amidst a roar of cheers, to where Geoffrey and the
vicar stood.
Again there was a dark speck seen amongst the floating planks, and
another man dashed in with a rope, and a second member of the little
crew was dragged ashore.
Again another, who was stoutly swimming for his life, was fetched in;
and almost at the same moment Geoffrey saw something that made his blood
course fiercely through his veins.
"I can't help it," he muttered; "villain as he is, I cannot stand and
see him drown."
There was no momentary hesitation; but, drawing a long breath, he dashed
into the foam that seethed and rushed up the shore, for his quick eye
had detected a hand thrust out from the surf for a moment, and his brave
effort was successful, for he caught the sleeve of one of the drowning
men. Then they were swept in for a time but sucked back; and but for
the aid lent by one of the fishermen with a rope, it would have gone
hard with them, though, in the excitement, Geoffrey hardly realised the
fact till he found himself standing in the midst of a knot of fishermen
and the vicar clinging to his hand, but only for the clergyman to be
roughly thrust aside by Tom Jennen, for it was he whom Geoffrey had
saved; and the rough fellow got hold of his hand and squeezed it as in a
vice.
"Where's Mr Tregenna?" cried Geoffrey, hoarsely, as soon as he could
get breath, for he had caught sight of the rough, dark figure of old
Prawle running to and fro in the shallow white water where the waves
broke up.
"Hasn't he come ashore?" said Tom Jennen, with his face close to
Geoffrey's.
The latter shook his head and looked inquiringly at the rough fisherman;
but Tom Jennen staggered away to sit down, utterly exhausted by his
struggle.
Planks, a mast with the dark cinnamon sail twisted round it, the
lugger's rudder, a cask or two, a heap of tangled net, a sweep broken in
half, and some rope--bit by bit the fragments of the brave little
fisher-vessel came ashore, or were dragged out by one or other of the
men; but though a dozen stood ready, rope in hand, to dash in amongst
the foam and try to rescue a struggling swimmer, John Tregenna's hand
was never seen stretched out for help, nor his ghastly face looking
wildly towards the shore. And at last, as the fragments of the lugger
were gathered together in a heap, the crowd melted away, to follow where
the half-drowned fishermen had been half-carried to their homes, and
Geoffrey gladly accepted the hospitality offered to him by Edward Lee.
Tom Jennen had fared the worst, for he had been dashed once against a
part of the lugger, and his ribs were crushed; but he seemed patient and
ready to answer the questions of a visitor who came to him after he had
seen the doctor leave.
"Were he aboard, Tom Jennen, when you tried to make the harbour?"
"Aboard? Who? Tregenna?"
"Ay."
"Of course."
"And he was with you when you struck?"
"Holding on by the side, and screeching for help like a frightened
woman," said Jennen.
"And where do you think he'd be now?" said the other.
"Drowned and dead, for he hadn't the spirit to fight for his life," said
Jennen, "and I wish I'd never seen his face."
"I'd like to have seen it once more," said Tom Jennen's visitor, grimly.
"Just once more;" and he nodded and left the cottage.
"I don't feel as if I ought to face my Bess till I've seen him once
again," he muttered, as he went on along the cliff path; "but I don't
know--I don't know. He was too slippery for me at the last;" and old
Prawle went slowly and thoughtfully homeward to the Cove.