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Devon Boys: A Tale of the North Shore, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 18. The Following Night |
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_ CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. THE FOLLOWING NIGHT I have told you who did not know what our coast was like--one high wall of cliffs and hills from six hundred to a thousand feet high, with breaks where the little rivers ran down into the sea, and these breaks, after the fashion of our Gap, narrow valleys that run into the land with often extremely precipitous walls, and a course such as a lightning flash is seen to make in a storm, zigzagging across the sky. If you do not know I may as well at once tell you what is often the effect of rowing or sailing along such a coast as ours: You may be going along in an almost calm sea for hours, perhaps, till, as you row across one of these valleys or combes, the wind suddenly comes rushing out like an enormous blast from some vast pipe. All the time, perhaps, there has been a sharp breeze blowing high up in the air, the great wall of rock preventing its striking where you are, but no sooner are you in front of the opening than you feel its power. Beside this, all may be calm elsewhere, while down the steep-sided valley a keen blast rushes, coming from far inland, high up on the moor, where it has perhaps behaved like a whirlwind, and having finished its wild career there, has plunged down into the combe to make its escape out to sea. It was just such a gust as this last which suddenly came upon us, raising the sea into short rough waves, and bearing upon its wings such a tremendous storm of sharp cutting rain and hail, that, after fighting against it for some time and feeling all the while that we were drifting out to sea, we ceased rowing and allowed the boat to go, in the hope that the squall would end in a few minutes as quickly as it had come on. The rush of the wind and the beating and hissing of the rain was terribly confusing. The waves, too, lapped loudly against the sides and threatened to leap in; and while we glanced to right and left in the hope of being blown in under shelter of the land, we found that the boat was rushing through the water, our bodies answering the purpose of sails. We crouched down together, not to diminish the power of the wind, but in that way to afford each other a little shelter from the drenching rain. "It can't last long," shouted Bigley, for he was obliged to cry aloud to make himself heard above the shrieking of the storm. But it did last long and kept increasing in violence. The heavens, in place of being of the soft bluish-grey that had been so pleasant when we came out, had grown black, the rain all about us was like a thick mist that shut out the sight of the cliffs, and with it the power of seeing the hissing water descend into the sea for a few yards round, we forming what seemed to be the centre of the mist. And there we were, drive, drive before the wind at what we felt was quite a rapid rate, till all at once the rain passed on, leaving us wet, and cold, and wretched, and ready to huddle more closely still for the sake of warmth. But though the rain had passed on, and it was clear behind us as it was dark ahead, while we could see the mouth of the Gap and the lowering cliffs, the wind did not cease, but seemed to be blowing more angrily than ever--with such force, indeed, that we could hardly make each other hear. There was an unpleasant symptom of danger, too, ready to trouble us, in the shape of the waves, which made the boat dance up and down and then pitch, as it still went rapidly on farther out to sea. "Ready?" shouted Bigley, as I sat with my teeth chattering in the piercing wind. I nodded, for I did not care to open my mouth to speak; and, in obedience to a sign, I held the water while he began to pull round as fast as he could and get the boat's head to the wind. For a minute or so we were in very great danger, for as soon as we were broadside to the wind the waves seemed to leap up and the wind to strive to blow us over; but by sheer hard work Bigley got her head round, and then we pulled together, with the boat rising up one wave and plunging down another in a way that was quite startling. Bob Chowne did not speak, only crouched down in the bottom of the boat and watched us as we tugged hard at the oars, under the impression that we were rowing in. But we soon knew to the contrary. We were only boys, the boat was a heavy one and stood well out of the water, and as we pulled the wind had tremendous power over our oars. In fact all we did was to keep the boat's head straight to the wind, and so diminished the violence of its power over us, while of course this was the best way to meet the waves that seemed to come directly off the shore. "Come and pull now, Bob," I shouted after tugging at the oar for a long time. My feeling of chilliness had passed away, and I was weary and breathless with my exertions. I kept on pulling while Bob came to my side, and as he took the oar I gradually edged away and crept under it to go and take the place where he had crouched. It was a black look-out for us; for it was already growing dim, and we knew that in half an hour it would be quite dark. The wind was still rising and the sea flecked with little patches of foam; while, as I looked towards the Gap, I could not help seeing with sinking heart that not only were the high rocks growing dim with the shades of the wintry night, but with the distance too. You know how quickly the change comes on from day to night at the end of December. You can imagine, then, in the midst of that sudden storm, how anxiously I watched the shore, and tried to persuade myself that we were getting nearer when I knew that we were not. If I had had any doubt about it, Bigley, who had been used to sea-going from a little child, put an end to it by suddenly shouting: "It's of no good; we are only drifting out. I'm going to try and get under shelter of the cliff." Then, shouting to Bob to ease a little, he pulled hard at the boat's head to get her a little to the west instead of due south, and then shouted to our companion again to pull with all his might. Bob did pull--I could see that he did; but we did not get under the shelter of the cliff, for the change in the position of the boat presented more surface to the wind, and we could feel that we were drifting faster still. We tried not to lose heart; but it was impossible to keep away a certain amount of despondency as we realised that all our pulling was in vain, and as we grew wearied out Bigley said that it was of no use to row. All we were to do was to keep the boat's head well to the wind. I crept after a time to Bigley's place in answer to a sign from him, for we had grown very silent; and as he resigned his oar to me and I went on pulling, while he crept aft to sit in the stern, it seemed as if it had all at once grown dark above us. The shore died away, all but one spot of light--a tiny spot that shone out like a star, one that we knew to be in the cottage where Mother Bonnet had no doubt a good hot cup of tea waiting for us, who were perishing with the cold and gradually drifting farther and farther away. We could not talk for the wind. Besides, too, it was very hard work to talk and row in such a sea; so I sat and thought of how hard it was to be situated as we were, and to have again got into trouble in what was meant for a pleasant recreation. I thought all this, and I believe my companions had very similar thoughts as we danced up and down on the short cockling sea. Then all at once, as the darkness overhead seemed to have grown more intense, and the sea with its foam to give the little light we enjoyed, we were aware of a fresh danger. The wind and the hissing and beating of the sea made a great deal of noise, but that loud washing splash sounded louder to us, and so did the rattle of a tin pot which Bigley seized, and lifted the board from over the bit of a well and began to bale. For one of the waves had struck the bows, risen up, and poured three or four gallons of water into the boat. Bigley was ready for the emergency, though, directly, and we saw the rise and fall of the tin pan as he swept it up and down and sent the water flying on the wings of the wind. Before he had baled the boat out the first time another wave swept in, and he had to work hard to clear that out; but he soon had that done after correcting our rowing, for I was pulling harder than Bob, and the consequence was that the boat was not quite head to wind and did not ride so easily as she should. Darker and darker, with the faint star in the Gap quite gone now, and all around us the hissing waste of waters upon which our frail shell of a boat was tossed! It was so black now that we could hardly see each other's faces, and in a doleful silence we toiled on till all at once there was a sobbing cry from Bob Chowne, who fell forward over his oar. Then the boat fell off and a wave came with a hissing rush over the bows. "Back water, Sep!" yelled Bigley as he dragged Bob Chowne away, seized his oar, and began pulling, when the boat seemed to be eased again and rose and fell regularly; but a quantity of water kept rushing to and fro about poor Bob Chowne, who kept receiving it alternately in his back and face. "Sit up and bale, Bob!" shouted Bigley. "Do you hear? Take the pannikin and bale." Bob did not move, and Bigley shouted to him again. "Take the pannikin and bale. Do you hear me? Take the pannikin and bale." "I can't," moaned Bob. "I can't. Let me lie here and die." Dark as it was I could just make out Bigley's actions, for I was in the fore part of the boat, and he before me. "Bale, I say! Do you hear? Bale!" he shouted in his deep gruff voice. "I can't," moaned Bob piteously. "Then we shall sink--we shall go to the bottom." "Yes; we're going to die," groaned Bob. "No, we're not," cried Bigley in a fierce angry way that seemed different to anything I had before heard from him. "Get up and bale!" "No, no," groaned Bob again. "Get up and bale!" thundered Bigley, and I felt hot and angry against him, as I heard a dull thud, and it did not need Bob Chowne's cry of pain to tell me that Bigley had given him a kick on the ribs. "Oh, Big!" I cried. "Row!" he roared at me; and then to Bob: "Now, will you bale?" "Yes," groaned Bob, struggling to his knees, and, holding on with one hand, he began to dip the baler in regularly and slowly, throwing out about a pint of water every time. "Faster!" shouted Bigley; "faster, I say." "Oh!" moaned poor Bob; but he obeyed, and it seemed a puzzle to me that our big companion, whom we bantered and teased, and led a sorry life at school, should somehow in this time of peril take the lead over us, and force us to behave in a way that could only have been expected of a crew obeying the captain of a boat. I bent forward to Bigley as we kept on with the regular chop chop of the oars, making no effort to get nearer to the shore, only to keep the boat's head level, and I whispered in his ear: "Shall we get to shore again!" "Yes," he said confidently; "only you two must do what I tell you. I must be skipper now. Go on, you, Bob Chowne!" he roared. "Heave out that water. Do you want me to kick you again?" Bob whimpered, but he worked faster, scooping the water clumsily out and throwing it over, the side, and, after he had done, and been sitting crouched at the bottom, Bigley seemed to attack him again unkindly, as if he were going to take advantage of his helplessness, and serve him out for many an old piece of tyranny. "Now, then," he shouted--and it seemed to be his father speaking, not our quiet easy-going school-fellow, but the rough seafaring man who had the credit of being a smuggler--"Now then, you, Bob Chowne," he roared, "get up, and come and take Sep Duncan's oar." "I can't," he groaned piteously, and he let himself fall against the side of the boat. "I'm so cold, I'm half dead." "Oh, are you?" shouted Bigley. "No you ar'n't, so get up and creep over here." "I can't," cried Bob again. "Then I'll make you," cried Bigley fiercely, and lifting his oar out of the rowlocks he sent it along the gunwale, till he made it tap heavily against the back of Bob Chowne's head. "Oh!" shrieked Bob, and I felt my cheeks burn, cold as I was. "Now, will you come and work, you sneak?" "I--I can't." "Get up, or I'll come and heave you overboard," roared Bigley. "I won't have it." "Oh--oh!" sobbed poor Bob. "Let him be, Big," I cried. "I'm not very tired." "You hold your tongue," was the response I had in an angry tone. "You be ready to give up your oar when he comes. Now, then, up with you, or I'll do it again." Bob Chowne groaned piteously and crawled forward. "Why can't you let a fellow die quietly?" he sobbed out, and then he crept over the seat where Bigley was rowing, so as to get to where I still tugged at my oar in hot indignation. "Die, eh?" shouted Bigley with a forced laugh. "Yes, you'd better. Leave us to do all the pulling, would you? Oh, no, you don't. I'm biggest and I'll make you pull." "Oh--oh--oh!" whimpered Bob. "Why can't you let a poor fellow be?" "Be! What for?" shouted Bigley to my astonishment, for I could not have believed him guilty of such brutality. "Yes, I'll let you be. I'll make you work, that's what I'll do. I wish I'd a rope's end here." "It's too bad, it's too cruel, Big," I cried passionately. "How can you behave so brutally to the poor fellow!" "Here, you stick to your own work," cried Bigley fiercely. "Look, you're letting me do all the work. Keep her head to the wind, will you?" His orders were so sharp and fierce that I found myself obeying them directly, and went on baling while Bob whimpered, and Bigley kept on hectoring over us, as I ladled out a little water now and then. The wind blew as fiercely as ever, and we knew that we were rapidly being carried out farther and farther, right away to a certain extent towards the Welsh coast, but of course being also in the set of the tide, and going out to sea. The cold was terrible whenever we ceased pulling from utter weariness, but we managed among us to keep the boat's head to wind hour after hour, and danced over and over the waves till by degrees the fury of the wind died out, though we could not believe it at first. Soon, though, it become very evident that it was sinking, and I heard Bigley utter a sigh of relief. It was quite time that the little gale did pass over, for during the last half hour the water had been coming into the boat more and more, so that it had become necessary for one of us to keep on baling, for the waves seemed to be getting more angry; a sharp rain of spray was dashed from their tops into our necks, and soaking our hair, and every now and again there was a blow, a splash, and a rush of water through the boat. It was quite true, though we at first thought that we must be under shelter of the land; the wind was sinking fast, and the waves lost their fierce foaminess. They rose and fell, and leaped against the boat, but it was with less splash and fury, and then, as the danger died away, so did our remaining strength. Bigley and I, who were now rowing, or rather dipping our oars from time to time, slowly threw them in, and the boat lay tossing up and down at the mercy of the waves; but no water dashed in over the gunwale, and Bob Chowne's hand with the baler rested helplessly by his side. No one spoke out there in the darkness, but we sat in the terrible silence, utterly exhausted, and rapidly growing chilled through and through in our saturated clothes. I remember looking out, and away through the darkness towards the shore as I thought, but I could see nothing till I raised my eyes toward the sky, and then I saw that the clouds had been driven away by the wind, and the stars were out, while straight before me there was the only constellation I knew--the Great Bear. I was too weary for it to trouble me, but I learned then that the boat must have turned almost completely round since we had left off rowing, for where I had thought the land lay was out to sea, and the Welsh coast--in fact I had been looking due north instead of due south. It did not trouble me much, for I was hungry and thirsty, and then I felt sleepy, and then shivering with cold, while a few minutes later I felt as if nothing mattered at all, for I was utterly wearied out. Bigley was the first to speak, but it was not in the fierce tone of a short time before. He seemed to have changed back into our big mild school-fellow as he said: "Come on over here, Sep, and let's all creep together. It won't be so cold then." I noted the change in his tone, but I could not say anything, only obey him. "Come, Bob," I said, as I climbed over the thwart, and tried to stand steadily in the dancing boat. But Bob did not move or speak, and we others crept close to his side, beginning by edging up and leaning against each other, shivering the while, but the improvement was so great at the end of a few minutes, that we thrust our arms under each other's soaked jackets, and held on as closely as we could, to feel bitterly cold outside but comfortably warm on the inner. The stars came out more and more, the wind died away, and the short dancing motion by very slow degrees subsided into a regular cradle-like rock, that, in spite of the cold, had a lulling effect upon us; and at last I seemed to be thinking of the miserable-looking mine in the Gap, and my father scolding me for going away without asking leave, and then everything seemed to be nothing, and nothing else. _ |
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