About nine o’clock, in a piercing voice, the Skipper sang out:
“There’s a vessel adrift, right ahead of us! Stand by with the ax. But don’t cut till I tell ye.”
The mate was there at his post. He could be trusted at such a time, and would await orders. All eyes were now bent on the drifting craft. On she came! In that pregnant moment, it was evident that men who had followed the sea for years now thought that there was obvious danger—but they gave no sign of fear. All stood ready to do their utmost for the safety of the ship.
I knew that I should share the same fate as the rest. There was a small consolation even in this.
The drifter was coming directly for us, a moment more and the signal to cut must be given! Then, with the swiftness of a gull, she passed, so near that we could have leaped aboard, just clearing us, and I heard a fervent “Thank God” escape from the Skipper.
The hopeless, terror-stricken faces of the crew aboard the doomed vessel were apparent to us but a moment, as they passed on to certain death. She struck one of the fleet a short distance astern of the Airlie, and we saw the waters close over them, as we gazed, both vessels disappearing completely.
“There’s two o’ the fleet that’ll never see port agin,” said Louis, with an awed voice.
But there was little time to think of others, as we began to drag our anchors, and yaw about too much for safety. This was dangerous in the extreme, for if the anchors did not take hold again, we must cut our mooring hawser, and once adrift we knew our fate.
CHAPTER XIII
When Georges Shoals Are White
DURING the early part of the morning there was evidence of the storm moderating, and then the wind began to back, and the squalls came howling down again as fierce as ever. To make matters worse, the tide set to run to the southward, hawsing us up in such way that we lay almost in the trough of the seas.
Our vessel did not ship any water until early in the afternoon, when she hawsed up so badly that we were compelled to set the riding sail to keep her more nearly head to. We reduced the size of the sail as much as was practicable by making a bag reef in it. This was done by tying up the clew, and then lashing the bottom hoops together.
Shortly after the riding sail was set, we had a succession of tremendously heavy squalls, which blew with a fury that I had never seen equaled, while the snow was so dense that when we were in the hollow of a sea the top could hardly be discerned.
The Airlie quivered and trembled like a stricken dolphin as she struggled with apparent effort up the steep sides of the mountainous waves, which threatened to bury us completely beneath their curling crests.
Even with the small sail which we had set— a mere rag in size—and lying head to the wind, she buried herself on the lee side nearly to her hatches.
To walk against the blast was out of question. All that one could do was to haul himself along by the lifeline, or cling to the rigging for safety.
In a terrible squall of blinding snow toward nightfall, we again started to drag our anchors. At the Captain’s orders, I jumped on to the fore gaff to take down the signal lantern.
As the lashings of the lantern were just off, the vessel took a heavy lurch, while the boom came out of the crotch and swung to leeward, pitching me into that boiling seething maelstrom of white water.
The whole thing happened so quickly, that at first I did not grasp its meaning. Then, with appalling suddenness, I realized that I had been washed overboard! I was adrift, on a sea that swept to eternity!
They say that a drowning man will clutch at a straw. At all events, I clutched at the lantern, a sort of box affair, that had carried away with me, and to my great joy I found that this served as a good life buoy.
Drifting thus, I could see nothing but blackness, with waves continually breaking over me. I thought that my time had come, when, without warning, from the depths I felt a strong hand. It was my Uncle Jock, who had risked all on a lifeline and jumped overboard to save me.
With the help of those on deck, who hauled die lifeline, we were brought back again alongside the vessel. Then, as she rolled to leeward, we were both able to grasp the rail, while stout hands reached forth and assisted us aboard.
To feel the deck underneath my feet again was like coming up from the unreturning grave.
In that moment, Uncle Jock looked at me solemnly, exclaiming, “Remember, Johnnie Angus, ye’ve been saved by the mercy o’ God.”
“Aye,” I replied. “An’ with your help,” a great thankfulness welling up within me.
Later, as we sat mugging up beside the foc’sle table, someone said as a joke:
“Ye ha’ robbed the sea, Cap’n, now the sea will be gettin’ ye; fer the sea will ha’ her ain.”
Some laughed at this remark. But it gave me a feeling of sickish dread, for you must remember that the sea is a living thing to the Gael. Among our Highland folk there has always existed a sort of belief that if a man saved someone from drowning, the sea angry at being thus robbed will in turn visit its wrath on him. I noticed by the look upon my Uncle’s face that he, too, had his misgivings.
At midnight, when the storm was at its height, the vessel again broke loose. An attempt was made to get under way, but so terrible was the gale that we were soon hove to under close- reefed foresail, our lee completely buried.
About this time, when we scarcely expected to see the light of another day, all hands were presented with a sure sign of the wrath of the sea. Driven swiftly before the hurricane came a dense black cloud, bearing on its eastern edge a huge fiery pillar. The cloud appeared to me like an ill omen from the Black Shore. It passed close by us, and swept away to leeward. Most of us were terrified by this apparition, while I heard Cap’n Jock mutter:
“It’s the sea that will ha’ her ain.”
Hardly had this word escaped him, before we saw a towering gray-green mountain of water swooping down us. Everyone grabbed for ring-bolts, lifelines, stanchions, or whatever happened to be handy, some jumping into the shrouds. Cap’n Jock alone did not run for safety. He stood in the waist by the nested dories like one who read his fate. Then, with the roar of a maddened bull, that drowning sea swept down upon him.
At the last moment, in desperation, the Skipper made a grab for the dories. Then, with horror, I saw dories, Skipper and all lifted bodily, and the whoJe mass swept away to leeward, where they vanished into howling darkness.
CHAPTER XIV
The Return
The rest of us could only hang on for our lives, while a second great wave that was almost our finish came on for’ard and buried our decks completely. At last, when we were all nigh drowned, she shook herself free, while rivers of water went cascading over our after rail. After this second sea had subsided, our anchors took firm hold, and the Airlie rose buoyant on the seas.
From the moment Captain Jock was swept overboard, the wind began to moderate, as though, according to his own words, the sea was looking for him, and once having seized its prey was now appeased.
By morning the wind had blown itself out completely. Only the deep-troughed rollers and the lacework of foam remained to bear witness of the ordeal through which we had passed.
I was on pins and needles all next, morning, as I thought that the mate, who had now taken command, would surely start for home at once.
Never had I experienced such a yearning for dry land as in those moments of harrowing reaction. My nerves were completely unstrung. Again and again I almost cried out at the memory of that vast engulfing sea that almost took me.
Then, when my mind turned away from my own experience, the sight of our brave captain missing from the wheel Would bring the tears welling up into my eyes.
“Just let me get back to Craignish Glen,” I kept promising myself, “and Mother will never again have to plead with me to stick to the farm.”
&
nbsp; With expectations of immediate return ashore, great was my chagrin to see the men coolly getting out their gear and make preparations for fishing, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. As they baited up, they smoked and talked of getting a fare in the most casual manner. Such conduct seemed utterly unfeeling aboard a vessel that had just lost its Skipper.
When I spoke of this to Louis he replied, “It ain’t fer fishermen to mourn, leastways, not while they’re on the Banks.”
After setting my mind upon the welcome life ashore, a continuation of this misery now seemed unbearable. But the mate with whom I conferred was obdurate.
“ ‘Spose we catch another gale.”
“Then you’ll have another chance o’ shakin’ hands wi’ Davy Jones,” he answered with a coarse laugh.
Thoroughly heartsick and in the depths, I still tried to get some satisfaction out of him as to when we might expect to start for Gloucester.
“You know as much about that as me,” was the rejoinder.
“But surely you can tell whether it will be a couple of days or a couple of weeks?”
“We won’t start till we get a trip o’ fish.”
This ended the discussion, and I went off muttering to myself, “This is my last time at this wretched business.”
How many seafaring men, I wonder, have made this same pledge, and have forgotten it again straightway their feet were planted on dry land?
The next few days for me were drab and gray, but even the darkest seasons end, and finally, one morning, I was overjoyed to hear the mate call the hands off who were starting to fish.
“No more o’ handlines. We’ll give her the mainsheet fer home, now, boys!”
With that, we started breaking out the anchor, and soon with all sail cracked on were driving it for Gloucester in a manner that would have satisfied the most doughty sail-carrier.
Before dawn the following morning, Thatcher’s Island lights were seen from our deck. During the night, the wind had begun to die out, and shortly after picking up the lights we lay almost becalmed. It began to snow, and in a few moments the air was full of soft feathery flakes, which effectually shut out from view any object at a greater distance than two or three hundred yards.
All hands were called to pound ice off our cable and running gear, since it was of highest importance to have everything ready for anchoring or taking in sail when approaching land in thick weather. One of the most unpleasant positions that a sailing vessel can be caught in is on a lee shore in winter with an easterly gale, accompanied as it generally is by a blinding snow storm. Knowing this, the mate determined to make land if possible.
As it breezed up from the southeast, we ran for Eastern Point, as near as one could judge. Soon after the wind cleared up so that we could see for about a mile, and a fishing vessel was descried coming astern. Wishing to speak her, we hauled our sheets aft and let her run up to us. She reported that she was bound in from the Cape, and then before we saw land, snow came down again and everything closed in thick.
Knowing that we were fast approaching shore, all hands were on the lookout anxiously
watching to catch a first glimpse of the breakers.
A few moments later the expected cry- sounded from the lookout: “Breakers ahead !”
A line of white foam and snow covered shore to leeward was immediately seen.
“Hard down,” came the shouted warning.
An instant’s delay would have piled the Airlie upon the rocks. But the mate already was spinning his wheel down, and the vessel came up to the wind, some of us quickly pulling in the sheets, while the rest strained their eyes to make out some familiar object on the shore.
“Them’s Bass Rocks,” somebody called.
Then several at once saw and recognized the summer cottages. With this, being sure of our landfall, we tacked and ran in for Eastern Point, following the line of breakers along the shore as near as prudence permitted.
Soon the spray dashing over Brace’s Cove Rock was seen and a few moments later the Airlie went sweeping by the point, near enough to catch a glimpse of the white tower of the lighthouse and hear the hoarse-toned fog bell which rang out its warning.
We could now laugh at the storms and threat- enings without, and the broad grin which appeared on the faces of all gave evidence of the satisfaction which we felt. But the flapping of the ensign, at half-mast above our heads, called us back again to graver thoughts. Laughter and joking, that bubbled up instinctively, were suddenly suppressed.
After anchoring in the stream, the mate took me ashore with him in the first dory. Sitting on the after thwart, I looked back with misty eyes at the flag flapping idly in the breeze, announcing our tragedy to all the Gloucester water front.
As we drew near to the wharf, indistinct faces began to grow clearer. One face there in that throng seemed to appear before me like an apparition, and then when my senses refused to believe, I heard the mate exclaim:
“My God, if that ain’t the Skipper standin’ there on the string-piece I”
I had heard about men lost on the Banks, and after having been picked up by another ship beating their own crowd ashore. More than once this incident had passed in foc’sle yarning. But here it was in actuality.
As we climbed up on to the wharf, Uncle Jock moved out to greet us, calling: “Glad to see ye back, lads.” He was wearing a long black coat, with an umbrella under his arm, bent and reticent as ever, his appearance was strikingly characteristic. In manner he was casual as though he had merely remained ashore for the voyage, and was now coming down for the news.
The mate, like myself, was dumfounded, and continued to stare open-mouthed, at which Uncle Jock inquired:
“What ye gawkin’ at?” “I’m jus’ wonderin’ if I see aright.” “Ain’t nothin’ wrong wi’ yer seein’ judgin’ by the way ye made port through the thick stuff outside. Dinna ye ken yer auld Skipper, Sol?”
This query, followed by a tangible poke in the ribs, seemed to brush away his doubts, and Sol Morash, the mate, a stolid, undemonstrative fellow, astonished everybody embracing his lost Skipper with an exclamation of thankfulness and obvious affection:
“Yea, it’s ye, Jock MacPhee, ain’t no mistake. But say, how’d ye ever get here?”
“By the mercy of God,” said my Uncle, baring his head reverently as he spoke. But this did not satisfy the matter-of-fact mate. “I know, but what happened?” “Ye remember when the sea came over, I was standin’ nigh the nested dories in the waist?” “Aye.”
“Well, as soon as I found myself adrift, I struck out fer one o’ them dories, an’ finally got le hand on the plug-becket o’ one o’ them. She was bottom-up, but I managed to right her, and then takin’ my sou’wester, which had been well tied under my chin, I used that fer a bailer.”
“Wonder ye didn’t feel like quittin’.”
“Nay, I’ve been in the deep sea too many times to give up as long as there’s a breath left in me. O’ course I had to keep at the bailin’ pretty pert, no let-up the way those seas was breakin’. There was a heavy tide runnin’ to leeward, an’ I had an idea that if I kep’ afloat till daylight I might get into the track of a steamer.
“Jus’ while I was thinkin’ o’ this, there come a crash, an’ a bang, that landed me right plumb into the bows o’ a vessel at the end o’ her ridin’ hawser. Makin’ a grab fer the first thing handy, I got hold o’ the bob-stay, an’ come in hand over hand along the bowsprit. The vessel turned out to be the Centennial. They thought it was a ghost the way I come up out o’ the sea.”
“But ye won’t go till yer time comes,” someone interrupted expressing a bit of the fatalism of the Gloucester foreshore.
“That’s right,” assented Cap’n Jock. Then dropping his narrative, in anxious tones he inquired :
“But ye haven’t told us yet wh
at kind of a fare ye made.”
“ ‘Bout a hundred thousand pounds.”
“All right then, come along up the street, an’ we’ll see about sellin’ the cargo.”
On the way, the talk was entirely of the catch, and the prospective market. Not another word passed about the almost miraculous deliverance. Once Uncle Jock had told his story, the mate seemed to take it as a matter of course. But it was not so with me. There were innumerable questions that I wanted to ask.
When all the business matters had been attended to, which took the rest of the day, we started off for home. On my first chance alone, I turned on my Uncle with the remark:
“But I don’t see how you ever got here before the rest of us.”
“That’s simple enough. The Centennial sailed the day after the blow. Ye chaps waited nearly a week longer on the Banks to get a full fare.”
“And didn’t you think that your time had come, when you found yourself adrift on that awful sea?”
“Was too busy bailin’ to do any thinkin’”
“Lucky you hit the Centennial, though, wasn’t it?”
“There’s nae such thing as luck, Johnnie Angus. Those who wait fer us to come back from the sea must wait on the mercy o’ Him who watches the fall o’ a sparrow.”
Formerly, I would have been unimpressed by such a remark. But, just then I was conscious of a certain devoutness, remembering my own deliverance.
As we walked along together, the winter’s day was already ending. There, in the gathering gloom, I began to see in this port of brave endeavor that which the casual eye had never dreamed of. The long nights, the black seas, and the far-off banks have given unto Gloucester a touch of beauty, born of faith and courage. In that moment, coming up from deep waters, I caught something of the inner beauty of this town.
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