It is impossible to convey by means of words an adequate idea of the terrible excitement and uproar that ensued on board the Red Eric after the events narrated in the last chapter. From those on deck who witnessed the accident there arose a cry so sharp, that it brought the whole crew from below in an instant. But there was no confusion. The men were well trained. Each individual knew his post, and whale-men are accustomed to a sudden and hasty summons. The peculiarity of the present one, it is true, told every man in an instant that something was wrong, but each mechanically sprang to his post, while one or two shouted to ascertain what had happened, or to explain.
But the moment Captain Dunning’s voice was heard there was perfect silence.
“Clear away the starboard-quarter-boat,” he cried, in a deep, firm tone.
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“Stand-by the falls—lower away!”
There was no occasion to urge the sailors; they sprang to the work with the fervid celerity of men who knew that life or death depended on their speed. In less time than it takes to relate, the boat was leaping over the long ocean swell, as it had never yet done in chase of the whale, and, in a few seconds, passed out of the little circle of light caused by the fires and into the gloom that surrounded the ship.
The wind had been gradually increasing during all these proceedings, and although no time had been lost, and the vessel had been immediately brought up into the wind, Ailie and Glynn were left struggling in the dark sea a long way behind ere the quarter-boat could be lowered; and now that it was fairly afloat, there was still the danger of its failing to hit the right direction of the objects of which it was in search.
After leaping over the stern, Glynn Proctor, the moment he rose to the surface, gave a quick glance at the ship, to make sure of her exact position, and then struck out in a straight line astern, for he knew that wherever Ailie fell, there she would remain struggling until she sank. Glynn was a fast and powerful swimmer. He struck out with desperate energy, and in a few minutes the ship was out of sight behind him. Then he paused suddenly, and letting his feet sink until he attained an upright position, trod the water and raised himself breast-high above the surface, at the same time listening intently, for he began to fear that he might have overshot his mark. No sound met his straining ear save the sighing of the breeze and the ripple of the water as it lapped against his chest. It was too dark to see more than a few yards in any direction.
Glynn knew that each moment lost rendered his chance of saving the child terribly slight. He shouted “Ailie!” in a loud, agonising cry, and swam forward again with redoubled energy, continuing the cry from time to time, and raising himself occasionally to look round him. The excitement of his mind, and the intensity with which it was bent on the one great object, rendered him at first almost unobservant of the flight of time. But suddenly the thought burst upon him that fully ten minutes or a quarter of an hour had elapsed since Ailie fell overboard, and that no one who could not swim could exist for half that time in deep water. He shrieked with agony at the thought, and, fancying that he must have passed the child, he turned round and swam desperately towards the point where he supposed the ship lay. Then he thought, “What if I have turned just as I was coming up with her?” So he turned about again, but as the hopelessness of his efforts once more occurred to him, he lost all presence of mind, and began to shout furiously, and to strike out wildly in all directions.
In the midst of his mad struggles his hand struck an object floating near him. Instantly he felt his arm convulsively grasped, and the next moment he was seized round the neck in a gripe so violent that it almost choked him. He sank at once, and the instinct of self-preservation restored his presence of mind. With a powerful effort he tore Ailie from her grasp, and quickly raised himself to the surface, where he swam gently with his left hand, and held the struggling child at arm’s-length with his right.
The joy caused by the knowledge that she had still life to struggle infused new energy into Glynn’s well-nigh exhausted frame, and he assumed as calm and cheerful a tone as was possible under the circumstances when he exclaimed—“Ailie, Ailie, don’t struggle, dear, I’ll save you if you keep quiet.”
Ailie was quiet in a moment. She felt in the terror of her young heart an almost irresistible desire to clutch at Glynn’s neck; but the well-known voice reassured her, and her natural tendency to place blind, implicit confidence in others, served her in this hour of need, for she obeyed his injunctions at once.
“Now, dear,” said Glynn, with nervous rapidity, “don’t grasp me, else we shall sink. Trust me. I’ll never let you go. Will you trust me?”
Ailie gazed wildly at her deliverer through her wet and tangled tresses, and with great difficulty gasped the word “Yes,” while she clenched the garments on her labouring bosom with her little hands, as if to show her determination to do as she was bid.
Glynn at once drew her towards him and rested her head on his shoulder. The child gave vent to a deep, broken sigh of relief, and threw her right arm round his neck, but the single word “Ailie,” uttered in a remonstrative tone, caused her to draw it quickly back and again grasp her breast.
All this time Glynn had been supporting himself by that process well-known to swimmers as “treading water,” and had been so intent upon his purpose of securing the child, that he failed to observe the light of a lantern gleaming in the far distance on the sea, as the boat went ploughing hither and thither, the men almost breaking the oars in their desperate haste, and the captain standing in the stern-sheets, pale as death, holding the light high over his head, and gazing with a look of unutterable agony into the surrounding gloom.
Glynn now saw the distant light, and exerting his voice to the utmost, gave vent to a prolonged cry. Ailie looked up in her companion’s face while he listened intently. The moving light became stationary for a moment, and a faint reply floated back to them over the waves. Again Glynn raised his voice to the utmost, and the cheer that came back told him that he had been heard.
But the very feeling of relief at the prospect of immediate deliverance had well-nigh proved fatal to them both; for Glynn experienced a sudden relaxation of his whole system, and he felt as if he could not support himself and his burden a minute longer.
“Ailie,” he said faintly but quickly, “we shall be saved if you obey at once; if not, we shall be drowned. Lay your two hands on my breast, and let yourself sink down to the very lips.”
Glynn turned on his back as he spoke, spread out his arms and legs to their full extent, let his head fall back, until it sank, leaving only his lips, nose, and chin above water, and lay as motionless as if he had been dead. And now came poor Ailie’s severest trial. When she allowed herself to sink, and felt the water rising about her ears, and lipping round her mouth, terror again seized upon her; but she felt Glynn’s breast heaving under her hands, so she raised her eyes to heaven and prayed silently to Him who is the only true deliverer from dangers. Her self-possession was restored, and soon she observed the boat bearing down on the spot, and heard the men as they shouted to attract attention.
Ailie tried to reply, but her tiny voice was gone, and her soul was filled with horror as she saw the boat about to pass on. In her agony she began to struggle. This roused Glynn, who had rested sufficiently to have recovered a slight degree of strength. He immediately raised his head, and uttered a wild cry as he grasped Ailie again with his arm.
The rowers paused; the light of the lantern gleamed over the sea, and fell upon the spray tossed up by Glynn. Next moment the boat swept up to them—and they were saved.
The scene that followed baffles all description. Captain Dunning fell on his knees beside Ailie, who was too much exhausted to speak, and thanked God, in the name of Jesus Christ, again and again for her deliverance. A few of the men shouted; others laughed hysterically; and some wept freely as they crowded round their shipmate, who, although able to sit up, could not speak except in disjointed sentences. Glynn, however, recovered quickly, and even tried to warm himself by pulling an oar before they regained the ship, but Ailie remained in a state of partial stupor, and was finally carried on board and down into the cabin, and put between warm blankets by her father and Dr Hopley.
Meanwhile, Glynn was hurried forward, and dragged down into the forecastle by the whole crew, who seemed unable to contain themselves for joy, and expressed their feelings in ways that would have been deemed rather absurd on ordinary occasions.
“Change yer clo’s, avic, at wance,” cried Phil Briant, who was the most officious and violent in his offers of assistance to Glynn. “Och! but it’s wet ye are, darlin’. Give me a howld.”
This last request had reference to the right leg of Glynn’s trousers, which happened to be blue cloth of a rather thin quality, and which therefore clung to his limbs with such tenacity that it was a matter of the utmost difficulty to get them off.
“That’s your sort, Phil—a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull all together,” cried Dick Barnes, hurrying forward, with a bundle of garments in his arms. “Here’s dry clo’s for him.”
“Have a care, Phil,” shouted Gurney, who stood behind Glynn and held him by the shoulders; “it’ll give way.”
“Niver a taste,” replied the reckless Irishman. But the result proved that Gurney was right, for the words had scarce escaped his lips when the garment parted at the knee, and Phil Briant went crashing back among a heap of tin pannikins, pewter plates, blocks, and cordage. A burst of laughter followed, of course, but the men’s spirits were too much roused to be satisfied with this, so they converted the laugh into a howl, and prolonged it into a cheer; as if their comrade had successfully performed a difficult and praiseworthy deed.
“Hold on, lads,” cried Glynn. “I’m used up, I can’t stand it.”
“Here you are,” shouted Nickel Sling, pushing the men violently aside, and holding a steaming tumbler of hot brandy-and-water under Glynn’s nose. “Down with it; that’s the stuff to get up the steam fit to bust yer biler, I calc’late.”
The men looked on for a moment in silence, while Glynn drank, as if they expected some remarkable chemical change to take place in his constitution.
“Och! ain’t it swate?” inquired Phil Briant, who, having gathered himself up, now stood rubbing his shoulder with the fragment of the riven garment. “Av I wasn’t a taytotaler, it’s meself would like some of that same.”
In a few minutes our hero was divested of his wet garments, rubbed perfectly dry by his kind messmates, and clad in dry costume, after which he felt almost as well as if nothing unusual had happened to him. The men meanwhile cut their jokes at him or at each other as they stood round and watched, assisted, or retarded the process. As for Tim Rokens, who had been in the boat and witnessed the rescue, he stood gazing steadfastly at Glynn without uttering a word, keeping his thumbs the while hooked in the arm-holes of his vest, and his legs very much apart. By degrees—as he thought on what had passed, and the narrow escape poor little Ailie had had, and the captain’s tears, things he had never seen the captain shed before and had not believed the captain to have possessed—as he pondered these things, we say, his knotty visage began to work, and his cast-iron chin began to quiver, and his shaggy brows contracted, and his nose, besides becoming purple, began to twist, as if it were an independent member of his face, and he came, in short, to that climax which is familiarly expressed by the words “bursting into tears.”
But if anybody thinks the act, on the part of Tim Rokens, bore the smallest resemblance to the generally received idea of that sorrowful affection, “anybody,” we take leave to tell him, is very much mistaken. The bold harpooner did it thus—he suddenly unhooked his right hand from the arm-hole of his vest, and gave his right thigh a slap which produced a crack that would have made a small pistol envious; then he uttered a succession of ferocious roars, that might have quite well indicated pain, or grief, or madness, or a drunken cheer, and, un-hooking the left hand, he doubled himself up, and thrust both knuckles into his eyes. The knuckles were wet when he pulled them out of his eyes, but he dried them on his pantaloons, bolted up the hatchway, and rushing up to the man at the wheel, demanded in a voice of thunder—“How’s ’er head?”
“Sou’-sou’-east-and-by-east,” replied the man, in some surprise.
“Sou’-sou’-east-and-by-east!” repeated Mr Rokens, in a savage growl of authority, as if he were nothing less than the admiral of the Channel Fleet. “That’s two points and a half off yer course, sir. Luff, luff, you—you—”
At this point Tim Rokens turned on his heel, and began to walk up and down the deck as calmly as if nothing whatever had occurred to disturb his equanimity.
“The captain wants Glynn Proctor,” said the second mate, looking down the fore-hatch.
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Glynn, ascending, and going aft.
“Ailie wants to see you, Glynn, my boy,” said Captain Dunning, as the former entered the cabin; “and I want to speak to you myself—to thank you Glynn. Ah, lad! you can’t know what a father’s heart feels when— Go to her, boy.” He grasped the youth’s hand, and gave it a squeeze that revealed infinitely more of his feelings than could have been done by words.
Glynn returned the squeeze, and opening the door of Ailie’s private cabin, entered and sat down beside her crib.
“Oh, Glynn, I want to speak to you; I want to thank you. I love you so much for jumping into the sea after me,” began the child, eagerly, and raising herself on one elbow while she held out her hand.
“Ailie,” interrupted Glynn, taking her hand, and holding up his finger to impose silence, “you obeyed me in the water, and now I insist on your obedience out of the water. If you don’t, I’ll leave you. You’re still too weak to toss about and speak loud in this way. Lie down, my pet.”
Glynn kissed her forehead, and forced her gently back on the pillow.
“Well, I’ll be good, but don’t leave me yet, Glynn. I’m much better. Indeed, I feel quite strong. Oh! it was good of you—”
“There you go again.”
“I love you,” said Ailie.
“I’ve no objection to that,” replied Glynn, “but don’t excite yourself. But tell me, Ailie, how was it that you managed to keep afloat so long? The more I think of it the more I am filled with amazement, and, in fact, I’m half inclined to think that God worked a miracle in order to save you.”
“I don’t know,” said Ailie, looking very grave and earnest, as she always did when our Maker’s name happened to be mentioned. “Does God work miracles still?”
“Men say not,” replied Glynn.
“I’m sure I don’t quite understand what a miracle is,” continued Ailie, “although Aunt Martha and Aunt Jane have often tried to explain it to me. Is floating on your back a miracle?”
“No,” said Glynn, laughing; “it isn’t.”
“Well, that’s the way I was saved. You know, ever since I can remember, I have bathed with Aunt Martha and Aunt Jane, and they taught me how to float—and it’s so nice, you can’t think how nice it is—and I can do it so easily now, that I never get frightened. But, oh!—when I was tossed over the side of the ship into the sea I was frightened just. I don’t think I ever got such a fright. And I splashed about for some time, and swallowed some water, but I got upon my back somehow. I can’t tell how it was, for I was too frightened to try to do anything. But when I found myself floating as I used to do long ago, I felt my fear go away a little, and I shut my eyes and prayed, and then it went away altogether; and I felt quite sure you would come to save me, and you did come, Glynn, and I know it was God who sent you. But I became a good deal frightened again when I thought of the sharks, and—”
“Now, Ailie, stop!” said Glynn. “You’re forgetting your promise, and exciting yourself again.”
“So she is, and I must order you out, Master Glynn,” said the doctor, opening the door, and entering at that moment.
Glynn rose, patted the child’s head, and nodded cheerfully as he left the little cabin.
The captain caught him as he passed, and began to reiterate his thanks, when their conversation was interrupted by the voice of Mr Millons, who put his head in at the skylight and said—“Squall coming, sir, I think.”
“So, so,” cried the captain, running upon deck. “I’ve been looking for it. Call all hands, Mr Millons, and take in sail—every rag, except the storm-trysails.”
Glynn hurried forward, and in a few minutes every man was at his post. The sails were furled, and every preparation made for a severe squall; for Captain Dunning knew that that part of the coast of Africa off which the Red Eric was then sailing was subject to sudden squalls, which, though usually of short duration, were sometimes terrific in their violence.
“Is everything snug, Mr Millons?”
“All snug, sir.”
“Then let the men stand-by till it’s over.”
The night had grown intensely dark, but away on the starboard-quarter the heavens appeared of an ebony blackness that was quite appalling. This appearance, that rose on the sky like a shroud of crape, quickly spread upwards until it reached the zenith. Then a few gleams of light seemed to illuminate it very faintly, and a distant hissing noise was heard.
A dead calm surrounded the ship, which lay like a log on the water, and the crew, knowing that nothing more could be done in the way of preparation, awaited the bursting of the storm with uneasy feelings. In a few minutes its distant roar was heard,—like muttered thunder. On it came, with a steady continuous roar, as if chaos were about to be restored, and the crashing wreck of elements were being hurled in mad fury against the yet unshattered portions of creation. Another second, and the ship was on her beam-ends, and the sea and sky were white as milk as the wind tore up the waves and beat them flat, and whirled away broad sheets of driving foam.
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