The Duke's Sweetheart: A Romance

CHAPTER XVII.

VOLUNTEER I

In some respects the position in which lay all now above water of the Seabird was favourable to those on board. When she struck she had had a heavy list to port. As she had struck, so she settled down with a strong list to port. Thus her high shoulder was against the weather, and every sea did not sweep her deck. It so happened that the weather-side of the fore-rigging was in the lee of one of the rocks between which she was jambed. Thus the heavy broadside wash of the water did not reach the men, but only the thick spray of waves which broke on the sea-face of that rock, and the spray of the waves that struck her aft.

There was no chance whatever of landing on these rocks. They were almost perpendicular, tapering so as to yield no hold for the foot or hand, and at their bases was deep water surging tumultuously up and down.

Once in the unsheltered water on the outer face of that reef, nothing could save a man in such a gale and sea. His arms, his ribs, his head, would be smashed against those pitiless fangs of grey smooth stone. These teethlike rocks rested on an irregular bed of flatter rocks; but this bed was visible only at low water, and the tide would now be at its greatest height in an hour, or, taking the wind into consideration, an hour and three-quarters.

Three of the crew were natives of the little hamlet, and their wives were spectators of their husbands' danger.

"For God's sake, men, can't you do anything?"

"Anything!" repeated a man sadly, pointing his arm to the sheer inner wall of the reef. "What could mortal man do there?"

The inner side of the reef differed from the outer one in being much more regular and straight. It was a wall of low spires, with here and there an opening down to the water, through which the foam-mantled sea shot shafts of hissing water. No human hand or foot could rest upon any part of that inner wall now in view. Nothing grew or lived on the shoreward side of that reef; not weed or barnacle or mussel. There was nothing to rest on, nothing to cling to, nothing but the cold clean side of the pitiless grey stone.

"Can nothing be done? Can nothing be done?" asked the woman, wringing her hands helplessly. "Are my babies to be orphans, while you all stand idle there? If you can't do anything to save the men, you might in all decency turn your backs, and not let them see you with your hands in your pockets in front of their own doors, while they are drowning under your very eyes!"

The men drew aside from where the women stood, and held a brief council.

Meanwhile Cheyne hardly moved. He was sheltered from the full violence of the wind, but now and then a gust burst in upon him, striking him full in front. He could see all the figures on the deck, and he had heard the people say that the undersized man, with the fur-cap tied over his ears, was the great Duke, and the tall lank man behind him was the Marquis of Southwold. His thoughts ran:

What an extraordinary thing fate was! Here was he, as it were by a mere accident, awaiting the arrival of that yacht which for years had sought and found safety in this harbour, and, by an extraordinary coincidence, that yacht would never enter this harbour again.

For the first time in all his life he had formed the design of committing fatal violence upon a fellow human being, and here was that human being withheld from the sphere of his vengeance by an appalling disaster! Was this man to be snatched from his clutches now that he was in sight? Was there no means of rescuing this crew? There was a double source of regret in seeing those men helpless on the vessel, and these men helpless here. It was a pity to see the good and useful lives of the sailors in danger; and it was a pity that, after all, this man was about to escape his natural and most just vengeance.

After a somewhat lengthened council, the knot of fishermen broke up. It was plain they had come to the decision of making some effort on behalf of the unfortunate men in peril. Two men went immediately towards the cottages; each one entered his own. The man who came out first carried a long coil of light line, and when the other man, whose name was Bence, appeared, he had nothing on but his underclothing.

"Bravo, Bence!" cried the men, with a cheer.

They made the line fast round his waist, and in another moment he had plunged into the sea.

The dangers and difficulties he faced were enormous. Although to the mind of a sailor the water inside the reef was smooth water, to a landsman it seemed tempested. No open boat could possibly swim in it, for the cross-swells and huge choppings formed by the rush of water through the long narrow slits between the rocks would swamp any ordinary small boat, such as those at the command of the fishermen. Besides, the fierce wind bursting through the clefts would almost blow a small boat out of the water. The anchorage for the yacht and the fishing-boats was not close in under the reef, but some way inland in the bay, where, in case of storms, the sea became regular once more, and any decked vessel might roll lazily to and fro in security through the strongest north-east wind that ever blew.

The swimmer had to contend with a great number of discouraging circumstances. The only thing in his favour being that the water was not very cold. It was his interest to keep as close as possible to the rocks, for ultimately he had to try and force his way through one of the openings between them. How this was to be done, no man there could tell. A man could only try and fail, and be pulled ashore, dead or alive, if he failed.

The first of these narrow openings he met he passed without any disagreeable experience. But just as he got under the second one the creamy foam-mantled water wedges dashed through it, and, striking him, turned him round and round in the water, and drove him a long way out of his course.

He recovered himself quickly, and was soon swimming obliquely for the reef again.

He had not got more than five times his own length when he encountered the spent torrent from another opening. This did not turn him over, but it drove him still farther away from the reef.

Another difficulty now was added. Every time a wave burst through one of those openings, the torrent from it caught the line and drew Bence away from his right course. He felt this tug him, pluck him from the straight course, and, although he was not discouraged, he knew the disappointment of men not full of resources when, in moments of anxious endeavour, they meet obstacles they are not prepared for.

However, he set his heart manfully to the work, and still kept on obliquely for the reef. But he gained no ground. He rather lost. Six of these openings had to be passed, and three out of the six had delivered the spent force of their torrents against him.

As he got farther and farther from the shore, he had a longer line to drag through the water, and a greater quantity of the line became exposed to the disturbing influence of the currents. So that when he came opposite the seventh opening, the one through which he should pass with the rope, he was many hundred yards to leeward and a good deal spent. The original line had been run out long ago, and other lines had been bent on. But now, when he turned about to swim straight for the goal, or rather for the rock at the northern side of the opening he desired to gain, for it was essential he should keep in the slack water, he had a great weight of line to drag through the water and against those six adverse currents.

But Bence had a big heart and a good cause, and he knew his mates on shore were watching him with pride as he tried to fight the wind and tide in the interest of humanity. Bence was a hero, not a fool; and although he had, from motives of pure humanity, volunteered to try and carry the line to what remained visible of the Seabird, he did not hide from himself that one of the richest men in England was on board that wreck, and that if he were the means of saving that man's life he might look on his fortune as made.

He swam with all his might, but made little or no progress. Now and then he looked over his shoulder at some mark on the shore, to find he was not making more way than a third of what he had counted upon. Into every stroke he put all his skill and all his vigour. He began to wonder whether his strength would last until he reached the reef. Even if he had strength enough to reach the reef and then found himself with no reserve he could do nothing, for the work to be done on the reef itself was almost as arduous as that to be done in the water. The perilous passage through the rock had to be forced-a thing never before attempted-before those on board could throw him a rope.

With the dogged determination to fight out to the last, he swam on. He had arranged before leaving that when he threw up his right hand those on shore were to haul in; when he did that he had been vanquished. At length, after, a desperate struggle, he reached the reef, and paused here a moment to rest, treading the water in the shelter of a rock where there was a slight backwater. But the backwater acting on his body was not enough to overcome the strain of the water on the line, and he found himself losing ground slowly. This ground had been too dearly won to be lightly lost now. The moment had arrived for the supreme effort. He must force that passage at once, or give up all hope of success.

Having pulled in some of the slack of the rope by a few vigorous strokes, and waited until the water of a wave swept past him, he fronted the opening.

The opening was little more than wide enough to admit a man. He was nearly spent, and owing to the narrowness of the passage, he was obliged to change the ordinary arm-stroke for "dog-fashion," and this caused him a loss. But then, when he could touch the rocks, although they were as smooth as polished marble, he was able to get a purchase on them, and force himself forward more successfully than if he had been swimming in the ordinary way in ordinary water.

But when he looked up to the cleft through which he had to make his way, his spirit failed him. It was at least fifty feet long and as straight as a gun barrel. At the exterior mouth it was wider than at the interior. Hence, as the water rushed through, it would gain in force and height. Who could withstand such a rush of water? Who, so spent as he, could hope to stem the fierce fury of that on-rush of the wave?

These thoughts passed almost instantaneously through his mind. He had made only four strokes after entering the cleft when he heard the next wave burst upon the beach, and saw the hoary head of the bore rushing down upon him.

He prepared to dive. But the fierce waters struck his head and shoulders before he was under water, and threw him upright in the water, turned him over on his back and shot him head foremost from the cleft into the open water beyond. Then the torrent turned him over and over until he was half stunned, and when at last he came to the surface, he had only enough strength and consciousness to hold up his arm, the signal of recall.

The men on shore pulled the line with a will; and in a short time Bence, the best swimmer of the village, was drawn ashore, defeated, insensible.

"Send for a doctor at once," said Cheyne, in a quiet tone.

The people, to whom by this time had been added many servants from the Castle, stared at the stranger in unpleasant surprise. Who was he that should give orders to them when their own lord and master, their husbands and their brothers, were in danger?

Cheyne spoke with the easy confidence of one who knew he would be obeyed.

"Groom," he continued, "take a dog-cart, and don't spare the horse. Bring back a doctor with you. Mind, not the best, but the nearest! We shall have other cases presently." And he pointed towards the yacht.

"Not a soul will come ashore alive out of her," said one of the fishermen.

"How long will it take you to go and come?" asked Cheyne of the groom.

"An hour," said the groom.

"Don't be any longer. By that time there will be work for him."

The groom hesitated a moment.

Cheyne nodded a dismissal to him, turned his back upon him, threw down his hat, and began undressing.

The men drew closer, until they made a ring round him.

He spoke in his former tone of easy confidence.

"Let the men take that anchor there up to the knoll, dig a hole for the fluke, and back it up with a grapnel-two claws buried."

"Why, sir," said one of the men doubtingly, "what are you going to do?"

"When the whip comes ashore, make it fast to the ring of that anchor, and make the hawser, when it comes ashore, fast to the same ring. I can see nothing else that will do. We'll manage the rest aboard. When all is fast, you will haul the men ashore one by one in a basket. Now there, look alive! Make that line fast round my waist."

"But it would be murder to let you go when Bence has failed."

"By – , if any man tries to let me in this, there will be murder! Do you hear?" he roared at the top of his voice, as he drew himself up like a lion at bay, and shook himself ominously. It was a startling oath, a startling transition of tone and manner from the tone and manner of a moment before.

"Give me the line," he cried, "you palsied idiots! Give me the line and half a pound of sheet-lead!"

The man who held the line handed it to him mechanically.

One of the women whose husband was in the yacht ran to her cottage and returned, in a few seconds, with a long narrow strip of sheet-lead, such as fishermen use for making net-sinkers.

"How far below the present level of the water is there rock in those open places?" Cheyne asked, as he made the line fast round his waist.

"Two fathom," answered one of the men.

The men were by this time fairly taken aback and submissive.

Cheyne measured off three fathoms on the line from the place where the line was made fast to his waist, and rapidly rolled on the line a piece of sheet-lead weighing more than half a pound. This he tightened on the line by biting it hard, ascertained that the lead would not slip easily, walked over to the edge of the little quay, and, having told the men who tended the line to pay out freely-in fact, never check it-he dived into the turbulent sea.

CHAPTER XVIII.

VOLUNTEER II

Cheyne had been a careful and intelligent spectator of Bence's failure, and he had learnt two of the great causes of it.

In the first place he had seen that Bence swam at such a distance from the openings as not to receive the full force of the bore, but at the same time to be very much thrown out of his course by the spent water.

In the second place he had noticed that at least half Bence's difficulty arose from the rope he towed getting into these currents, and dragging him still more out of his course.

In both these cases were precious time and enormous labour thrown away. It occurred to Cheyne that both sources of loss could be easily avoided. If the swimmer kept under the absolute shelter of the rocks, close to them as possible where there was a slight backwater, and waited to swim across the open spaces until all the force of the wave had been spent, and the water in front of the opening was still, he would avoid any loss of way owing to the former cause in Bence's case.

If, instead of towing a long slack line after him, he could manage so as to cause the line to sink almost perpendicularly from his waist to a depth below the influence of the water rushing through these openings, then the line, if allowed to run freely out at the shore end, would lie straight behind the swimmer.

Now that he was in the water he struck out for the reef, keeping as close to the northern shore as possible, in order to avoid any direct influence of the currents from the reef, and in order to get the advantage of the backwater, if there should happen to be any.

When he reached the reef he swam in under the rock, and there awaited the bore. As soon as the water had subsided he made a few vigorous strokes, and crossed the opening without losing a foot of ground. Adopting the same plan at the next opening, he passed it with equal success.

"He knows how to go about it," said one of the men on the shore.

"And he's a powerful swimmer."

"He'll be as fresh as a daisy when he gets to number seven."

"Ay, but how is he to get through number seven?" asked Bence, who had by this time been restored to consciousness, and comforted with warm dry clothes and brandy.

"Leave it to him. When a man makes a good beginning like that, it isn't for any one to doubt him until he shows that he's beat. That's what I say."

"And what I say," retorted Bence, "is, that no one who has not been in one of the guts does not know what they are."

"Well, we sha'n't be much longer in doubt; he's at number seven now."

From the time Cheyne left the shore, he had not, owing to his keeping so close to the rocks, been able to see even the topmast of the Seabird.

He paused under the last rock for awhile-not to rest himself, for he felt no fatigue, but to consider what he should do.

He first of all resolved to look into the opening. He waited until the water had rushed through, then swam in front of it, and looked in. He was a much bigger man than Bence, and the first thought which occurred to him was, could he squeeze himself through? At a mere glance it appeared as if he could not; but upon a closer examination and reflection, he came to the conclusion that the passage was at least four feet wide, and almost of a uniform width. He waited to see the bore coming, and then, with a few vigorous strokes, put himself once more under the shelter of the rock.

Owing to his enormous chest capacity, Cheyne swam very high, and in sea-water he could move about with almost as much ease as on land. In the deep water under the rocks the sinker on the line, even if it hung perpendicular under him, would not touch the bottom, and consequently impeded his swimming only by its weight in water, which was, of course, much less than its weight in air. But there were only two fathoms of water in the cleft; and if he entered the channel towing that leaded line after him, the chance was it would get jambed somewhere, and he should be obliged to turn back, or come back somehow, turning being out of the question on account of the narrowness of the place, in order to free the sinker.