Johnstone of the Border

THE WRECK

Pale moonlight trembled across the foaming sea and faded again as the Rowan, rolling hard, bore up for the Solway. Whitney held the helm, his lips set and his brows knitted, for with the savage wind astern the yacht was hard to steer. The small storm-jib ran water as it swung above the seas, and the black, close-reefed mainsail lurched to and fro, lifting its heavy boom high above Whitney's head, at the risk of carrying away the mast if he let it jibe across. Andrew stood in the cockpit, with the spray rattling like shot on his oilskins, his night glasses steadied on the cabin top as he searched the sea ahead. He saw enough to daunt a stranger to the firth.

The hills along the western shore were indicated by a vague blackness devoid of outline, but Andrew could distinguish a belt of broken water that stretched across his course and faded into the gloom. The backs of the seas were toward him and he noted how their crests were cut off by the wind as they curled against the tide, which was running down the firth. In some places their length and regularity indicated depth of water, but, for the most part, they boiled in frothy confusion across the shoals. A steady beam of light stretched out from the shore, but this was not much guide to the intricate channel through the sands. While he watched, the moon came out, and as its light widened, smooth, bright patches became visible amidst the turmoil. These were the tops of the banks that the tide was leaving.

Andrew put down the glasses and, stooping under the cabin hatch, lighted his pipe.

"It's rather late to try for Rough Firth, but I'm not sure I could find the Barbara Deep if we let her run. If we missed it and went ashore, she'd soon break up."

"That is not to be thought of," said Whitney.

"Well, I suppose the proper thing would be to set the trysail and try to beat her out; but with the tide knocking up the sea, she'd nearly wash us off when she came on the wind."

"She's wet enough running before it, and I don't feel like pumping hard all night. Can't you think of another plan?"

Andrew occupied himself with the bearing of the light, while Whitney braced his aching arms against the tiller. He was tired; for they had spent several nights pushing the dinghy across the flats at the head of a distant bay, and a couple of bernicle geese and some mallards lay in the forecastle. The last night had been passed rolling violently at anchor on a disturbed swell, and they had been at sea since dawn in weather that made cooking impossible and demanded constant watchfulness.

"I think," Andrew said presently, "I could find the Horseshoe Spit, and we'd get shelter behind it. In fact, the sea shouldn't get in at all after half ebb, and daylight won't be far off when the tide covers the flats again."

He took the helm and Whitney got down out of the wind and spray. Andrew would tell him when he was wanted, and in the meantime the sight of the wet sands that broke out from the welter of surf was not encouraging. It was reassuring to feel that Andrew knew his business; for if he made a mistake now, the Rowan would probably be hammered to pieces in the next half hour.

Fortunately, the moonlight got brighter, and when Andrew called Whitney they were running up a channel with a strip of glistening sand astern and a wild turmoil of foaming water close on their port hand. This, no doubt, marked the Horseshoe Spit, with the tide streaming across it to meet the surf. Whitney could not see how they had avoided the bank astern; but he was not given much time to look about.

"Stand by the big anchor!" Andrew called to him. "Drop it when I tell you and let the kedge go after she sheers!"

The Rowan came up head to wind, and Whitney was hard at work for the next few minutes, handling heavy chain that ran out furiously and then stopped until he dragged more up from below, paying out the thick kedge-warp that coiled all about the deck, and lashing the thrashing jib to the bowsprit. Then he and Andrew got the mainsail down and the boat rode to her moorings; though she was not at rest. Sometimes the wind drove her up against the tide and the short waves washed on deck; sometimes the current swept her back, while the tightening cable rang and it looked as if she must drag her anchors and ground upon the surf-swept bank.

After watching her for a few minutes, Andrew seemed satisfied and they went below, where Whitney lighted the stove.

"I've eaten nothing but a lump of wet bread and a bit of canned beef since morning, and now I want a meal," he said.

"Then, you'll have to hold the frying-pan on, and trim the table cleverly if you want to keep the food off the floor."

"I'll try. There's a charm in small boat sailing, but it's a charm that only gets you by degrees, and one finds it hard to say what it consists of on nights like this. I don't like being wet and hungry, and I hate to feel cold, and yet here I am, in a gale of wind, behind the Horseshoe Spit!"

"It's curious," said Andrew, smiling. "I dare say there are instincts in human nature that neither of us understands. But you'd better watch your job; you're running the ham fat all over the stove."

Whitney dished the ham and made some coffee, cut a loaf that was not very wet, and took out a sticky jar of marmalade. Leaning forward from the lockers, they began to eat; but care was needed in taking things from the table, which swiveled above the centerboard-trunk, for a rash movement would precipitate all it held upon the sloppy floorings.

Whitney got rather knocked about as he put the things away. For a time afterward he contrived to lie on the locker; then he knocked out his pipe and sat listening. The chain cable jarred across the stem, the halyards slapped the mast, and through the shrill scream of wind came in deep undertone the roar of the sea.

"It sounds pretty bad, but I've been banged about for the last twelve hours and nobody could sleep while this racket goes on," he said. "Is that sand hard, and could one get on to it?"

"I think so, and I'd like to see the channel. We might have some trouble in pulling across, but it will be smoother coming back."

"Very well," said Whitney. "Things will be a bit more comfortable then, and I've had enough."

They went on deck, but he half regretted his suggestion as they launched the dinghy. The moon was covered by driving clouds, and in the darkness the sea raged about the yacht. It was not high, because the tide was falling and the water shoaling fast, but it broke angrily and the air was thick with spray. As soon as the dinghy was overboard they jumped into her and while Whitney got out the oars Andrew pushed her clear of the rolling yacht. The current swept them away, but a furious gust whipped the channel, throwing up a haze of spindrift, and they were blown back past the Rowan in spite of Whitney's efforts. It was a minute or two before he could control the craft, but he fought his way to windward until a ridge of wet sand began to shelter them. When this was reached they dragged her up and set off across the bank.

It was hardly possible to see a dozen yards and they struggled on with lowered heads, sinking in oozy patches and splashing into pools. Then the sand got firmer, and although it had been under water an hour before, it drove past them in whistling streams. The surf roared in the darkness with a rising and falling cadence like the roll of giant drums, but every now and then its deep tone was drowned by the scream of the savage wind. The men wore oilskins, sea-boots and sou'westers, but the spray that swept the bank in a thin mist found out the openings in their clothing, which the gale distended. It was difficult to keep one's feet, and Whitney wondered rather anxiously whether Andrew knew where he was going. Still, there was something that braced and exhilarated one in the struggle.

They had gone about a mile and a half and were near the other side of the bank when the moon suddenly shone out. The wet sand flashed into brightness and Whitney distinguished a belt of tossing white that was blurred and confused in the foreground but grew into regular, foaming lines farther off. This must be an inlet that pierced the sands; and on looking round a little he saw a dark mass with a pole rising from it some distance away. He touched Andrew and they made for the object.

Whitney imagined it to be a perch, a spar built into a pile of stones for a beacon. He did not expect to find anything of interest there, but the pole had been raised by human hands, and made a landmark in the storm-swept waste. It brought him into touch with his fellow men in a spot where the strife of wind and sea was daunting. As they got nearer, however, he saw that he had been mistaken. The pole was too thick for a perch, and the black mass below did not consist of stones. Jagged timbers stuck out from the sand like the ribs of a skeleton, but in one place they were clothed with planks and supported a mast. It was obviously a wreck they were approaching.

They stopped to lee of the vessel, and Whitney was glad to get his breath as he studied her. She appeared to have been a schooner of about two hundred tons, but her after part and mainmast were gone. The fore end, however, had escaped destruction, and although the foremast slanted ominously and the topmast and yards had fallen, it still defied the storms. Standing beneath the swell of the bows, the men were out of the wind and could make their voices heard.

"Now I see why I didn't notice a perch on the chart, though I once saw the spar as we came down this side of the Firth," Whitney said. "It's curious they didn't mark the wreck."

"She wasn't here when the last survey was made. A coaster loaded with coal. Somebody tried to get her cargo out, but I understand had to give it up."

Whitney had got his breath, but was silent for a time. He had camped in the silent Canadian forests and by frozen lakes on the vast snowy plains, but he did not think he ever had seen anything so savage and desolate as this strip of surf-beaten sand with the wreck in its midst. Men had hewn her timbers with skilful toil; but the sea had shattered them, and now seemed to challenge all attempts to dispute its power. Whitney was not unduly imaginative, but he felt depressed and somewhat daunted. It was an eerie spot to linger in at midnight in a gale of wind.

"The fo'castle doesn't seem broken up. Can we get on board?" he said.

"We'll try," Andrew replied.

Climbing up by the fragments of planking attached to a rib, they reached a strip of deck. It sloped sharply, but Andrew, grasping the ragged bulwark, looked up.

"The iron forestay's holding the mast, and there's a couple of blocks slung round the top," he said. "If it wasn't blowing quite so hard, I'd go up for them." Then he caught a thin rope that ran down from the blocks. "Good signal-halyard; I'd like to take it back, but I didn't bring my knife."

Whitney felt amused. Andrew could seldom resist the temptation of picking up anything that might be of use on board his yacht. Indeed, her forecastle was cumbered with what Whitney called truck.

They moved forward a few paces and stopped by two curved beams that rose above a black hole.

"The remains of the fo'castle hatch. I wonder what it's like below," Andrew said.

Kneeling on the wet deck, he struck a match, which blew out; but the next burned for a moment or two, and Whitney saw the light flicker on dripping planks and bulging beams. It was obvious that the water flowed into the vessel and he wondered at Andrew's curiosity. The dark hole did not look inviting and he was anxious to return to the yacht in good time. Still, it was bitterly cold standing in the wind.

"We'll go and see, but I'll let you drop down first," he said.

Andrew seized the carline-beam and vanished through the gap. There was a splash below, and he called to Whitney to be careful how he came down. As this was impossible, Whitney let go the beam and, touching the vessel's keelson with his foot, fell against her planking. It jarred him, but he got up and Andrew struck another match and stooping down picked something out of the water that lay among the timbers.

"A bit of candle!" he exclaimed. "It's going to burn."

It did so after he had scraped off some smoldering wick and stuck it on a massive oak knee. The wrecked bulwarks broke the wind, for only draughts came down, and the light spread about the forecastle. There was some sand in the vessel's bottom, and the floor and ceilings had gone. Nothing remained but the heavy timbers and the planks bolted fast to them. A few shrimps sped up and down a pool and a small crab that made a crackling noise crawled into a corner. Andrew examined the beams and knees with interest.

"These old vessels were very well built," he said. "They used picked material, cutting out the sapwood and seeing that the grain followed the curve where there was any shape. She broke up aft in pounding with the coal on board, but now that it's gone, this part of her may stand a long time. Good, salted oak will last for many years under water."

"How did they get the coal away?" Whitney asked.

"They didn't get much. I wasn't here when they tried to salve it, but I believe they used carts."

"Then you can reach land at low water?"

"They must have been able to reach it then, though I'm not sure you could do so now, because the channels are continually changing. It's possible they had to drive through water that may have got deeper since; and the tide would not allow them much time for work. I dare say that stopped the undertaking; and haulage would be expensive, because it's two or three miles from the beach."

"How long is it since they let up?"