The Seaboard Parish, Complete

The same moment Dora came running into the room.

“Papa,” she cried, “the spray—such a lot of it—came dashing on the windows in the dining-room. Will it break them?”

“I hope not, my dear. Just stay with Connie while I run down.”

“O, papa! I do want to see.”

“What do you want to see, Dora?”

“The storm, papa.”

“It is as black as pitch. You can’t see anything.”

“O, but I want to—to—be beside it.”

“Well, you sha’n’t stay with Connie, if you are not willing. Go along. Ask Wynnie to come here.”

The child was so possessed by the commotion without that she did not seem even to see my rebuke, not to say feel it. She ran off, and Wynnie presently came. I left her with Connie, put on a long waterproof cloak, and went down to the dining-room. A door led from it immediately on to the little green in front of the house, between it and the sea. The dining-room was dark, for they had put out the lights that they might see better from the windows. The children and some of the servants were there looking out. I opened the door cautiously. It needed the strength of two of the women to shut it behind me. The moment I opened it a great sheet of spray rushed over me. I went down the little grassy slope. The rain had ceased, and it was not quite so dark as I had expected. I could see the gleaming whiteness all before me. The next moment a wave rolled over the low wall in front of me, breaking on it and wrapping me round in a sheet of water. Something hurt me sharply on the leg; and I found, on searching, that one of the large flat stones that lay for coping on the top of the wall was on the grass beside me. If it had struck me straight, it must have broken my leg.

There came a little lull in the wind, and just as I turned to go into the house again, I thought I heard a gun. I stood and listened, but heard nothing more, and fancied I must have been mistaken. I returned and tapped at the door; but I had to knock loudly before they heard me within. When I went up to the drawing-room, I found that Percivale had joined our party. He and Turner were talking together at one of the windows.

“Did you hear a gun?” I asked them.

“No. Was there one?”

“I’m not sure. I half-fancied I heard one, but no other followed. There will be a good many fired to-night, though, along this awful coast.”

“I suppose they keep the life-boat always ready,” said Turner.

“No life-boat even, I fear, would live in such a sea,” I said, remembering what the officer of the coast-guard had told me.

“They would try, though, I suppose,” said Turner.

“I do not know,” said Percivale. “I don’t know the people. But I have seen a life-boat out in as bad a night—whether in as bad a sea, I cannot tell: that depends on the coast, I suppose.”

We went on chatting for some time, wondering how the coast-guard had fared with the vessel ashore at the Goose-pot. Wynnie joined us.

“How is Connie, now, my dear?”

“Very restless and excited, papa. I came down to say, that if Mr. Turner didn’t mind, I wish he would go up and see her.”

“Of course—instantly,” said Turner, and moved to follow Winnie.

But the same moment, as if it had been beside us in the room, so clear, so shrill was it, we heard Connie’s voice shrieking, “Papa, papa! There’s a great ship ashore down there. Come, come!”

Turner and I rushed from the room in fear and dismay. “How? What? Where could the voice come from?” was the unformed movement of our thoughts. But the moment we left the drawing-room the thing was clear, though not the less marvellous and alarming. We forgot all about the ship, and thought only of our Connie. So much does the near hide the greater that is afar! Connie kept on calling, and her voice guided our eyes.

A little stair led immediately from this floor up to the bark-hut, so that it might be reached without passing through the bedroom. The door at the top of it was open. The door that led from Connie’s room into the bark-hut was likewise open, and light shone through it into the place—enough to show a figure standing by the furthest window with face pressed against the glass. And from this figure came the cry, “Papa, papa! Quick, quick! The waves will knock her to pieces!”

In very truth it was Connie standing there.

CHAPTER VIII. THE SHIPWRECK

Things that happen altogether have to be told one after the other. Turner and I both rushed at the narrow stair. There was not room for more than one upon it. I was first, but stumbled on the lowest step and fell. Turner put his foot on my back, jumped over me, sprang up the stair, and when I reached the top of it after him, he was meeting me with Connie in his arms, carrying her back to her room. But the girl kept crying—“Papa, papa, the ship, the ship!”

My duty woke in me. Turner could attend to Connie far better than I could. I made one spring to the window. The moon was not to be seen, but the clouds were thinner, and light enough was soaking through them to show a wave-tormented mass some little way out in the bay; and in that one moment in which I stood looking, a shriek pierced the howling of the wind, cutting through it like a knife. I rushed bare-headed from the house. When or how the resolve was born in me I do not know, but I flew straight to the sexton’s, snatched the key from the wall, crying only “ship ashore!” and rushed to the church.

I remember my hand trembled so that I could hardly get the key into the lock. I made myself quieter, opened the door, and feeling my way to the tower, knelt before the keys of the bell-hammers, opened the chest, and struck them wildly, fiercely. An awful jangling, out of tune and harsh, burst into monstrous being in the storm-vexed air. Music itself was untuned, corrupted, and returning to chaos. I struck and struck at the keys. I knew nothing of their normal use. Noise, outcry, reveillé was all I meant.

In a few minutes I heard voices and footsteps. From some parts of the village, out of sight of the shore, men and women gathered to the summons. Through the door of the church, which I had left open, came voices in hurried question. “Ship ashore!” was all I could answer, for what was to be done I was helpless to think.

I wondered that so few appeared at the cry of the bells. After those first nobody came for what seemed a long time. I believe, however, I was beating the alarum for only a few minutes altogether, though when I look back upon the time in the dark church, it looks like half-an-hour at least. But indeed I feel so confused about all the doings of that night that in attempting to describe them in order, I feel as if I were walking in a dream. Still, from comparing mine with the recollected impressions of others, I think I am able to give a tolerably correct result. Most of the incidents seem burnt into my memory so that nothing could destroy the depth of the impression; but the order in which they took place is none the less doubtful.

A hand was laid on my shoulder.

“Who is there?” I said; for it was far too dark to know anyone.

“Percivale. What is to be done? The coastguard is away. Nobody seems to know about anything. It is of no use to go on ringing more. Everybody is out, even to the maid-servants. Come down to the shore, and you will see.”

“But is there not the life-boat?”

“Nobody seems to know anything about it, except ‘it’s no manner of use to go trying of that with such a sea on.’”

“But there must be someone in command of it,” I said.

“Yes,” returned Percivale; “but there doesn’t seem to be one of the crew amongst the crowd. All the sailor-like fellows are going about with their hands in their pockets.”

“Let us make haste, then,” I said; “perhaps we can find out. Are you sure the coastguard have nothing to do with the life-boat?”

“I believe not. They have enough to do with their rockets.”

“I remember now that Roxton told me he had far more confidence in his rockets than in anything a life-boat could do, upon this coast at least.”

While we spoke we came to the bank of the canal. This we had to cross, in order to reach that part of the shore opposite which the wreck lay. To my surprise the canal itself was in a storm, heaving and tossing and dashing over its banks.

“Percivale,” I exclaimed, “the gates are gone; the sea has torn them away.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Would God I could get half-a-dozen men to help me. I have been doing what I could; but I have no influence amongst them.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “What could you do if you had a thousand men at your command?”

He made me no answer for a few moments, during which we were hurrying on for the bridge over the canal. Then he said:

“They regard me only as a meddling stranger, I suppose; for I have been able to get no useful answer. They are all excited; but nobody is doing anything.”

“They must know about it a great deal better than we,” I returned; “and we must take care not to do them the injustice of supposing they are not ready to do all that can be done.”

Percivale was silent yet again.