The Fortunes Of Glencore

“Here it comes! – here it comes, sir!”

Nor were the words well out, when, like a thunder-clap, the wind struck the sail, and bent the mast over like a whip. For an instant it seemed as if she were going down by the prow; but she righted again, and, shivering in every plank, held on her way.

“That ‘s as much as she could do,” said the sailor; “and I would not like to ax her to do more.”

“I agree with you,” said Harcourt, secretly stealing his feet back again into his shoes, which he had just kicked off.

“It’s freshening it is every minute,” said the man; “and I’m not sure that we could make the islands if it lasts.”

“Well, – what then?”

“There’s nothing for it but to be blown out to say,” said he, calmly, as, having filled his tobacco-pipe, he struck a light and began to smoke.

“The very thing I was wishing for,” said Harcourt, touching his cigar to the bright ashes. “How she labors! Do you think she can stand this?”

“She can, if it’s no worse, sir.” “But it looks heavier weather outside.”

“As well as I can see, it’s only beginnin’.”

Harcourt listened with a species of admiration to the calm and measured sentiment of the sailor, who, fully conscious of all the danger, yet never, by a word or gesture, showed that he was flurried or excited.

“You have been out on nights as bad as this, I suppose?” said Harcourt.

“Maybe not quite, sir, for it’s a great say is runnin’; and, with the wind off shore, we could n’t have this, if there was n’t a storm blowing farther out.”

“From the westward, you mean?”

“Yes, sir, – a wind coming over the whole ocean, that will soon meet the land wind.”

“And does that often happen?”

The words were but out, when, with a loud report like a cannon-shot, the wind reversed the sail, snapping the strong sprit in two, and bringing down the whole canvas clattering into the boat. With the aid of a hatchet, the sailor struck off the broken portion of the spar, and soon cleared the wreck, while the boat, now reduced to a mere foresail, labored heavily, sinking her prow in the sea at every bound. Her course, too, was now altered, and she flew along parallel to the shore, the great cliffs looming through the darkness, and seeming as if close to them.

“The boy! – the boy!” cried Harcourt; “what has become of him? He never could have lived through that squall.”

“If the spar stood, there was an end of us, too,” said the sailor; “she’d have gone down by the stern, as sure as my name is Peter.”

“It is all over by this time,” muttered Harcourt, sorrowfully.

“Pace to him now!” said the sailor, as he crossed himself, and went over a prayer.

The wind now raged fearfully; claps, like the report of cannon, struck the frail boat at intervals, and laid her nearly keel uppermost; while the mast bent like a whip, and every rope creaked and strained to its last endurance. The deafening noise close at hand told where the waves were beating on the rock-bound coast, or surging with the deep growl of thunder through many a cavern. They rarely spoke, save when some emergency called for a word. Each sat wrapped up in his own dark reveries, and unwilling to break them. Hours passed thus, – long, dreary hours of darkness, that seemed like years of suffering, so often in this interval did life hang in the balance.

As morning began to break with a grayish blue light to the westward, the wind slightly abated, blowing more steadily, too, and less in sudden gusts; while the sea rolled in large round waves, unbroken above, and showing no crest of foam.

“Do you know where we are?” asked Harcourt.

“Yes, sir; we ‘re off the Rooks’ Point, and if we hold on well, we ‘ll soon be in slacker water.”

“Could the boy have reached this, think you?”

The man shook his head mournfully, without speaking.

“How far are we from Glencore?”

“About eighteen miles, sir; but more by land.”

“You can put me ashore, then, somewhere hereabouts.”

“Yes, sir, in the next bay; there’s a creek we can easily run into.”

“You are quite sure he couldn’t have been blown out to sea?”

“How could he, sir? There’s only one way the wind could dhrive him. If he isn’t in the Clough Bay, he’s in glory.”

All the anxiety of that dreary night was nothing to what Harcourt now suffered, in his eagerness to round the Rooks’ Point, and look in the bay beyond it. Controlling it as he would, still would it break out in words of impatience and even anger.

“Don’t curse the boat, yer honor,” said Peter, respectfully, but calmly; “she’s behaved well to us this night, or we ‘d not be here now.”

“But are we to beat about here forever?” asked the other, angrily.

“She’s doin’ well, and we ought to be thankful,” said the man; and his tone, even more than his words, served to reprove the other’s impatience. “I’ll try and set the mainsail on her with the remains of the sprit.”

Harcourt watched him, as he labored away to repair the damaged rigging; but though he looked at him, his thoughts were far away with poor Glencore upon his sick bed, in sorrow and in suffering, and perhaps soon to hear that he was childless. From these he went on to other thoughts. What could have occurred to have driven the boy to such an act of desperation? Harcourt invented a hundred imaginary causes, to reject them as rapidly again. The affection the boy bore to his father seemed the strongest principle of his nature. There appeared to be no event possible in which that feeling would not sway and control him. As he thus ruminated, he was aroused by the sudden cry of the boatman.

“There’s a boat, sir, dismasted, ahead of us, and drifting out to say.”

“I see her! – I see her!” cried Harcourt; “out with the oars, and let’s pull for her.”

Heavily as the sea was rolling, they now began to pull through the immense waves, Harcourt turning his head at every instant to watch the boat, which now was scarcely half a mile ahead of them.

“She’s empty! – there’s no one in her!” said Peter, mournfully, as, steadying himself by the mast, he cast a look seaward.

“Row on, – let us get beside her,” said Harcourt.

“She’s the yawl! – I know her now,” cried the man.

“And empty?”

“Washed out of her with a say, belike,” said Peter, resuming his oar, and tugging with all his strength.

A quarter of an hour’s hard rowing brought them close to the dismasted boat, which, drifting broadside on the sea, seemed at every instant ready to capsize.

“There’s something in the bottom, – in the stern-sheets!” screamed Peter. “It’s himself! O blessed Virgin, it’s himself!” And, with a bound, he sprang from his own boat into the other.

The next instant he had lifted the helpless body of the boy from the bottom of the boat, and, with a shout of joy, screamed out, —

“He’s alive! – he’s well! – it’s only fatigue!”