The Eagle Cliff, R. M. Ballantyne [best fiction books to read .txt] 📗

“Well, being a bachelor I cannot say much on that point,” returned Jackman. “But I was not aware that you were married?”

“Neither am I; but I have a mother and sisters, aunts and cousins, and I know their ways.”

“If such are their ways, I must get you to introduce me to them,” said the woods-and-forester. “Come on deck, now, and I will give you a practical illustration of what might be done.”

Jackman, being an enthusiast, always went at things, “with a will.”

“Bring me a hen-coop, Quin,” he said to the steward, who, having so far completed his morning work, and consumed his morning meal, was smoking his pipe, seated on the rail beside Tips. Tips was an admirer of the Irishman, and, in consequence, an imitator as far as he dared and was permitted.

“Lend a hand, ye spalpeen,” said Quin, going forward, and quickly returning with the coop, from which a cackling of strong remonstrance issued.

“Will ye have the other wan too, sor?”

“Yes, and the main-hatch besides, and a lot of spun-yarn. Of course that’s not strong enough for real service, but it will do for illustration.”

In a few minutes the two hen-coops were placed face to face and lashed firmly together, despite the remonstrative poultry. Then the main-hatch was laid upon the top, and fixed there by means of the iron rings at its four corners.

“Now, Quin, fetch four of the cabin chairs,” said the operator, “and observe, gentlemen, how much more easily and quickly this would have been accomplished if the coops, and hatch, and chairs had been made to fit into each other, with a view to this very purpose, with strong straps and buckles in handy positions. Now, then, for the chairs.”

At each corner of this extemporised raft Jackman fastened one of the cabin chairs, pointing out, as he did so, that there was no limit to the extension of the raft.

“You see,” he continued, “all you would have to do, if the ship were properly fitted out, would be to add chair to chair, bench to bench, cork mattress to mattress, until your raft was as big as you wanted; or you could make two or three rafts, if preferable.”

“But sure, sor, it would be an unstiddy machine intirely, an’ given to wobblin’,” said Quin, who was one of those privileged men who not only work for their wages, but generously throw their opinions into the bargain.

“It would not be more unsteady than the waves, Quin; and as to wobbling, that would be an advantage, for a rigid raft in a rough sea would be more liable to be damaged than one that was pliable.”

The discussion about rafts and ship’s boats which thus began was continued with much interest till lunchtime, for it chanced that John Barret was one of those men whose tendency of heart and mind is to turn everything to its best uses, and generally to strive after the highest point of perfection in everything, with a view to the advancement of human felicity. This tendency called into exercise his inventive faculties, inducing him to search after improvements of all descriptions. Thus it was natural that he and Jackman should enter into a keen controversy as to what was the best method of constructing the raft in detail; and that, when the faithful Quin announced lunch as being, “riddy, sor,” the life-saving machine was left in an incomplete state on the deck.

The interest attaching to this discussion had helped the three comrades and crew alike to tide over what might otherwise have proved a tedious forenoon, for during the whole of that day the dense fog and profound calm continued.

On returning to the deck the discussion was continued for a time, but gradually the interest flagged, then other subjects engaged attention, and the raft was finally allowed to lie undisturbed and forgotten.

“I don’t know how it is,” said Bob Mabberly; “but somehow I always feel a depression of spirits in a fog at sea.”

“Explanation simple enough,” returned Jackman; “are we not constantly reading in the papers of ships being run down in fogs? Where there is risk there is always in some minds anxiety—in your case you call it depression of spirits.”

“Your explanation, Giles, uncomplimentary to me though it be, might have some force if we were just now in the Channel, where being run down in fog is an event of frequent occurrence; but here, in a comparatively unfrequented sea, it would be strange indeed were I to be influenced by such possibilities. What say you, Captain?”

McPherson, who had sauntered towards the group, gazed in the direction where the horizon would have been visible had the fog been absent, and said:—

“Hm!—weel—” and then stopped, as if for the purpose of mature consideration. The audience waited for the announcement of the oracle’s opinion.

“Oo ay—weel, ye see, many persons are strangely influenced by possibeelities, what-ë-ver. There is a maiden aunt o’ my own—she wass niver marrit, an’ she wass niver likely to be, for besides bein’ poor an’ plain, an’ mittle-aged, which are not in my opeenion objectionable, she had an uncommon bad temper. Yet she wass all her life influenced by the notion that half the young men o’ the place wass wantin’ to marry her! though the possibeelities in her case wass fery small.”

“I should like to ’ave know’d that old gurl!” whispered Tips to Quin.

“Howld your tongue, ye spalpeen!” whispered his friend in reply.

“Have you any idea, Captain, where we are now?” asked Jackman.

“Oo ay, we’re somewhere’s wast’ard o’ the Lewis. But whether wast, nor’-wast, or sooth-wast, I could not say preceesely. The nicht, ye see, wass uncommon dark, an’ when the fog came doon i’ the mornin’, I could na’ feel sure we had keep it the richt coorse, for the currents hereaboots are strang. But we’ll see whan it comes clear.”

“Do you believe in presentiments, Giles?” asked Barret, in an unusually grave tone.

“Of course I do,” answered Jackman. “I have a presentiment just now that you are going to talk nonsense.”

Barret was not, however, to be silenced by his friend’s jest.

“Listen,” he said, earnestly, as he rose and stood in an attitude of intense attention. “It may be imagination playing with the subjects of our recent conversation, but I cannot help thinking that I hear the beating of paddles.”

“Keep a sherp look-oot, Shames,” cried the skipper, suddenly, as he went forward with unwonted alacrity.

A few minutes more and the sound which had at first been distinguished only by Barret’s sharp ear, became audible to all—the soft regular patting of a paddle-wheel steamer in the distance, yet clearly coming towards them. Presently a shrill sound, very faint but prolonged, was heard, showing that she was blowing her steam-whistle as a precaution.

“Strange, is it not, that the very thing we have been talking about should happen?” said Mabberly.

“Nay,” returned Jackman, lightly, “we were talking about being run down, and we have not yet come to that.”

“The strangest thing of all to me,” said Barret, “is that, with a wide ocean all round, vessels should ever run into each other at all, at least on the open sea, for there is only one line, a few feet wide, in favour of such an accident, whereas there are thousands of miles against it.”

Jackman, who was a great theorist, here propounded a reason for this.

“If vessels would only hold straight on their courses, you see,” he said, “the accident of collision would be exceedingly rare, for, although thousands of ships might pass near to each other, not one in ten thousand would meet; but when vessels come pretty near, their commanders sometimes become anxious, take fancies into their heads, as to each having forgotten the ‘rules of the road,’ and each attempting to correct the other—as we do sometimes in the streets—they bring about the very disaster they are trying to avoid.”

“Had we not better ring the bell, Captain?” cried Mabberly, in rising excitement.

“Oo ay, if you think so, sir. Ring, poy!”

The boy, who was getting alarmed, seized the tongue of the ship’s bell, and rang with all his might. Whether this had the effect to which Jackman had referred, we cannot tell, but next moment what appeared to be a mountain loomed out of the mist. The steam-whistle had been silent for some time, but as soon as the bell was heard it burst forth with increased fury. From the instant her form was dimly seen the fate of the yacht was sealed. There was a wild shouting on board the steamer, but there was no time for action.

“Starboard hard!” was the cry.

“Starboard it is!” was the immediate answer. But before the helm could act, the great rushing mass struck the Fairy amidships, and literally cut her in two!

The awful suddenness of a catastrophe, which those on board had just been arguing was all but impossible, seemed to have paralysed every one, for no one made the slightest effort to escape. Perhaps the appearance of the wall-like bow of the steamer, without rope or projection of any kind to lay hold of, or jump at, might have conveyed the swift perception that their case was hopeless. At all events, they all went under with the doomed yacht, and nothing was left in the wake of the leviathan but a track of foam on the mist-encumbered sea.

But they were not lost! One after another the wrecked party rose struggling to the surface, and all of them could swim except the boy.

Giles Jackman was the first who rose. Treading water and brushing the hair out of his eyes, he gazed wildly about. Barret came up close beside him, almost a moment later. He had barely taken breath, when the others rose at various distances. A cry not far from him caused him to turn. It was poor Robin Tips, struggling for life. A few powerful strokes carried Barret alongside. He got behind the boy, caught him under the armpits, and thus held him, at arm’s length, until he could quiet him.

“There is a spar, thank God! Make for it, Barret, while I see to Quin,” shouted Jackman.

As he spoke, they could hear the whistle of the steamer rushing away from them.

Barret, forcing himself breast-high out of the water, glanced quickly round and caught sight of the floating spar to which his companion had referred. Although only a few yards off, the fog rendered it almost invisible.

“Are you quiet now?” demanded Barret, in a stern voice, for the terrified boy still showed something like a hysterical determination to turn violently round, and grasp his rescuer in what would probably have turned out to be the grip of death.

“Yes, sir, oh! yes. But d–don’t let me go! M–mind, I can’t swim!”

“You are perfectly safe if you simply do nothing but what I tell you,” returned Barret, in a quiet, ordinary tone of voice, that reassured the poor lad more than the words.

By way of reply he suddenly became motionless, and as limp as a dead eel.

Getting gradually on his back, and drawing Tips slowly on to his chest, so that he rested with his mouth upwards, and his head entirely out of the water, Barret struck out for the spar, swimming thus on his back.

On reaching it, he found to his surprise that it was the experimental raft, and that the captain, Mabberly, and McGregor were already clinging to it.

“Won’t bear us all, I fear,” said Mabberly; “but thank God that we have it. Put the boy on.”

In order to do this, Barret had to get upon the raft, and he found that it bore him easily as well as the boy.

“Have you seen Jackman?” asked Mabberly.

“Yes,” replied Barret, rising and looking round.

“Here he comes, towing Quin, I think, who seems to be stunned. Hallo! This way—hi! Giles!”

But Giles suddenly ceased to swim, turned over on his back, and lay as if dead.

“Rescue, Bob, rescue!” shouted Barret, plunging into the water. Mabberly followed, and soon had hold of Giles and his man by the hair.

“All right!”