Chapter VII: Saving Life

The men pressed forward, dragging the heavy load steadily, but at moderate speed.

Keeper Downey was too good a captain to urge his crew to their utmost efforts at the beginning of the journey, lest he exhaust them before the task was accomplished. He also knew that their services were not needed immediately, otherwise Sam Hardy would have burned another signal, and again, a conclusion much to be desired, the vessel might succeed in working off from the dangerous situation.

“Slow and sure is better than rapid and uncertain,” the keeper shouted cheerily, and Benny was surprised that the crew should appear almost eager for the work, which, under the most favoring circumstances in case the schooner struck, would be severe and attended with great suffering. He shivered as he realized that perhaps soon the clothing of these brave fellows, wet with spray, would be converted into an armor of ice, which they must wear as best they might on this bitter winter’s night until the task of life-saving was accomplished, or proven to be fruitless.

The cheeriness of the men was by no means allied to mirth. They were setting out, perchance, to battle face to face with death, and realized to the utmost all the dangers and the suffering which awaited them. It could also be told, from a certain manner apparent in all, that their thoughts were with those poor fellows whose craft was drifting on to the cruel rocks, rather than upon the possible labor which might be demanded of them.

Now and then as they paused for an instant, while making ready to haul the wagon over some miniature cliff, one of the crew referred to the anxiety which must be in the hearts of those aboard the schooner, and another expressed satisfaction that the imperilled mariners knew there were on the shore waiting to succor them, men who were provided with every known method for saving life under such circumstances.

All the while as these men spoke one with another evincing anxiety for strangers, they were fighting against the furious wind and driving particles of frost, and even at times, when their way lay near the water’s edge, against the volumes of surf which were flung landward by the angry blasts.

There was no moment when the progress was other than extremely difficult, and Benny was absolutely obliged at times to allow them to drag him at the tail of the cart, else he would have been left far behind; but yet those brave fellows had not a word, perhaps not a thought, concerning their own labor or peril.

“Half-way to Skinner’s Point!” Joe Cushing shouted as they mounted a hill of brown rock from which the snow had been driven, and stood for a single instant to regain their breath. “Half-way to Skinner’s Point, and no signal from Sam! Who can see the schooner?”

Every eye had been directed seaward when they first gained the elevation, but it was as if the wind drove the snow yet more compactly, and the oldest surfman among them failed to see objects at a distance of fifty feet.

“God help the men who are drifting on to the coast this night!” Keeper Downey muttered, and then added in a cheery tone, “Get on, boys! Get on! You’ll freeze if you stand loitering here, and exercise is what all of us are most needing just now.”

Benny shut his teeth tightly together when, from the movement of the wagon he knew the men were settling forward in the rope harness again, and determined to so husband his strength during the remainder of the journey that when they came to the more difficult portions of the road he might be able to lend some assistance, even though feeble, rather than act the part of a drag on the load.

During fifteen minutes more the men pulled and tugged, straining every muscle to drag the heavily laden wagon over the difficult way, and then as if by common consent another halt was made.

“We should be seeing the schooner by this time, unless she has succeeded in crawling off from the land,” Keeper Downey said, letting go his hold on the cart as he advanced to the edge of the rocky cliffs and looked out over the waters.

No more than five hundred yards in distance lay between them and the dreaded Skinner’s Point, where so many vessels had met their doom, yet the driving snow shut out all save immediate objects from their view.

Nothing had been seen or heard from Sam Hardy, and even the keeper began to believe that possibly the danger had been averted from this particular vessel.

Again Downey gave the word to push on; again the men strained at the ropes and the handle-bar, and again they were advancing on their mission of mercy.

Now no one spoke; each man was too far spent with toil to dare waste breath in cheering his comrades.

Then, and it seemed to Benny as if they had but just started on this last stage of the journey, a glow was seen dead ahead through the bewildering maze of dancing, whirling snow, and an exclamation of sorrow burst from the lips of every one.

“She has struck, boys, and now we’re to work for their lives!” Keeper Downey shouted, his words causing each member of the crew to leap forward with renewed vigor, as if the knowledge of peril to others had taken from him all sensation of weariness.

Benny understood from these words that the light which had been seen was Sam’s signal telling that the schooner had struck the rocks, and what was much like a fever came over him as he exerted all his puny strength to forcing the wagon-load of life-saving appliances on yet faster.

It was a race between the life savers and death, and by no possibility could they have won had Keeper Downey been so unwise as to push them to their utmost speed when first setting out from the station. Now that the supreme struggle was at hand they had a reserve of strength which bore them on to partial victory.

Just how they finally succeeded in gaining the point where Sam Hardy stood peering intently out over the waste of boiling waters, Benny never knew. The last five minutes of that mad scramble was to him as a dream, in which he was conscious only of making every effort to press forward, lest by faltering he should be deemed unworthy a place among those whom he considered true heroes. He knew, however, that they were come to the spot where the work could be performed, because of hearing Tom Downey cry sharply as each man dropped the harness of rope to run back to the wagon and take up his proper station:

“Stand aside, lad, and make it your business to keep out of the way.”

Benny understood that there was nothing for him to do in the way of lending aid, and realized he could only show that he might be of some service in the future by following the instructions to the letter.

Now had come the moment when the lad could appreciate the value of the drilling which the men were forced to undergo day after day.

Every member of the crew knew exactly what he should do, and did it as methodically and quickly as if on the drill-ground back of the station.

While the captain slung the haversack containing the ammunition over his shoulders, Sam threw the buoy off the cart. Henderson, Jones, and Brown unloaded the shovel, pick, and sand-anchor, and proceeded at once to fasten the latter at a point already decided upon by Mr. Downey. Cushing and Robbins took out the shot-line box. The captain and Hardy placed the cannon a short distance to the windward of the wagon, and the box was set down on a line with the muzzle of the gun.

The keeper loaded with cartridges, Hardy brought the shot, which he held for the captain to wipe, and then inserted it into the bore of the gun, forcing it down firmly on the charge. Joe Cushing wet a fathom of the shot-line and bent it into the shank of the shot with three half-hitches, without disturbing the fakes, and without leaving any slack line between the gun and the shot-line box.

Hardy and Cushing, kneeling either side of the cannon, trained the muzzle to the right or the left as Downey commanded. While this was being done Sawyer unloaded and carried the crotch (two pieces of wood formed after the fashion of the letter X) to a point near the shore, in a line between the sand anchor and the wreck.

Even Benny, who knew nothing of such labor, understood that many seconds of valuable time must have been saved by the crew being so familiar with all the details of the work, and accustomed to performing each portion of it in like manner every time.

A description of the men at work is given at this moment in order that one may know exactly how a life-saving crew goes to work, and it must not be supposed that Keeper Downey’s men, or even Benny Foster, directed their gaze all the time toward these operations, without glancing seaward where was the noble vessel grinding her life out upon the cruel rocks, as her crew looked down into the face of what would have been certain death but for the presence of those brave fellows on the bluff.

When the men halted with the wagon, and even while they were removing the implements, every one could see the schooner as she lay not more than a hundred and fifty yards from the shore, heading directly toward them.

So large was she, and with her sails holding back, as it were, much of the snow, even Benny could distinguish her quite distinctly, and while his comrades labored as do men who work in defence of their lives, he saw portions of rail and deck torn off piece-meal by the waves which were striking sledge-hammer blows against the side of the doomed craft, each one sounding, even above the howling of the blasts, like the booming of a cannon.

Seven men could be made out now and then when the snow wreaths were less dense, in various places of refuge about the wreck; three were aloft in the port mizzen-rigging, one in the port fore-rigging, and three about the forecastle, or in the bowsprit. In these positions they remained apparently immovable. It was to Benny as if they were frozen beyond the power of movement, as indeed might have been the case, for the night was bitterly cold.

So near the shore did the wreck lay that it seemed impossible Downey could miss his aim.

Benny heard Joe Cushing say:

“With five ounces of powder and a No. 9 shot-line bent on, there should be no trouble in opening communication with those poor fellows.”

Then the keeper had adjusted the piece and pulled the lanyard.

Benny saw a tongue of flame leap out from the mouth of the gun, and as the shot sped through the air, the line, so carefully laid in the faking-box, uncoiled length by length, until suddenly and without apparent cause it parted.

The shot sped on; but fully two thirds of the line remained in the box.

In the shortest possible space of time, and without unnecessary words, the cannon was reloaded with the same amount of powder and the same-sized line as before.

Once more appeared the tongue of flame. In the midst of it the lad, who hardly breathed because of his excitement, saw the missile as it sped onward true to its aim, dragging after it length upon length of thin line which unloosed from the box in the most perfect fashion, and then a loud cry of triumph went up from the brave fellows who had expended so much labor to aid the unfortunate mariners.

Even in the gloom and amid the falling snow one could see that narrow, black thread as it lay fairly across the wreck just forward of the mizzen-rigging, and within easy reach of the sailors in the vicinity; but yet no one of that imperiled crew left his place of refuge to seize upon it.

Just for an instant the life savers on the shore stood in amazement. They had laid to hand a means of escape, and yet those who were so near death had not moved a finger toward availing themselves of the opportunity.

“They are most likely frozen into helplessness,” Keeper Downey cried. “Let’s give them one more line, boys, and this time we’ll send it farther forward. There must be some one on that schooner who can help himself, as least so far as to haul in the rope.”

Rapidly as the life savers worked before, they moved yet more quickly now that it was understood those whom they would rescue were so nearly unable to aid themselves.

It seemed to Benny as if he had no more than time to count ten before the third faking-box had been brought from the wagon, and the gun was reloaded, re-aimed, and discharged.

Again he saw the narrow black line amid the white, drifting snow. Again a cry of triumph went up from those whom he called his comrades, and this time the line lay directly across the deck of the schooner just abaft the fore-rigging, where the sailor on the port side might reach it without so much as leaving his station.

After five seconds, perhaps, this man, whose garments had almost been brushed by the line-carrying shot, made no motion, and then slowly, as if it required all his strength to move so much as a finger, the unfortunate sailor stretched forth his hand until he grasped that narrow cord which alone remained between him and death.

“He can’t haul it in!” Sam Hardy cried in dismay. “It’s more than he can do to raise his arm.”

If the crew of the schooner could not second the efforts of the life savers, then indeed were they not rescued, for no man might get through that surf from the shore to the schooner, and the life-boat could not be used because of shallow water and rocks.

Every man on the bluff shouted words of encouragement which could not be heard by those for whom they were intended; but it seemed impossible to remain quiet while the half-dead sailors stood within reach of help, and yet were unable to grasp it.

It was to Benny as if a full hour passed, although in fact perhaps not more than three or four minutes elapsed before the man in the fore-rigging succeeded in thrashing his arms together, most likely to break the ice which, forming over his garments, encased him as if in bonds of iron, and then, slowly at first, but more rapidly as the seconds passed, he succeeded in recovering the use of his limbs until he reached down and caught up the line.

Now it was a shout of triumph which went up from those on the bluff, and the anxious lad who was bending forward over the very edge of the rocks believed the sailor heard the cry, for it was as if something suddenly animated him. He began hauling in on this means of escape from the angry waters as he turned his head toward those in the mizzen-rigging, evidently urging them to come to his assistance.

Each instant was fraught with danger for those upon the wreck. Plank by plank the schooner was being torn to pieces by the irresistible force of the towering waves, and it needed not that one should be versed in such matters to understand that before many moments passed one or all of the spars must go by the board.

Now that the sailor on the wreck was hauling in the shot-line, the crew set about making the necessary arrangements for sending aboard the hawser, and before this had been completed Benny shouted, although speaking to no one in particular:

“The men in the mizzen-rigging are coming down! They are going to help themselves!”

It was as the lad had said, for soon all save two on the forecastle were hauling on the tackle which was made fast to the shot-line, and in perhaps ten minutes from the time the last missile was fired across the deck of the wreck, the sailors had succeeded in attaching the tail-block to the mainmast.

Now even Benny could be of assistance in manning the whip to haul the breeches-buoy out to the ship.

As the lad saw the buoy appearing and disappearing amid the waves, but continuing rapidly on toward the wreck, a great joy came into his heart, and he realized then, if never before, the wondrous pleasure which must come to those who succeed in saving lives after a desperate battle.

When the buoy reached the wreck those ashore saw a man step into it, and then came the command:

“Man the lee whip! Haul ashore!”

Now the life savers were working to economize time. Every second must be utilized if that crew of seven was to be brought ashore before the schooner should have been torn to pieces.

Anxious though Benny was, and fearful lest they should not succeed in getting even one ashore, the breeches-buoy appeared to be moving swiftly, as indeed was the case, for every man of the crew, tailing on the whip, was working as only men can under similar circumstances.

The first of the rescued was well-nigh helpless after gaining the shore, and now had come the time when Benny might be of some assistance.

“Let me take care of him, sir, and it will save a man’s labor when you need all hands at the whip,” the lad said as Keeper Downey approached, and the latter replied with a ring of cheeriness in his tones which had not been heard since the work began:

“Here’s where you’ll come in handy, lad. Roust that fellow about; don’t let him remain quiet, for he must keep the blood circulating.”

Then the weather whip was manned, and the buoy forced out toward the wreck to receive another passenger. In again was it hauled, and two lives had been saved.

“Man the weather whip! Haul out!”

The third had taken his place in the breeches-buoy.

“Man the lee whip! Haul ashore!”

The third had been saved.

And so went on the work while the tempest howled and raged; the snow wreathed and whirled as if to blind the life savers, and the sea roared and bellowed at losing its prey; but in time--in a comparatively short time--six were ashore, and only one remained upon the quivering vessel which was now hardly more than a hulk, so sadly had the sea battered and torn it.

For the last time the buoy was being run out, and more than half the distance had been traversed when suddenly, and without warning, the mizzen-mast went by the board, carrying with it the mainmast.

As the second spar fell, communication between the life savers and this poor fellow for whom they were battling, was broken; but almost while the disaster was taking place Tom Downey had sprung to the gun for the purpose of sending out another shot-line, when a cry of horror went up--a crash was heard even above the howling of the tempest, and the foremast had fallen.

Now it was that Benny witnessed a scene of heroism such as is seldom heard about, although often performed--heroism that is displayed during the winter’s tempests on our rock-bound coasts, in the presence of those who themselves are heroes.

When the last spar fell he who remained upon the wreck was seen to leap from the port-rail beyond the raffle of spars and cordage which dashed to and fro alongside, and Sam Hardy cried with a tone of admiration in his sturdy voice:

“That fellow has got grit, and will fight well for his life! See him strike out!”

The man was swimming bravely in the icy waters, and every member of the crew, who an instant before despaired of being able to save him, now began to hope that through his own exertions the task might be accomplished.

The surf was dashing a hundred feet up the side of the cliff, and the water ’twixt the schooner and the shore so filled with wreckage that it seemed as if the swimmer must be torn to pieces ere he could take a dozen strokes, but yet now and then, as the billows raised him on high, it could be seen that he was holding his own--that he was making headway toward the shore.

It needed no word of command from Tom Downey to send every member of his crew into the foaming waters, and there, with a line stretched from one to the other, the entire seven formed a chain; with Sam Hardy at the outermost end, all buried under each succeeding wave, but yet pressing outward in the hope of being able to clutch the gallant swimmer before he should become exhausted.

Finally it seemed as if the man had gained a foothold on the rocks, for he apparently stood in the water knee-deep one single instant, and then a receding sea, lifting him from his footing, hurled him backward toward the hulk from which he had escaped.

“Give me more rope!” Sam Hardy shouted, and Benny stifled the cry of fear which came to his lips as he saw the gallant surfman swimming out to meet the half-drowned sailor.

Then an incoming sea caught up the man who had made such a desperate struggle for life, bore him shoreward again until he was within twenty feet of Hardy, when one of the schooner’s spars, rearing up in the water as if raised by some giant hand, descended upon the struggling wretch, crushing out his life as it forced him down to the bottom of the sea.