WHEN A STEAMER LOOMS UP IN THE FOG
If there should be a fog,—and hardly a day or a night passes without one,—the danger is great. When the white veil settles down over the schooners the men on deck can hardly see their cross-trees. Foot-power horns are blown, the ship’s bell is tolled steadily, while conch shells bellow their resonant note from the trawlers in the dories. But it is all to no purpose. For the great siren comes nearer and nearer every second, and the pounding of the waves against the great hulk and the rush of resisting water grow horribly distinct.
There is a hazy glimmer of a row of lights, a roar and a splutter of steam, a shock and the inrush of the great volume of water, a shout or two from the towering decks and bridge, and the great body dashes by disdainfully, speed undiminished, her passengers careless, and unmindful that the lives and fortunes of half a dozen human beings have hung for a moment in the balance of Life and Death. But records have to be made, and the gold-laced officers forget to mention the occurrence. The men on the schooner do not forget it, though. More than one face is white with the nearness to calamity.
“What was she, Jim?”
“The ‘Frederick.’ I’d know her bloomin’ bellow in a thousand.”
They lean out over the rail and peer into the gray blackness, shaking their fists at the place where she vanished in the fog.
The man who gets his name in the newspaper and a medal from his government is not the only hero. And the modesty with which the Gloucester fisherman hides his sterling merit is only convincing proof of the fact,—Gloucester is a city of heroes.
For grit and devotion the case of Howard Blackburn surpasses understanding.