Boy Scouts at Sea; Or, A Chronicle of the B. S. S. Bright Wing

by Arthur Astor Carey

The sea was still rough from the after effects of the storm, and, although the waves had somewhat subsided, yet they were high enough to tumble over one another—forming white-caps and streamers of spray when caught by the wind. All hands on board who had no definite posts of duty had their eyes fixed upon the boat ahead, and the boys were taking turns in looking through a marine glass which they had borrowed from the Chairman. The lifeboat must have been about five miles off when first sighted by the lookout, and it was not long before they could distinguish, by help of the glasses, a number of people in the boat. There seemed to be eight or ten men, and the boat appeared to be about twenty feet long. In the stern was a pile of what looked like bundles or sacks with some one lying down and partly supported by them. The light was still good, and the declining sun shed its rays full upon the object of their attention. When they had come within about a mile of the boat, they observed that it was an old man, probably weak or ill from exhaustion, who lay in the stern.

She was shipping some water forward, although not very much, and one of the men was busy bailing her out a little aft of amidships.

“Maybe she’s leaking a little,” suggested the mate. “These lifeboats often get shrunken seams from not being in the water for a long time. But it wouldn’t take more than twenty-four hours in the water to swell her up tight; and, if that’s why she’s leaking, they can’t have been away from their ship more than a day and a night.”

“Maybe it’s only the surface spray that’s filled her up,” answered the Captain.

The men in the boat were rowing against the wind; and, as they evidently had only one pair of oars on board, they were making very slow headway. As the Bright Wing approached, they slackened their efforts and, putting both oars on the leeward side, merely kept the boat’s head up into the wind. The Captain meantime had been making up his mind how best to approach them, and decided to give the Bright Wing a good “full” to starboard and then to luff up and shoot into the wind so that the lifeboat would be to leeward of the Bright Wing on the starboard side. He timed his little manœuvre with great skill so that the ship’s headway, counteracted by the wind as she shot up with her sails shaking, was just enough to bring her to a standstill at about ten yards to windward of the boat.

“Boat ahoy!” called out the Captain. “Can you row up alongside?”

The oars were immediately adjusted and dipped into the water; and, in a few strokes, the boat had come up to within ten feet.

The sea had still enough motion to make it a somewhat delicate matter to handle the boat so that there would be no bumping or unnecessary jar in getting the people aboard. The mate and Perkins had the largest fenders hanging close to the side-ladder; and Bertie Young threw out a line toward the bow of the boat, while Ellsworth threw out another toward the stern. These were immediately made fast, but the Captain ordered them kept fastened with some slack, so as to allow enough free play between the boat and the vessel to prevent unnecessary strain.

One man, who seemed to be the Skipper, was giving directions on the lifeboat, which kept rising and falling with the waves, alongside the Bright Wing.

The man lying in the stern was old and sick; but his eye watched what was going on, though his body remained motionless. As soon as the lines were made fast, the Skipper on the lifeboat signed to one of the younger men to get aboard the ship; and this one, watching his chance, waited until the boat had risen on the top of a wave,—and then, grasping one of the stays of the Bright Wing, lightly stepped on to the rail, and down upon the deck. He then stood holding out his arms over the side-ladder toward the crew of the boat, while the Skipper held up a small boy of about twelve, who was lifted on deck without any difficulty.