The Real Charlotte

by E. Oe. Somerville; Martin Ross

He could see the launch, half a mile or so beyond the point, ploughing steadily along on her way to Lismoyle, and in his heart he wished that Francie was on board of her. He also wished that Christopher had held his confounded tongue about the top-sail. If he hadn’t shoved in his oar where he wasn’t wanted, he’d have had that top-sail off her twenty minutes ago; but he wasn’t going to stand another man ordering him about in his own boat.

“Look here, Francie,” he said, “you must look out for yourself when I’m going about next time. It’s always a bit squally round this point, so you’d better keep down in the cockpit till we’re well on the next tack.”

“But I’ll get all wet down there,” objected Francie, “and I’d much rather stay up here and see the fun.”

“You talk as if it was the top of a tram in Sackville Street,” said Lambert, snatching a glance of provoked amusement at her unconcerned face. “I can tell you it will take a good deal more holding on to than that does. Promise me now, like a good child,” he went on, with a sudden thrill of anxiety at her helplessness and ignorance, “that you’ll do as I tell you. You used to mind what I said to you.”

He leaned towards her as he spoke, and Francie raised her eyes to his with a laugh in them that made him for the moment forgetful of everything else. They were in the open water in the centre of the lake by this time. And in that second a squall came roaring down upon them.

“Luff!” shouted Christopher, letting go the head sheets. “Luff, or we’re over!”

Lambert let go the main sheet and put the tiller hard down with all the strength he was master of, but he was just too late. In that moment, when he had allowed his thoughts to leave his steering, the yacht had dragged herself a thought beyond his control. The rough hand of the wind struck her, and, as she quivered and reeled under the blow, another and fiercer gust caught hold of her, and flung her flat on her side on the water.

Before Christopher had well realised what had happened, he had gone deep under water, come to the surface again, and was swimming, with a vision before him of a white figure with a red cap falling headlong from its perch. He raised himself and shook the water out of his eyes, and swimming a stroke or two to get clear of the mast, with its sails heaving prone on the water like the pinions of a great wounded bird, he saw over the shoulders of the hurrying waves the red cap and the white dress drifting away to leeward. Through the noise of the water in his ears, and the confusion of his startled brain, he heard Lambert’s voice shouting frantically he did not know what; the whole force of his nature was set and centred on overtaking the red cap, to which each stroke was bringing him nearer and nearer as it appeared and reappeared ahead of him between the steely backs of the waves. She lay horribly still, with the water washing over her face; and as Christopher caught her dress, and turned, breathless, to try to fight his way back with her to the wrecked yacht, he seemed to hear a hundred voices ringing in his ears and telling him that she was dead. He was a good and practised swimmer, but not a powerful one. His clothes hung heavily about him, and with one arm necessarily given to his burden, and the waves and wind beating him back, he began to think that his task was more than he would be able to accomplish. He had up to this, in the intensity of the shock and struggle, forgotten Lambert’s existence, but now the agonised shouts that he had heard came back to him, and he raised himself high in the water and stared about with a new anxiety. To his intense relief he saw that the yacht was still afloat, was, in fact, drifting slowly down towards him, and in the water not ten yards from him was her owner, labouring towards him with quick splashing strokes, and evidently in a very exhausted state. His face was purple-red, his eyes half starting out of his head, and Christopher could hear his hard breathing as he slowly bore down upon him.

“She’s all right, Lambert!” Christopher cried out, though his heart belied the words. “I’ve got her! Hold hard; the yacht will be down on us in a minute.”

Whether Lambert heard the words or no was not apparent. He came struggling on, and as soon as he got within reach, made a snatch at Francie’s dress. Christopher had contrived to get his left arm round her waist, and to prop her chin on his shoulder, so that her face should be above the water, and, as Lambert’s weight swung on him, it was all he could do to keep her in this position.