All But Lost: A Novel. Vol. 1 of 3

by G. A. Henty

“Fifteen seconds gone;”—“Paddle bow and two;”—“Twenty;” “Thirty;” “Forty seconds gone;” “Forty-five;”—“Pull half a stroke bow;”—“Fifty;” “Fifty-five;”—“Forward all;”—“Sixty.” As the word is heard, the gun is fired; a hundred and sixty oars strike the water as if by one impulse. At the same moment a roar of exhortation and encouragement breaks from the crowd on the bank; they set off to run—a wild, pushing, shouting throng.

No easy matter is it to keep up with the flying boats, jostled and pushed in that excited, eager crowd. Woe be to him who falls,—fortunate by comparison he who is pushed into the river. A wild looking set are they: men in boating dresses of every variety of colour, their arms waving frantically; men in pea-jackets, and waterproof coats and wraps of every description; sober reading men, lost in the tumult, bewildered and hustled, intent only on keeping their feet, all shouting in voices which grow momentarily hoarse and broken.

The boats had got an equally good start, but in the first few hundred yards Trinity Hall had considerably lessened the gap between itself and Caius, while the latter had gained but slightly upon Emanuel. In this order they round the post corner, and dash on through the gut to Grassy. “Now bow and three, now bow and three,” is the shout, and the boats sweep round the sharp curve.

Here Emanuel steers rather wild, and her pursuer has palpably gained upon her. The shouting redoubles; men who have dropped behind from the leading boats join the throng and take up the cry, “Now, Caius, now; you’re gaining, you’re gaining.” “Now, Trinity Hall, take her along.” There are not thirty feet between Emanuel and Caius, while Trinity Hall is not twenty behind the latter. On they fly, the boats leaping forward at each stroke like long hungry water snakes after their prey, past the Plough, and round Ditton corner. Here a fresh burst cheering breaks out from the opposite bank, from numbers stationed there;—dons too old and staid to run along the towing path, and men on horse-back, who start to gallop alongside. Many ladies are there too; these wave their handkerchiefs and parasols, and would like to run along with the rest. On the boats dart; rounding the corner the tired crews pull with renewed energy and hope. It is straight home now; only another half mile. They are nearing each other fast. There is certain to be a bump: which boat will make it? Nearer and nearer. Trinity Hall overlaps Caius; but her bow has not touched her flying adversary, and whenever it draws near, the rudder of the Caius boat is slightly turned, and a rush of water thrown against it. This cannot last. Inch by inch they draw up, and Caius is still three feet behind Emanuel. Her chance seems hopeless. All at once, in a momentary lull of the shouting, a well-known voice from the throng, that of one of the college tutors, himself once a famous oar, comes out clear and strong—“Now, Caius, now—twenty strokes, and you are in to them. One—two—three.” The crowd take up the cry: “four”—“five”—“six;” and at each stroke the boat seems to leap upon its adversary. “Seven”—“eight”—“three more and you do it.” “Nine”—“ten”—“eleven;” and a last wild cheer breaks out as the nose of the Caius boat touches the rudder of Emanuel, and the bump is made.

The two boats immediately pull aside to let those behind them pass, and the gasping crews lean on their oars, exhausted and breathless. One or two get out, too done-up to pull farther, while friends on the bank take their places. The light University blue flag, with the Caius’ arms in the centre, is hoisted triumphantly in the stern, and the boat paddles quietly on again, saluted by a burst of “see the conquering hero comes,” from the band on the barge near the railway bridge. The excitement is over, and the men on the bank, awaking to the consciousness that they are terribly wet, once more put up their umbrellas, and make the best of their way back to college.

It is evening now in the quiet courts of Caius. The wind has quite dropped, the rain has ceased, and the night is still and dark; but from some of the windows the lights stream out brightly into the gloom, and sounds of singing and loud laughter at times break out across the deserted court.

Now a man crosses the court, smoking a short pipe, with a very battered cap upon his head, and a very short gown over his shoulders; goes up the stairs to one of the rooms from which the laughter and noise come loudest, stops at a door over which the name of Grahame is painted in white letters, opens it, and goes in.

His arrival is greeted with shouts of welcome, with a great thumping of tumblers, and cries of “Hurrah, seven! Well rowed, old man!”

“Come up this way, Frank,” a voice from the other end of the room shouted through the smoke; “I have kept a place for you here by me.”

“I’ll come as soon as I can see my way,” the new-comer answered; “but, upon my word, considering that it’s barely nine o’clock yet, you have managed to blow a very fair amount of tobacco smoke between you.” Accordingly he made his way up to the end of the room, and took his seat by the side of his host, who was the captain and stroke of the Caius eight, and had given this party to celebrate the victory of the day, and the termination of the last month’s training. The men round the table, by the unanimity and earnestness with which they were smoking, seemed determined to make up for their long abstinence from the fragrant weed.