That night the weather became what sailors call “dirty,” and next morning it was found that the water had mounted to 4 feet 10 inches. The pumps had become almost unworkable, being choked with sand, and it became evident that the voyage thus inauspiciously begun would very soon be ended. During the day the “dirty” weather became gale, so that, although the wind was fair, Captain Phelps determined to run to the nearest port for shelter. With a “good ship” this might have been done easily enough—many a vessel does it during every gale that visits our stormy shores—but the Swordfish was by this time getting water-logged and unmanageable. She drifted helplessly before the gale, and the heavy seas broke over her continually, sweeping away everything moveable. Another night passed, and next morning—Sunday—it became plain that she was settling down so the captain gave orders to get out the long-boat, and told the passengers to get ready. Day had broken some time before this, but the weather was still so thick that nothing could be seen.
“Take a cast of the lead,” said the captain.
“Ay, ay, sir,” was the prompt reply, but before the order could be obeyed, the roar of breakers was heard above the howling of the storm, and the shout, “Land on the port bow!” was instantly followed by “Down with the helm!” and other orders hurriedly given by the captain and hastily obeyed by the men. All too late! The ship was embayed. As if to make their position more painful, the mists cleared partially away, and revealed the green fields and cottages on shore, with the angry sea—an impassable caldron of boiling foam—between.
Another instant and the ship struck with a convulsive quiver from stem to stern. The billows flew madly over her, the main-mast went by the board—carrying two of the men to their doom along with it—and the Swordfish, “bound for Bombay,” was cast, a total wreck, upon the coast of Cornwall.
Chapter Four.
The Rescue.
Fortunate is it for this land that those who war for evil and those who fight for good do so side by side; and well is it for poor humanity that the bane and the antidote grow together. The misanthrope sends his poisonous streams throughout the land, but the philanthropist erects his dams everywhere to stem the foul torrents and turn them aside. The Infidel plants unbelief with reckless hand far and wide, but the Christian scatters the “Word” broadcast over the land. The sordid shipowner strews the coast with wreck and murdered fellow-creatures; but, thank God, the righteous shipowner—along with other like-minded men—sends forth a fleet of lifeboats from almost every bay and cove along the shore to rob the deep of its prey, and rescue the perishing.
In the bay where the Swordfish was stranded there chanced to be a lifeboat. Most of her noble crew were, at the time the vessel struck, in chapel, probably engaged in singing the hymns of the great John Wesley, or listening to the preaching of the “old, old story” of the salvation of souls through faith in Jesus Christ. But there were bodies to be saved that day as well as souls, and the stout arms of the lifeboat crew were needed.