Bahama Bill, Mate of the Wrecking Sloop Sea-Horse

by T. Jenkins Hains

"Hide not thy light under a bushel," came the words of the tall preacher! They seemed to flit before his half-blinded vision. He who must make a living at something would do it at what he thought he could do best. He must surely know more about those waters than the Conchs who lived to the southward, for he had fished upon them for two years. His ideas about piloting were vague and absurd, but he did not know it. It seemed to him that all he must do was to show the way the best he could, and it was not in keeping with the teachings to hold back. It would be more immodest to feign ignorance of the banks than to admit a knowledge of them. He had known people who were so backward that they always waited to be sought out by others and pressed to do things, which by all nature they should have offered to do at once. To him these people were truly immodest and their very quietness seemed to savour of a tremendous egotism. They seemed so satisfied and complacent in their knowledge, so superior that unless they were flattered by being sought out and offered a handsome reward, they would rather carry their wisdom to the grave than offer it. It was "hiding a light under a bushel," in the sense the tall man of the Sanctified Band of pilgrims taught it.

The wind drove the little vessel wildly before it. The sea began to make astern, and as he turned his face to look backward a spurt of spray and foam half-choked him. The roar of the gale grew louder. The captain's voice came brokenly to him through the gloom, and he saw him standing close to the companion hatch gazing ahead and holding on with both hands, his face thrust forward and his sou'wester pushed back as though to aid him to see some mark to steer by to safety.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes flew by. If they missed the shelter of the reef and the deep water behind it, they would certainly pile up on the shoals beyond, where the sea would fall with tremendous violence in less than an hour. Already the lift astern was growing quicker and the white plain of water was rolling up into a dangerous sea. He swung the little vessel hard to port, thinking to find better water, and as he did so she took the ground heavily, throwing her captain with force against the coamings.

"Keep her off—breakers—windward," came the cry as from a great distance.

He rolled the wheel up mechanically and she was tearing away again into the darkness, going clear as though she had touched soft mud instead of hard coral rock.

A burst of wind tore over them with a droning roar. The little vessel lay down to the pressure. Then gathering herself upon a sea she rushed ahead.

The blackness grew thicker. Macreary could hardly see the loom of the mast forward. Then a flickering flare of lightning lit the storm and right ahead showed a strip of dry yellow sand. It was a mile off yet, but they were going fast. Macreary hove the wheel to port and kept it there until the little ship buried her starboard deck-strake in the foam.

"Will—make—" came the voice of the captain.

Macreary did not know whether she would or not, but he would try to, and setting his teeth hard he gave up all thought of answer. The minutes flew by. He knew they were going fast. They would go a mile in five minutes even with the lessened headway of the reaching vessel. How could he guess the time in that awful turmoil of roaring wind and sea? He waited and waited. She must be nearly there. The strain was getting awful. Would he go past? He must be up with the point now—but no, he would hold her a minute longer. It must be made or lost in one throw of that wheel, and to lose it meant death to all hands. The blackness ahead was solid. No eye could penetrate it ten feet. Oh, for another flash of lightning!