Adrift in a Boat

by William Henry Giles Kingston

“No, young masters, it wasn’t I saved you, it was God. Don’t thank me. Man can do no good thing of himself, you know, and I couldn’t have saved you if it hadn’t been His will.” The fishing-boat went careering on over the foaming seas, guided by the skilful hand of the old man. It is surprising how much sea a small boat with good beam will go through when well managed. The old man was far more loquacious than the young one, who sat quite still forward, only every now and then turning his face aside as the spray dashed in it, and shaking the water from his sou’-wester.

To the boys’ inquiry of the old man to which place he belonged, “Little better than a mile to the eastward of where I took you aboard,” he replied; “but when the wind blows as it does now, there’s no place for landing nearer than Penmore harbour. That matters nothing, as we get a good market for our fish near there, and we have a good lot to sell, you see.” He pointed to the baskets in the centre of the boat, well filled with mackerel and several other kinds of fish. He told them that his name was Jonathan Jefferies, that he had married a Cornish woman, and settled in the parish, and that the lad was his grandson. “Not quite right up there,” he remarked, touching his forehead; “but he is a good lad, and knows how to do his duty. We call him Tristram Torr, for he is our daughter’s son. She is dead, poor thing, and his father was lost at sea, we suppose, for he went away and never came back.”

The old man thus continued giving scraps of his family history, till the gloom of evening gave way to the darkness of night. His chief regret at being out so late was that his old woman would be looking for him, as he had told her that he expected to be home earlier than usual. The darker it grew the less talkative, however, he became; indeed, all his attention was taken up in steering, for with the darkness the wind and sea increased, till the boat could hardly look up to it. At last Harry and David began to suspect that though they had escaped from the rock, they were in no small danger of being swamped, and thus, after all, losing their lives. Every now and then a heavy sea broke into the boat and half filled her. Still the boy Tristram said nothing, but turning round took a bailer from under the thwart, and began energetically bailing away. Harry and David did the same with their hats, till old Jefferies handed them a bucket, with which they more rapidly cleared the boat. They had to be quick about it, for scarcely was she free of water than another sea came in and again half filled her. It seemed also pretty evident to them that instead of going to windward she was making leeway, though, as the tide was still running to the eastward, she was going in that direction. The two boys were feeling thoroughly chilled and uncomfortable; they were, of course, wet to the skin, and the wind was strong and keen, and even when they sat down, by the old man’s advice, in the bottom of the boat, their legs were in water. Still they kept up their spirits, and when the water washed into the boat they were glad to jump up and bail it out again. Besides that they were in danger of being swamped, it appeared to the midshipman and his friend that there was a great risk of being run down. Already two or three phantom-like forms had suddenly appeared out of the darkness, and gliding by were soon lost to sight.

The boy, however, had made no remark about them; suddenly he shouted, “Grandfather, a sail on the weather-bow.”

“About, then,” cried the old man. Harry and David looked out, and saw, almost ahead of them, towering to the skies it seemed, a dark pyramid of canvas.

“She is a big ship running down channel,” said Harry. “She will be over us! she will be over us!” The boat was at that moment in stays, going about. Scarcely had he spoken, when there was a loud crack. The mast went by the board, and as it came down struck the old man on the head. He would have fallen overboard had not Harry and David seized his coat and dragged him in.

“Here, pull, masters,” cried Tristram, trying to get out both the oars. In doing so he let one of them go overboard; both would have gone had not Harry, springing forward, seized the other. But poor Tristram, in endeavouring to regain the one he had lost, overbalanced himself, and met the fate his grandfather had just escaped. Harry threw the oar over to the side on which he had fallen, but the poor lad in vain endeavoured to clutch it. There was a piercing cry; Harry thought he saw a hand raised up through the darkness, and then he neither saw nor heard more.

How came it that the boy’s cry did not rouse the grandfather? Sad to say, he lay without moving at the bottom of the boat.

“This is fearful,” cried David, feeling the old man’s face and hands; “I am afraid that he is dead, and the poor lad gone too. What are we to do?”

“Keep the boat’s head to the sea as long as we can with one oar, and then up helm and run before the wind,” answered Harry, who knew that such was the way a big ship would be managed under similar circumstances. David sat at the helm, and Harry vigorously plied his oar—now on one side, now on the other, and thus managed to keep the boat from getting broadside to the sea. It was very hard work, however, and he felt that, even though relieved by David, it could not be kept up all night. Several times David felt the old man’s face; it was still warm, but there was no other sign of life. The boat was broad and deep, or she would very quickly have been turned over. This, however, made her very heavy to pull, while from the same cause the sea continually washed into her. At length they agreed that she must be put before the wind. They waited for a lull, and then getting her quickly round, hoisted the jib, which had been before taken in, to the end of the spreet, which they lashed to the stump of the mast. The wind blew as strong as ever, but the tide having turned there was less sea than before, and thus away they went down channel, at a far greater rate than they supposed.