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New Scenes—A Fight Prevented by a Whale—A Storm—Blown off the Yardarm—Wreck of the “Red Eric”.

Five weeks passed away, and really, when one comes to consider the matter, it is surprising what a variety of events may be compressed into five weeks; what an amount of space may be passed over, what an immense change of scene and circumstance may be experienced in that comparatively short period of time.

Men and women who remain quietly at home do not, perhaps, fully realise this fact. Five weeks to them does not usually seem either very long or very short. But let those quiet ones travel; let them rush away headlong, by the aid of wind and steam, to the distant and wonderful parts of this wonderful world of ours, and, ten to one, they will afterwards tell you that the most wonderful discovery they had made during their travels, is the fact that a miniature lifetime (apparently) can be compressed into five weeks.

Five weeks passed away, and in the course of that time the foretopsail-yard of the Red Eric had been repaired; the Red Eric herself had passed from equatorial into southern seas; Alice Dunning had become very sea-sick, which caused her to look uncommonly green in the face, and had got well again, which caused her to become fresh and rosy as the early morning; Jacko had thoroughly established his reputation as the most arrant and accomplished thief that ever went to sea: King Bumble had been maligned and abused again and again, and over again, despite his protestations of innocence, by grim-faced Tarquin, the steward, for having done the deeds which were afterwards discovered to have been committed by Jacko; fat little Gurney had sung innumerable songs of his own composing, in which he was ably supported by Glynn Proctor; Dr Hopley had examined, phrenologically, all the heads on board, with the exception of that of Tarquin, who would not submit to the operation on any account, and had shot, and skinned, and stuffed a variety of curious sea-birds, and caught a number of remarkable sea-fish, and had microscopically examined—to the immense interest of Ailie, and consequently of the captain—a great many surprising animalcules, called Medusae, which possessed the most watery and the thinnest possible bodies, yet which had the power of emitting a beautiful phosphoric light at night, so as to cause the whole ocean sometimes to glow as if with liquid fire; Phil Briant had cracked more jokes, good, bad, and indifferent, than would serve to fill a whole volume of closely-printed pages, and had told more stories than would be believed by most people; Tim Rokens and the other harpooners had, with the assistance of the various boats’ crews, slain and captured several large whales, and Nikel Sling had prepared, and assisted to consume, as many breakfasts, dinners, and suppers as there are days in the period of time above referred to;—in short, those five weeks, which we thus dismiss in five minutes, might, if enlarged upon, be expanded into material to fill five volumes such as this, which would probably take about five years to write—another reason for cutting this matter short. All this shows how much may be compressed into little space, how much may be done and seen in little time, and, therefore, how much value men ought to attach to little things.

Five weeks passed away, as we have already remarked, and at the end of that time the Red Eric found herself, one beautiful sunny afternoon, becalmed on the breast of the wide ocean with a strange vessel, also a whaler, a few miles distant from her, and a couple of sperm-whales sporting playfully about midway between the two ships. Jim Scroggles on that particular afternoon found himself in the crow’s-nest at the masthead, roaring “Thar she blows!” with a degree of energy so appalling that one was almost tempted to believe that that long-legged individual had made up his mind to compress his life into one grand but brief minute, and totally exhaust his powers of soul and body in the reiterated vociferation of that one faculty of the sperm-whale. Allowance must be made for Jim, seeing that this was the first time he had been fortunate enough to “raise the oil” since he became a whaler.

The usual scene of bustle and excitement immediately ensued. The men sprang to their appointed places in a moment; the tubs, harpoons, etcetera, were got ready, and in a few minutes the three boats were leaping over the smooth swell towards the fish.

While this was taking place on board the Red Eric, a precisely similar scene occurred on board the other whale-ship, and a race now ensued between the boats of the two ships, for each knew well that the first boat that harpooned either of the whales claimed it.

“Give way, my lads,” whispered Captain Dunning eagerly, as he watched the other boats; “we shall be first—we shall be first; only bend your backs.”

The men needed not to be urged; they were quite as anxious as their commander to win the races and bent their backs, as he expressed it, until the oars seemed about to break. Glynn sat on the after thwart, and did good service on this occasion.

It soon became evident that the affair would be decided by the boats of the two captains, both of which took the lead of the others, but as they were advancing in opposite directions it was difficult to tell which was the fleeter of the two. When the excitement of the race was at its height the whales went down, and the men lay on their oars to wait until they should rise again. They lay in anxious suspense for about a minute, when the crew of Captain Dunning’s boat was startled by the sudden apparition of a waterspout close to them, by which they were completely drenched. It was immediately followed by the appearance of the huge blunt head of one of the whales, which rose like an enormous rock out of the sea close to the starboard-quarter.

The sight was received with a loud shout, and Tim Rokens leaped up and grasped a harpoon, but the whale sheered off. A spare harpoon lay on the stern-sheets close to Glynn, who dropped his oar and seized it. Almost without knowing what he was about, he hurled it with tremendous force at the monster’s neck, into which it penetrated deeply. The harpoon fortunately happened to be attached to a large buoy, called by whalers a drogue, which was jerked out of the boat like a cannon-shot as the whale went down, carrying harpoon and drogue along with it.

“Well done, lad,” cried the captain, in great delight, “you’ve made a noble beginning! Now, lads, pull gently ahead, she won’t go far with such an ornament as that dangling at her neck. A capital dart! couldn’t have done it half so well myself, even in my young days!”

Glynn felt somewhat elated at this unexpected piece of success; to do him justice, however, he took it modestly. In a few minutes the whale rose, but it had changed its course while under water, and now appeared close to the leading boat of the other ship.

By the laws of the whale-fishery, no boat of one vessel has a right to touch a whale that has been struck by the boat of another vessel, so long as the harpoon holds fast and the rope remains unbroken, or so long as the float to which the harpoon is connected remains attached. Nevertheless, in defiance of this well-known law, the boat belonging to the captain of the strange ship gave chase, and succeeded in making fast to the whale.

To describe the indignation of Captain Dunning and his men on witnessing this act is impossible. The former roared rather than shouted, “Give way, lads!” and the latter bent their backs as if they meant to pull the boat bodily out of the water, and up into the atmosphere. Meanwhile all the other boats were in hot pursuit of the second whale, which had led them a considerable distance away from the first.

“What do you mean by striking that fish?” shouted Captain Dunning, when, after a hard pull, he came up with the boat, the crew of which had just succeeded in thrusting a lance deep into a mortal part of the huge animal, which soon after rolled over, and lay extended on the waves.

“What right have you to ask?” replied the captain of the strange ship, an ill-favoured, powerful man, whose countenance was sufficient to condemn him in any society, save that of ruffians. “Don’t you see your drogue has broke loose?”

“I see nothing of the sort. It’s fast at this moment; so you’ll be good enough to cut loose and take yourself off as fast as you please.”

To this the other made no reply, but, turning to his men, said: “Make fast there, lads; signal the other boats, and pull away for the ship; look sharp, you lubbers.”

“Och! captain dear,” muttered Phil Briant, baring both arms up to the shoulders, “only give the word; do, now!”

Captain Dunning, who was already boiling with rage, needed no encouragement to make an immediate attack on the stranger, neither did his men require an order; they plunged their oars into the water, ran right into the other boat, sprang to their feet, seized lances, harpoons, and knives, and in another moment would have been engaged in a deadly struggle had not an unforeseen event occurred to prevent the fray. This was the partial recovery of the whale, which, apparently resolved to make one final struggle for life, turned over and over, lashed the sea into foam, and churned it up with the blood which spouted in thick streams from its numerous wounds.

Both boats were in imminent danger, and the men sprang to their oars in order to pull out of the range of the monster’s dying struggles. In this effort the strange boat was successful, but that of Captain Dunning fared ill. A heavy blow from the whale’s tail broke it in two, and hurled it into the air, whence the crew descended, amid a mass of harpoons, lances, oars, and cordage, into the blood-stained water.

The fish sheered away for some distance, dragging the other boat along with it, and then rolled over quite dead. Fortunately not one of the crew of the capsized boat was hurt. All of them succeeded in reaching and clinging to the shattered hull of their boat; but there they were destined to remain a considerable time, as the boat of the stranger, having secured the dead fish, proceeded leisurely to tow it towards their ship, without paying the slightest attention to the shouts of their late enemies.

A change had now come over the face of the sky. Clouds began to gather on the horizon, and a few light puffs of air swept over the sea, which enabled the strange vessel to bear down on her boat, and take the whale in tow. It also enabled the Red Eric to beat up, but more slowly, towards the spot where their disabled boat lay, and rescue their comrades from their awkward position. It was some time before the boats were all gathered together. When this was accomplished the night had set in and the stranger had made off with her ill-gotten prize, the other whale having sounded, and the chase being abandoned.

“Now, of all the disgustin’ things that ever happened to me, this is the worst,” remarked Captain Dunning, in a very sulky tone of voice, as he descended to the cabin to change his garments, Ailie having preceded him in order to lay out dry clothes.

“Oh! my darling papa, what a fright I got,” she exclaimed, running up and hugging him, wet as he was, for the seventh time, despite his efforts to keep her off. “I was looking through the spy-glass at the time it happened, and when I saw you all thrown into the air I cried—oh! I can’t tell you how I cried.”

“You don’t need to tell me, Ailie, my pet, for your red, swelled-up eyes speak for themselves. But go, you puss, and change your own frock. You’ve made it as wet as my coat, nearly; besides, I can’t undress, you know, while you stand there.”

Ailie said, “I’m so very, very thankful,” and then giving her father one concluding hug, which completely saturated the frock, went to her own cabin.

Meanwhile the crew of the captain’s boat were busy in the forecastle stripping off their wet garments, and relating their adventures to the men of the other boats, who, until they reached the ship, had been utterly ignorant of what had passed.

It is curious that Tim Rokens should open the conversation with much the same sentiment, if not exactly the same phrase, as that expressed by the captain.

“Now boys,” said he, slapping his wet limbs, “I’ll tell ye wot it is, of all the aggrawations as has happened to me in my life, this is out o’ sight the wust. To think o’ losin’ that there whale, the very biggest I ever saw—”

“Ah! Rokens, man,” interrupted Glynn, as he pulled off his jacket, “the loss is greater to me than to you, for that was my first whale!”

“True, boy,” replied the harpooner, in a tone of evidently genuine sympathy; “I feel for ye. I knows how I should ha’ taken on if it had happened to me. But cheer up, lad; you know the old proverb, ‘There’s as good fish in the sea as ever came out o’t.’ You’ll be the death o’ many sich yet, I’ll bet my best iron.”

“Sure, the wust of it all is, that we don’t know who was the big thief as got that fish away with him,” said Phil Briant, with a rueful countenance.

“Don’t we, though!” cried Gurney, who had been in the mate’s boat; “I axed one o’ the men o’ the stranger’s boats—for we run up close alongside durin’ the chase—and he told me as how she was the Termagant of New York; so we can be down on ’em yet, if we live long enough.”

“Humph!” observed Rokens; “and d’ye suppose he’d give ye the right name?”

“He’d no reason to do otherwise. He didn’t know of the dispute between the other boats.”

“There’s truth in that,” remarked Glynn, as he prepared to go on deck; “but it may be a year or more before we foregather. No, I give up all claim to my first fish from this date.”

“All hands ahoy!” shouted the mate; “tumble up there! Reef topsails! Look alive!”

The men ran hastily on deck, completing their buttoning and belting as they went, and found that something very like a storm was brewing. As yet the breeze was moderate, and the sea not very high, but the night was pitchy dark, and a hot oppressive atmosphere boded no improvement in the weather.

“Lay out there, some of you, and close reef the topsails,” cried the mate, as the men ran to their several posts.

The ship was running at the time under a comparatively small amount of canvas; for, as their object was merely to cruise about in those seas in search of whales, and they had no particular course to steer, it was usual to run at night under easy sail, and sometimes to lay-to. It was fortunate that such was the case on the present occasion; for it happened that the storm which was about to burst on them came with appalling suddenness and fury. The wind tore up the sea as if it had been a mass of white feathers, and scattered it high in air. The mizzen-topsail was blown to ribbons, and it seemed as if the other sails were about to share the same fate. The ship flew from billow to billow, after recovering from the first rude shock, as if she were but a dark cloud on the sea, and the spray flew high over her masts, drenching the men on the topsail-yards while they laboured to reef the sails.

“We shall have to take down these t’gallant-masts, Mr Millons,” said the captain, as he stood by the weather-bulwarks holding on to a belaying-pin to prevent his being washed away.

“Shall I give the order, sir?” inquired the first mate.

“You may,” replied the captain.

Just as the mate turned to obey, a shriek was heard high above the whistling of the fierce wind.

“Did you hear that?” said the captain anxiously.

“I did,” replied the mate. “I fear—I trust—”

The remainder of the sentence was either suppressed, or the howling of the wind prevented its being heard.

Just then a flash of lightning lit up the scene, and a terrific crash of thunder seemed to rend the sky. The flash was momentary, but it served to reveal the men on the yards distinctly. They had succeeded in close-reefing the topsails, and were hurrying down the rigging.

The mate came close to the captain’s side and said, “Did you see, sir, the way them men on the mainyard were scramblin’ down?”

The captain had not time to reply ere a shout, “Man overboard!” was heard faintly in the midst of the storm, and in another instant some of the men rushed aft with frantic haste, shouting that one of their number had been blown off the yard into the sea.

“Down your helm,” roared the captain; “stand-by to lower away the boats.”

The usual prompt “Ay, ay, sir,” was given, but before the men could reach their places a heavy sea struck the vessel amidships, poured several tons of water on the decks, and washed all the loose gear overboard.

“Let her away,” cried the captain quickly.

The steersman obeyed; the ship fell off, and again bounded on her mad course like a wild horse set free.

“It’s of no use, sir,” said the mate, as the captain leaped towards the wheel, which the other had already gained; “no boat could live in that sea for a moment. The poor fellow’s gone by this time. He must be more than half-a-mile astern already.”

“I know it,” returned the captain, in a deep sad voice. “Get these masts down, Mr Millons, and see that everything is made fast. Who is it, did you say?”

“The men can’t tell, sir; one of ’em told me ’e thinks it was young Boswell. It was too dark to see ’is face, but ’is figure was that of a stout young fellow.”

“A stout young fellow,” muttered the captain, as the mate hurried forward. “Can it have been Glynn?” His heart sank within him at the thought, and he would have given worlds at that moment, had he possessed them, to have heard the voice of our hero, whom, almost unwittingly, he had begun to love with all the affection of a father. While he stood gazing up at the rigging, attempting to pierce the thick darkness, he felt his sleeve plucked, and, looking down, observed Ailie at his side.

“My child,” he cried, grasping her by the arm convulsively, “you here! How came you to leave your cabin, dear? Go down, go down; you don’t know the danger you run. Stay—I will help you. If one of those seas comes on board it would carry you overboard like a fleck of foam.”

“I didn’t know there was much danger, papa. Glynn told me there wasn’t,” she replied, as her father sprang with her to the companion-ladder.

“How? when? where, child? Did Glynn speak to you within the last ten minutes?”

“Yes; he looked down the hatch just as I was coming up, and told me not to be afraid, and said I must go below, and not think of coming on deck; but I heard a shriek, papa, and feared something had happened, so I came to ask what it was. I hope no one is hurt.”

“My darling Ailie,” replied the captain, in an agitated voice, “go down to your berth, and pray for us just now. There is not much danger; but in all times of danger, whether great or slight, we should pray to Our Father in Heaven, for we never know what a day or an hour may bring forth. I will speak to you about everything to-morrow; to-night I must be on deck.”

He kissed her forehead, pushed her gently into the cabin, shut the door, and, coming on deck, fastened the companion-hatch firmly down.

In a short time the ship was prepared to face the worst. The topsails were close-reefed; the topgallant-masts sent down on deck; the spanker and jib were furled, and, soon after, the mainsail and foresail were also furled. The boats were taken in and secured on deck, and the ship went a little more easily through the raging sea; but as the violence of the gale increased, sail had to be further reduced, and at last everything was taken in except the main spencer and foretopmast-staysail.

“I wouldn’t mind this much,” said the captain, as he and the first mate stood close to the binnacle, “if I only knew our exact position. But we’ve not had an observation for several days, and I don’t feel sure of our whereabouts. There are some nasty coral reefs in these seas. Did you find out who the poor fellow is yet?”

“It’s young Boswell, I fear, Mr Markham is mustering the men just now, sir.”

As he spoke, the second mate came aft and confirmed their fears. The man who had thus been summoned in a moment, without warning, into the presence of his Maker, had been a quiet, modest youth, and a favourite with every one on board. At any other time his death would have been deeply felt; but in the midst of that terrible storm the men had no time to think. Indeed, they could not realise the fact that their shipmate was really gone.

“Mr Markham,” said the captain, as the second mate turned away, “send a hand in to the chains to heave the lead. I don’t feel at all easy in my mind, so near these shoals as we must be just now.”

While the order was being obeyed the storm became fiercer and more furious. Bright gleams of lightning flashed repeatedly across the sky, lighting up the scene as if with brightest moonlight, and revealing the horrid turmoil of the raging sea in which the ship now laboured heavily. The rapidity with which the thunder followed the lightning showed how near to them was the dangerous and subtle fluid; and the crashing, bursting reports that shook the ship from stem to stern gave the impression that mountains were being dashed to atoms against each other in the air.

All the sails still exposed to the fury of the gale were blown to shreds; the foretopmast and the jib-boom were carried away along with them and the Red Eric was driven at last before the wind under bare poles. The crew remained firm in the midst of this awful scene; each man stood at his post, holding on by any fixed object that chanced to be within his reach, and held himself ready to spring to obey every order. No voice could be heard in the midst of the howling winds, the lashing sea, and the rending sky. Commands were given by signs as well as possible, during the flashes of lightning; but little or nothing remained to be done. Captain Dunning had done all that a man thoroughly acquainted with his duties could accomplish to put his ship in the best condition to do battle with the storm, and he now felt that the issue remained in the hands of Him who formed the warring elements, and whose will alone could check their angry strife.

During one of the vivid flashes of lightning the captain observed Glynn Proctor standing near the starboard gangway, and, waiting for the next flash, he made a signal to him to come to the spot where he stood. Glynn understood it, and in a few seconds was at his commander’s side.

“Glynn,” my boy, said the latter, “you won’t be wanted on deck for some time. There’s little to be done now. Go down and see what Ailie’s about, poor thing. She’ll need a little comfort. Say I sent you.”

Without other reply than a nod of the head, Glynn sprang to the companion-hatch, followed by the captain, who undid the fastenings to let him down and refastened them immediately, for the sea was washing over the stern continually.

Glynn found the child on her knees in the cabin with her face buried in the cushions of one of the sofas. He sat down beside her and waited until she should have finished her prayer; but as she did not move for some time he laid his hand gently on her shoulder. She looked up with a happy smile on her face.

“Oh, Glynn, is that you? I’m so glad,” she said, rising, and sitting down beside him.

“Your father sent me down to comfort you, my pet,” said Glynn, taking her hand in his and drawing her towards him.

“I have got comfort already,” replied the child; “I’m so very happy, now.”

“How so, Ailie? who has been with you?”

“God has been with me. You told me, Glynn, that there wasn’t much danger, but I felt sure that there was. Oh! I never heard such terrible noises, and this dreadful tossing is worse than ever I felt it—a great deal. So I went down on my knees and prayed that God, for Christ’s sake would save us. I felt very frightened, Glynn. You can’t think how my heart beat every time the thunder burst over us. But suddenly—I don’t know how it was—the words I used to read at home so often with my dear aunts came into my mind; you know them, Glynn, ‘Call upon Me in the time of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify Me.’ I don’t know where I read them. I forget the place in the Bible now; but when I thought of them I felt much less frightened. Do you think it was the Holy Spirit who put them into my mind? My aunts used to tell me that all my good thoughts were given to me by the Holy Spirit. Then I remembered the words of Jesus, ‘I will never leave thee nor forsake thee,’ and I felt so happy after that. It was just before you came down. I think we shall not be lost. God would not make me feel so happy if we were going to be lost, would He?”

“I think not, Ailie,” replied Glynn, whose conscience reproached him for his ignorance of the passages in God’s word referred to by his companion, and who felt that he was receiving rather than administering comfort. “When I came down I did not very well know how I should comfort you, for this is certainly the most tremendous gale I ever saw, but somehow I feel as if we were in less danger now. I wish I knew more of the Bible, Ailie. I’m ashamed to say I seldom look at it.”

“Oh, that’s a pity, isn’t it, Glynn?” said Ailie, with earnest concern expressed in her countenance, for she regarded her companion’s ignorance as a great misfortune; it never occurred to her that it was a sin. “But it’s very easy to learn it,” she added with an eager look. “If you come to me here every day we can read it together. I would like to have you hear me say it off, and then I would hear you.”

Before he could reply the vessel received a tremendous shock which caused her to quiver from stem to stern.

“She must have been struck by lightning,” cried Glynn, starting up and hurrying towards the door. Ailie’s frightened look returned for a few minutes, but she did not tremble as she had done before.

Just as Glynn reached the top of the ladder the hatch was opened and the captain thrust in his head.

“Glynn, my boy,” said he, in a quick, firm tone, “we are ashore. Perhaps we shall go to pieces in a few minutes. God knows. May He in His mercy spare us. You cannot do much on deck. Ailie must be looked after till I come down for her. Glynn, I depend upon you.”

These words were uttered hurriedly, and the hatch was shut immediately after. It is impossible to describe accurately the conflicting feelings that agitated the breast of the young sailor as he descended again to the cabin. He felt gratified at the trust placed in him by the captain, and his love for the little girl would at any time have made the post of protector to her an agreeable one; but the idea that the ship had struck the rocks, and that his shipmates on deck were struggling perhaps for their lives while he was sitting idly in the cabin, was most trying and distressing to one of his ardent and energetic temperament. He was not, however, kept long in suspense.

Scarcely had he regained the cabin when the ship again struck with terrific violence, and he knew by the rending crash overhead that one or more of the masts had gone over the side. The ship at the same moment slewed round and was thrown on her beam-ends. So quickly did this occur that Glynn had barely time to seize Ailie in his arms and save her from being dashed against the bulkhead.

The vessel rose again on the next wave, and was hurled on the rocks with such violence that every one on board expected her to go to pieces immediately. At the same time the cabin windows were dashed in, and the cabin itself was flooded with water. Glynn was washed twice across the cabin and thrown violently against the ship’s sides, but he succeeded in keeping a firm hold of his little charge and in protecting her from injury.

“Hallo, Glynn!” shouted the captain, as he opened the companion-hatch, “come on deck, quick! bring her with you!”

Glynn hurried up and placed the child in her father’s arms.

The scene that presented itself to him on gaining the deck was indeed appalling. The first grey streak of dawn faintly lighted up the sky, just affording sufficient light to exhibit the complete wreck of everything on deck, and the black froth-capped tumult of the surrounding billows. The rocks on which they had struck could not be discerned in the gloom, but the white breakers ahead showed too clearly where they were. The three masts had gone over the side one after another, leaving only the stumps of each standing. Everything above board—boats, binnacle, and part of the bulwarks—had been washed away. The crew were clinging to the belaying-pins and to such parts of the wreck as seemed likely to hold together longest. It seemed to poor Ailie, as she clung to her father’s neck that she had been transported to some far-distant and dreadful scene, for scarcely a single familiar object remained by which her ocean home, the Red Eric, could be recognised.

But Ailie had neither desire nor opportunity to remark on this tremendous change. Every successive billow raised the doomed vessel, and let her fall with heavy violence on the rocks. Her stout frame trembled under each shock, as if she were endued with life, and shrank affrighted from her impending fate; and it was as much as the captain could do to maintain his hold of the weather-bulwarks and of Ailie at the same time. Indeed, he could not have done it at all had not Glynn stood by and assisted him to the best of his ability.

“It won’t last long, lad,” said the captain, as a larger wave than usual lifted the shattered hull and dashed it down on the rocks, washing the deck from stern to stem, and for a few seconds burying the whole crew under water. “May the Almighty have mercy on us; no ship can stand this long.”

“Perhaps the tide is falling,” suggested Glynn, in an encouraging voice, “and I think I see something like a shore ahead. It will be daylight in half-an-hour or less.”

The captain shook his head. “There’s little or no tide here to rise or fall, I fear. Before half-an-hour we shall—”

He did not finish the sentence, but looking at Ailie with a gaze of agony, he pressed her more closely to his breast.

“I think we shall be saved,” whispered the child, twining her arms more closely round her father’s neck, and laying her wet cheek against his.

Just then Tim Rokens crept aft, and said that he saw a low sandy island ahead, and a rocky point jutting out from it close to the bows of the ship. He suggested that a rope might be got ashore when it became a little lighter.

Phil Briant came aft to make the same suggestion, not knowing that Rokens had preceded him. In fact, the men had been consulting as to the possibility of accomplishing this object, but when they looked at the fearful breakers that boiled in white foam between the ship’s bow and the rocky point, their hearts failed them, and no one was found to volunteer for the dangerous service.

“Is any one inclined to try it?” inquired the captain. “There’s niver a wan of us but ’ud try it, cap’en, if you gives the order,” answered Briant.

The captain hesitated. He felt disinclined to order any man to expose himself to such imminent danger; yet the safety of the whole crew might depend on a rope being connected with the shore. Before he could make up his mind, Glynn, who saw what was passing in his mind, exclaimed— “I’ll do it, captain;” and instantly quitting his position, hurried forward as fast as circumstances would permit.

The task which Glynn had undertaken to perform turned out to be more dangerous and difficult than at first he had anticipated. When he stood at the lee bow, fastening a small cord round his waist, and looking at the turmoil of water into which he was about to plunge, his heart well-nigh failed him, and he felt a sensation of regret that he had undertaken what seemed now an impossibility. He did not wonder that the men had one and all shrunk from the attempt. But he had made up his mind to do it. Moreover, he had said he would do it, and feeling that he imperilled his life in a good cause, he set his face as a flint to the accomplishment of his purpose.

Well was it for Glynn Proctor that day that in early boyhood he had learned to swim, and had become so expert in the water as to be able to beat all his young companions!

He noticed, on looking narrowly at the foaming surge through which he must pass in order to gain the rocky point, that many of the submerged rocks showed their tops above the flood, like black spots, when each wave retired. To escape these seemed impossible—to strike one of them he knew would be almost certain death.

“Don’t try it, boy,” said several of the men, as they saw Glynn hesitate when about to spring, and turn an anxious gaze in all directions; “it’s into death ye’ll jump, if ye do.”

Glynn did not reply; indeed, he did not hear the remark, for at that moment his whole attention was riveted on a ledge of submerged rock, which ever and anon showed itself, like the edge of a knife, extending between the ship and the point. Along the edge of this the retiring waves broke in such a manner as to form what appeared to be dead water-tossed, indeed, and foam-clad, but not apparently in progressive motion. Glynn made up his mind in an instant, and just as the first mate came forward with an order from the captain that he was on no account to make the rash attempt, he sprang with his utmost force off the ship’s side and sank in the raging sea.

Words cannot describe the intense feeling of suspense with which the men on the lee bow gazed at the noble-hearted boy as he rose and buffeted with the angry billows. Every man held his breath, and those who had charge of the line stood nervously ready to haul him back at a moment’s notice.

On first rising to the surface he beat the waves as if bewildered, and while some of the men cried, “He’s struck a rock,” others shouted to haul him in; but in another second he got his eyes cleared of spray, and seeing the ship’s hull towering above his head, he turned his back on it and made for the shore. At first he went rapidly through the surge, for his arm was strong and his young heart was brave; but a receding wave caught him and hurled him some distance out of his course—tossing him over and over as if he had been a cork. Again he recovered himself, and gaining the water beside the ledge, he made several powerful and rapid strokes, which carried him within a few yards of the point.

“He’s safe,” said Rokens eagerly.

“No; he’s missed it!” cried the second mate, who, with Gurney and Dick Barnes, payed out the rope.

Glynn had indeed almost caught hold of the farthest-out ledge of the point when he was drawn back into the surge, and this time dashed against a rock and partially stunned. The men had already begun to haul in on the rope when he recovered, and making a last effort, gained the rocks, up which he clambered slowly. When beyond the reach of the waves he fell down as if he had fainted.

This, however, was not the case; he was merely exhausted, as well as confused, by the blows he had received on the rocks, and lay for a few seconds quite still in order to recover strength, during which period of inaction he thanked God earnestly for his deliverance, and prayed fervently that he might be made the means of saving his companions in danger.

After a minute or two he rose, unfastened the line from his waist, and began to haul it ashore. To the other end of the small line the men in the ship attached a thick cable, the end of which was soon pulled up, and made fast to a large rock.

Tim Rokens was now ordered to proceed to the shore by means of the rope in order to test it. After this a sort of swing was constructed, with a noose which was passed round the cable. To this a small line was fastened, and passed to the shore. On this swinging-seat Ailie was seated, and hauled to the rocks, Tim Rokens “shinning” along the cable at the same time to guard her from accident. Then the men began to land, and thus, one by one, the crew of the Red Eric reached the shore in safety; and when all had landed, Captain Dunning, standing in the midst of his men, lifted up his voice in thanksgiving to God for their deliverance.

But when daylight came the full extent of their forlorn situation was revealed. The ship was a complete wreck; the boats were all gone, and they found that the island on which they had been cast was only a few square yards in extent—a mere sandbank, utterly destitute of shrub or tree, and raised only a few feet above the level of the ocean.