CHAPTER XIX A RESCUE

The sea was still rough from the after effects of the storm, and, although the waves had somewhat subsided, yet they were high enough to tumble over one another--forming white-caps and streamers of spray when caught by the wind. All hands on board who had no definite posts of duty had their eyes fixed upon the boat ahead, and the boys were taking turns in looking through a marine glass which they had borrowed from the Chairman. The lifeboat must have been about five miles off when first sighted by the lookout, and it was not long before they could distinguish, by help of the glasses, a number of people in the boat. There seemed to be eight or ten men, and the boat appeared to be about twenty feet long. In the stern was a pile of what looked like bundles or sacks with some one lying down and partly supported by them. The light was still good, and the declining sun shed its rays full upon the object of their attention. When they had come within about a mile of the boat, they observed that it was an old man, probably weak or ill from exhaustion, who lay in the stern.

She was shipping some water forward, although not very much, and one of the men was busy bailing her out a little aft of amidships.

“Maybe she’s leaking a little,” suggested the mate. “These lifeboats often get shrunken seams from not being in the water for a long time. But it wouldn’t take more than twenty-four hours in the water to swell her up tight; and, if that’s why she’s leaking, they can’t have been away from their ship more than a day and a night.”

“Maybe it’s only the surface spray that’s filled her up,” answered the Captain.

The men in the boat were rowing against the wind; and, as they evidently had only one pair of oars on board, they were making very slow headway. As the _Bright Wing_ approached, they slackened their efforts and, putting both oars on the leeward side, merely kept the boat’s head up into the wind. The Captain meantime had been making up his mind how best to approach them, and decided to give the _Bright Wing_ a good “full” to starboard and then to luff up and shoot into the wind so that the lifeboat would be to leeward of the _Bright Wing_ on the starboard side. He timed his little manœuvre with great skill so that the ship’s headway, counteracted by the wind as she shot up with her sails shaking, was just enough to bring her to a standstill at about ten yards to windward of the boat.

“Boat ahoy!” called out the Captain. “Can you row up alongside?”

The oars were immediately adjusted and dipped into the water; and, in a few strokes, the boat had come up to within ten feet.

The sea had still enough motion to make it a somewhat delicate matter to handle the boat so that there would be no bumping or unnecessary jar in getting the people aboard. The mate and Perkins had the largest fenders hanging close to the side-ladder; and Bertie Young threw out a line toward the bow of the boat, while Ellsworth threw out another toward the stern. These were immediately made fast, but the Captain ordered them kept fastened with some slack, so as to allow enough free play between the boat and the vessel to prevent unnecessary strain.

One man, who seemed to be the Skipper, was giving directions on the lifeboat, which kept rising and falling with the waves, alongside the _Bright Wing_.

The man lying in the stern was old and sick; but his eye watched what was going on, though his body remained motionless. As soon as the lines were made fast, the Skipper on the lifeboat signed to one of the younger men to get aboard the ship; and this one, watching his chance, waited until the boat had risen on the top of a wave,--and then, grasping one of the stays of the _Bright Wing_, lightly stepped on to the rail, and down upon the deck. He then stood holding out his arms over the side-ladder toward the crew of the boat, while the Skipper held up a small boy of about twelve, who was lifted on deck without any difficulty.

After that, five able-bodied men jumped on board, each watching his chance, until only the Skipper and the sick man were left. Meantime the Captain leaned over the rail and asked the Skipper whether he had any tackle by which the invalid could be raised, as he was evidently unable to walk; the Skipper shook his head, and the Captain then threw him a swimming belt and line which had been used on the _Bright Wing_ in exceptional cases, to teach beginners to swim.

The bowline was then hauled in until the lifeboat drew close to the boat boom, which had been let down by the Captain’s orders. The Skipper then hauled on the boom lines until the stern of the lifeboat lay close to the tip end of the boom. He then strapped the belt around the old man’s waist and fastened the line attached to it with a bowline knot to the end of the boom.

As soon as the patient had been properly strapped up, the Captain gave the signal, and his frail old body was hoisted into the air slightly above the height of the rail. Then the boat boom was swung over the rail, and, as soon as the bent body of the old man had passed over the side, hanging, with a slight swinging motion, about two feet above the deck, Mr. Wentworth took him in his arms and Jack Perkins unfastened the belt. Then they carried him to the day bunk, and the boys supported him with pillows, while Mr. Wentworth and Jack went back to help haul the lifeboat alongside the ship. The Skipper passed up several cases containing a sextant, compass, and chronometer,--also a long tin tube in which was a roll of charts,--and then, in his turn, he stepped on to the deck.

Meantime the old man had been left on the day bunk in charge of Tom, Dick and Chippie, who happened to be the boys nearest at hand, when--suddenly--they noticed that he had turned deadly pale and had evidently fainted.

“Take the pillows from under his head, Tom,” said Dick. “We’ll lay him perfectly flat, and, Chippie, you unbutton his shirt and free his throat and chest. I’ll take off his boots and rub his legs upward.”

“Now, Tom, go below and get some fresh water and a towel.”

The boys worked so quietly together--without any excitement or haste--that hardly any one else knew that the old gentleman was unconscious until gradually the other boys gathered around the day bunk, when Tom said:

“Stand back, fellows, you’re cutting off the air from him; one of you run and report to Mr. Miller what has happened.”

In another minute Mr. Miller was looking over the heads of some of the smaller scouts at the patient on the day bunk, and smiled his approval of the way in which the three boys were working. Just then the old man opened his eyes, and Mr. Miller leaned over to feel his pulse.

“It’s fairly good, and I think we can put back the pillows now, and he’ll feel more comfortable. But we’ve got to keep him warm, Smith, so run down below and get a couple of blankets. We’ll let him stay up in the fresh air as long as we can.”

While all this had been going on, hardly a word had been spoken, excepting by the Captain and the Skipper and the boys at the day bunk; and the sense of relief from suspense--when the Skipper finally stepped aboard--was so great that a cheer arose, beginning at the forecastle and taken up by the boys, to vent their feelings of happiness at the rescue.

Finally the lifeboat itself was fastened astern while the cook began busily preparing hot coffee and broth, and bread and butter.

After the old man had rested for half an hour or so, and had taken a few sips of broth, he was carried down into the officers’ cabin and put into Mr. Wentworth’s bunk; and to Mr. Wentworth the care of the patient was assigned. It was also arranged that there should be a Sea Scout attached to him as special attendant, to be relieved every three hours, and Dick Gray, who was the first to whom this duty was allotted, sat down on the cabin locker next the old man’s bunk with mingled feelings of sympathy and pride.

The watch on duty had stuck to their post admirably during these exceptional circumstances, and now the Captain ordered the sails close hauled and pointed the ship as nearly as possible into the wind while waiting instructions as to their future course.

While taking his coffee in the cabin, the Skipper explained that they were bound for Boston, having lost their ship, the _Monmouth_ from Cardiff, by fire, about fifty miles from the coast.

“There is another lifeboat still adrift, as far as I know,” said he, “which abandoned the ship some hours before we did, but I believe it is likely to have been picked up by some coastwise vessel, just as our own boat has been picked up by the _Bright Wing_. The _Monmouth_ was a tramp ocean steamer of about two thousand tons, laden with Welsh cannel coal, for Boston. Now the first thing I want to do, after thanking you, gentlemen, for saving our lives, is to get into communication, if possible, with the crew of the other lifeboat; and I suppose the best way to do this would be to get to a telegraph office and communicate directly with the nearest wireless station, or with the British Consul in Boston, or both.”

The Chairman at once sent for the Captain; and, considering the direction of the wind, which had slightly veered to the northward, it was decided to keep on their original course to Vineyard Haven and send out telegrams of inquiry from there. As they were only about thirty miles away, they would probably drop anchor in the Haven in about three or four hours, and before the closing of the telegraph office. After this decision the Captain returned on deck and gave the order to slacken sheets; and in another five minutes the _Bright Wing_ had gathered herself together and was sliding along in a straight line for Vineyard Haven.

It was necessary to detail an extra helper for the cook; and, at half-past five, the regular supper time, all the crew of the lifeboat, with the exception of the sick man and the Skipper, were given seats at the boys’ table; while the Skipper as the guest of the Chairman sat at the officers’ table; eight of the boys had their supper separately, after the others.

During the meal the talk, of course, turned on the shipwreck and fire at sea.

“We discovered the fire,” said the Skipper, “two days before we left the ship. Some of the coal had caught fire in the hold and had gained sufficient headway, before being discovered, to make it impossible to quench it by water. The heat, of course, was intense; and the harder we worked with the pumps at one end, the more the fire seemed to gain in intensity at the other. Finally I gave the order to batten down all the hatches and try to smother it; while, at the same time, we put on full steam in the hope of making Boston Harbor in time to save the ship, although her cargo would, in any case, be a dead loss. But, unfortunately, the great heat in the hold not only made it impossible to stay in the engine room and fire room, but also interfered with the working of the machinery; and it soon became evident that there was nothing to do but to let her burn, so I gave orders for all hands to try and save what they could of their personal belongings.

“One of the stokers was overcome by the heat and would have burned to death at his post if the Chief Officer and I had not got him out of the fire room just in time to avoid being suffocated by the fumes ourselves. There were only two lifeboats aboard, and we lowered the stoker who had so nearly lost his life into the first one.

“Six men and the two assistant engineers took their places in the first lifeboat in charge of the Chief Officer, and were equipped with three pairs of oars, a compass, three cases of food, and two jugs of water. I estimated that they could live for three days, by great economy, and they all felt confident that they would be picked up long before the three days were up.

“It was a relief to me to feel that at least half of the crew were in a fair way to be rescued. The old gentleman in the cabin is my father-in-law, who is on his way out West to join a married daughter, living in Vincennes, Indiana; and the boy is his grandson, whose parents have recently died, and who is going with the old man to find a new home on American soil. I preferred,” said he, “to keep the members of my family with me, although it might possibly have been safer for them to get away in the first lifeboat; but there were still a number of things for me to do before leaving the ship.

“The northeast storm was just about at its tag-end when lifeboat Number 1 left the _Monmouth_. The wind was in her favor, in a general way, and the water, though still rough, was gradually calming down. After seeing them off and waving my hat as they drew away from the vessel, I went over in my mind all the things that should be got together and put into the second boat. The belongings of the crew did not fill more than three or four sea-bags and were quickly gathered. The cash, the instruments, and the ship’s papers were carefully deposited in the bottom and covered with oilskin; and now, when we were all ready to step aboard, the Second Officer reported that he could find _only one pair of oars_! There was a mast, but no sail; and we would have to be very careful not to break or lose either of the two oars upon which so much depended.

“But the sky was clearing, and we were all delighted to leave the heat and desolation of the burning ship. It was six o’clock in the evening as we left her; and, although we were obliged to travel slowly, our course lay toward the pleasant gleams of the setting sun--which meant a friendly shore and the beginning of a new chapter.”

While the Skipper was telling his story at the supper table, every man and boy stopped to listen with bated breath; and, as soon as supper was over and the boys had scrambled on deck, Tom, Dick, and Chippie found one another, as if by magnetic attraction, and with the same idea in their minds.

“Did you notice the Skipper was the last man to leave the ship?” said Chippie.

“You bet!” answered Dick and Tom in a single breath. “After you, Pilot!”