Chapter 17

OFF CAPE CROKER

Corkey has climbed to the upper deck and stands there alone in the darkness and the gale. The engine stops. The steamer falls into the trough of the sea.

The Africa carries two yawls attached to her davits. Corkey is feeling about one of these yawls. He suspects that the lines are old. He steps to the other side. He strains at a rope. He strives to unloose it from its cleat. The line is stiff and almost frozen.

"I'd be afraid to lower myself, anyhow," he observes, for he has the notion that everything about the Africa is insecure.

The ship gives another lurch. Something must be done. Almost before he knows it, Corkey has cut loose the stern. The rope seems strong.

Now he must unwind the bow line from its cleat, or he will lose his boat. He kicks at the cleat. He loosens a loop. He raises the boat and then lowers it. The tackle works.

The other yawl and its tackle roll and creak in the gale. Nobody else comes up the ladders.

The man aloft pulls his line out and fastens it to the cleat which he tried to kick off. He seizes the stern of the yawl and hoists it far over the upper deck. The yawl falls outside the gunwale below, with a great crash and splintering of oars.

"She's there!" says Corkey, feeling the taut line. "She's there, and the rope is good. The davit is good."

The people below seem to know that a boat is being put out. But Corkey is the only man on the ship who thinks the idea practicable. "Of what use to lower a small boat," say the sailors, "in Georgian Bay?"

The man above must descend on that little line. He doesn't want to do that. He goes to the other boat, and makes a feeble experiment of hoisting and lowering, by means of both davits, the man to sit in the yawl. "I couldn't do it!" he vows, and recrosses.

"What'll I do when I get down there?" he mutters. "How'll I get loose?"

He must make his descent knife in hand.

"I can't do it!" he says, and gets out his knife. It is a large fur-handled hunting knife--like Corkey in its style.

Corkey peers down on deck. The wood-choppers are fastening life-preservers about their bodies. Whether they be crying or shouting, cannot be told.

He sees human forms hurrying past the cabin window, and there is reflected the yellow, wooden, ribby thing which he knows to be a life-preserver.

It is a cheering thing in such a moment. "I wish I had one," he says, but he holds to the rope of his boat.

There is no crew, in the proper sense of the word. Not an officer or man on board feels a responsibility for the lives of the passengers. As at a country summer resort, each person must wait on himself.

"Nobody is better'n we are," says the captain.

The Africa is rapidly foundering.

"She must be as rotten as punk," sneers Corkey. He thinks of his cheerful desk at the newspaper office. He thinks of his marine register. He tries to recall the rating of this hulk of an Africa.

"Anyhow, it is tough!" he laments.

The wind is perhaps less boisterous since the engine slacked. The rays of light from the cabin lamps pierce and split the waves. Corkey never saw so much foam before.

"It's an easy good-bye for all of us," he says, and falls ill.

But shall he wait for the Africa to settle?

"She'll pull me down, sure!" he comments.

Shall he wait much longer, then?

"All them roosters will be up here, and then we can't do nothing. Yet I wish I had somebody with me. Oh, Lockwin! I say, hello! Old man! Lockwin! Come up this way!"

For a moment there is nothing to be heard but the furious whistling of the gale about the mast in front. There is nobody in the wheel-house to the best of Corkey's eyesight.

There are three or four booming sounds. Corkey is startled. They are repeated.

It is the yawl making its hollow sound.

But there are no noises of human beings. "Oddest thing I ever see!" says Corkey. "I didn't know a shipwreck was like this. Everything is different from what is printed--Lord save me!"

The Africa is rolling.

"Here goes!" It is now or never.

Corkey has short, tough fingers. He grasps that rope like a vise. He wraps his left leg well in the coils. He kicks the steamer with his right. The small boat does not touch the water when the steamer is sitting straight in the sea.

It is a horrible turmoil in which to enter. Perhaps he came down too soon!

"I wish I had some one with me now. Mebbe the two of us would get an advantage."

The second mate looks over the gunwale from the prow of the steamer. He knows a land-lubber is handling a yawl.

"D---- fool!" he mutters.

In the Georgian Bay, if the ship go down, all hands are to drown. Only sham sailors like Corkey are to make any effort, beyond fastening pieces of wood about their waists.

"I wonder if I'd come out here for this if I'd got onto it?" Then the grim features relax. "I wonder if his nobs would?"

Corkey's feet rest on the prow of the small boat. He asks if he fastened that rope securely at the cleat. He has asked that all the way down. Perhaps the steamer is not going to sink.

"Whoopy!"

Corkey is under the steamer's side, deep in the waves. He goes down suddenly, cold, frightened, benumbed. He feels that some one is trying to pull the rope out of his hands. It must be Lockwin. The drowning man clutches with a hundred forces. The tug increases. The struggling man will lose the rope. Lockwin is striking Corkey with a bludgeon. That is unfair! There is a last pull, and Corkey comes up out of the waves.

What has happened? The Africa has rolled nearly over, but is righting.

Corkey's wits return. "I've lost my knife!" he cries, in bitter disappointment. But, lo! his knife is in his hands. He can with difficulty unloose his fingers from the rope.

The Africa is listing upon him again. He dreads that abyss of waters. He cuts the rope far above him and he falls in the sea, the entire scope of his life passing in a red fire before his eyes.

Beside, there is a drowning thought that he has gone out to die before the rest. At the last, when he swung out as the Africa rolled toward him he wanted to climb back.

Now the red fire is gone and Corkey can think. He believes he is drowning. "It's because I wasn't a real sailor," he argues. "The sailors knew better."

Something pulls him. It is the rope which he holds. He knows now that he has a yawl on the end of that line. He pulls and pulls--and comes up to the air, a choking, sneezing, exceedingly active human being. The yawl is riding the water. He rolls into the boat at the prow. He feels quickly for the oars and finds two that are in their locks. Water is deep in the bottom. There is nothing to bail with.

But the joy of the little man is keen. "I'm saved! That's what I am! I'm saved!"

He thinks he hears a new noise--a great sough--the pouring of waters. He is moved sidewise in his boat. He wipes the mist from his eyes and peers in all directions for the ship.

"Where in God's name is she?" It is the most frightful thought Corkey has ever entertained.

The Africa has gone down. It is as sure as that Corkey sits in the yawl, safe for the moment. The spirit of the man sinks with the ship, and then rides high again.

"They're nothing to me!" he says. "I'm the only contestant, too!"

He is too brave. The thought seems sacrilegious. He grows faint with fear! All alone on Georgian Bay!

The boat leaps and settles, leaps and settles. The oars fly in his face, and are jerked away. The boat falls on something solid. What is that? It hits the boat again. An oar flies out of Corkey's hand. His hand seizes the gunwale for security. A warmer hand is felt. Corkey pulls on the hand--a head--a kinky head--comes next. The thing is alive, and is welcome. Corkey pulls with both hands. A small form comes over the gunwale just as a wave strikes the side of the yawl with the only noise that can be heard. The yawl does not capsize. The boy begins bailing with his hands.

It is the mascot. "Hooray!" cries the man. His confidence returns. He hears the boy paddling the water. The rebellious oars are seized with hope, but Corkey feels as if he were high on a fractious horse,

"Bail, you moke!" he commands in tones that are heard for a hundred yards.

"Bail, you cross-eyed, left-handed, two-thumbed, six-toed, stuttering moke!"

The boy paddles with his hands. The man, by spasmodic efforts, holds the boat against the wind for a minute, and then loses his control.

"Bail, you moke!" he screams, as the tide goes against him.

The hands fly faster.

The boat comes back against the wind and the great seas split on each side of the prow.

The swimmers hear Corkey.

"Lordy!" he says. "I know I hit a man then with that right oar. I felt it smash him. There! we're on him now! Bail, you moke! No stopping, or I throw you in! Stop that bailing and catch that duck there! Got him? Hang on!"

It is a wood-chopper.

This yawl is like a wild animal. It springs upward, it rolls, it flounders. It is like a wild bronco newly haltered. How can these many heads hope to get upon so spirited a steed? See it leap backward and on end! Now up, now sidewise, now vertically!

But the swimmers are also the sport of the waves. They, too, are thrown far aloft. They, too, sink deeply.

"There, I hit that man again, I know I did! Don't you feel him? They must be thick. Come this way, all you fellers! I can take ye!"

The boat is leaping high. These survivors are brave and good.

The wood-chopper, with his wooden life-preserver, is clumsy getting in. He angers Corkey.

"Bail, you moke! Let the other fellows fish for the floaters!"

It inspires Corkey, this frequent admonition of the boy. But the boat cavorts dizzily.

"Bail, you moke! You black devil! Don't you forget it!" The oars go fast and furious, often in the air, and each time with a volley of oaths.

The wood-chopper has seized a man. It is another wood-chopper. There are now four souls in the boat.

It leaps less like an athlete.

It has been half an hour since the Africa went down. There still are cries. To all these, Corkey replies: "Come on! all you fellers that has life-preservers!" But it is incredible that any more should get in the yawl.

Nevertheless, one, two, three, four, five, six wood-choppers arrive in the next half-hour, and all are saved. Tugging for dear life, Corkey holds his boat against the wind.

"There!" cries the commander. "I strike him again!"

A wood-chopper this time grasps a floating man who can make little effort for himself. A half-dozen pair of hands bring him aboard. He sinks on a seat. The boat is now full. It leaps less lightly. The commander is jubilant. He thinks himself safe. He returns to his favorite topic, the mascot.

"You're from the Africa, ain't you? Bail, you moke! He-oh-he! Golly, that was a big one!"

"Yessah!"

"You're Noah. Good name! Fine name! Where's Ararat? He-oh-he!"

"Never seed a-a-airy-rat."

"Bail, you moke! Don't you give me more o' your lip! Bail, you little devil! Don't you see--he-oh--Godsakes! Lookout! Bail, all you fellers! Other side! Quick! It's no good! Hang on! All you fellers."

The boat is turning. Hands grasp the gunwale. The gunwale sinks. Hands rise. The back of the boat rolls toward them. The hands scramble and pat the back of the boat. The gunwale comes over. The boat is right side up. She still leaps. She still struggles to be free. Hand after hand lets go. Six hands remain. The boat rises and ends about. Then the bow rises; next the stern. The yawl strives persistently to shake free from the daring creatures who have so far escaped the Africa and the storm. The boy turns on the gunwale, as it were a trapeze. He opens the locker. He finds a tin pie-plate. He bails.

Corkey gets in.

"Lord of heavens!" he ejaculates, "that was a close call. Them wood-choppers! They was no earthly use."

Two hands are yet on the gunwale.

"Suppose we can git him in?"

"Yessah!" stammers the boy.

The unknown man is evidently wounded, but is more active than when he was first picked up.

Every wood-chopper is gone. There are no sounds in Georgian Bay other than the noises of the boat, the wind and the great waves. There were 117 souls on the Africa. Now 114 are drowned. They perished like rats in a trap.

What moment will the boat overturn again?

"Bail, my son!"

"Yessah!" stammers the boy.

The boat is riding southward and backward at a fast rate. Three hours have passed--three hours of increasing effort and nerve-straining suspense.

The wounded survivor lies in the stern of the boat. The boy bails incessantly. The water is thrown in at the stern in passing over the boat from the prow.

"It's bad on that rooster!" says Corkey, as he hears the water dashing on the prostrate form. "Wonder if his head is out of the drink?"

"Yessah!" stammers the boy, feeling slowly in the stern.

The work and the fear settle into a sodden, unbroken period of three hours more. Growing familiarity with the seas aids Corkey in holding the craft to the wind. But how long can he last? How long can he defy the wind?

"Bail, my son!" he begs.

"Yessah," stammers the boy.

The gray light begins to touch the east. Corkey has lived an age since he saw that light. He is afraid of it now.

A cloud moves by and the morning bursts on the group.

Busy as he is, Corkey is eager to see the man in the stern.

"Holy smoke!" says the oarsman.

"Yessah!" stammers the obedient lad.

The face on the stern seat startles Corkey. The nose is broken, the lips are cut, some of the front teeth are gone and the face has been bloody. It is like a wound poulticed white. It has been wet and cold all night.

"Lockwin, isn't it you?" asks Corkey, greatly moved at a sight so affecting.

"It is," signals Lockwin. The voice is inaudible to Corkey.

The head rises and Corkey strains his ear.

"I'm dying, Corkey. God bless you. I wanted to thank you."

"God bless you, Lockwin. We're all in the same boat. I'm glad we caught you!"

The mascot moves toward the sinking man.

The head falls again on the stern seat. The body is in ten inches of water.

The boat is moving rapidly.

"Want to send any word home, Lockwin?"

There is a pause. There is an effort to speak of money. There is another effort.

"He s-a-ays put a st-st-stone at Davy's-s-s-s-s grave," interprets the stammerer.

"Who's Davy?" asks the oarsman. "What else did he say?"

"H-h-h-he's dead!" says the lad.

"Bail! bail!" answers the man. "Let's g-g-get 'im out!" suggests the boy in a half-hour. Corkey has been sobbing.

"I thought a heap of Lockwin," he answers.

"I d-d-don't like a d-d-dead man in the boat!"

"Bail, you moke! I'll throw you in!"

But Corkey's voice is far from menacing. Corkey is weak. Now he sees the boy's face in dreadful contortions. The lad is trying to speak quickly, and can make no noise at all.

He rises and points. He is frantic.

"He's crazy!" thinks Corkey, in alarm.

"L-l-land!" screams the lad.

"That is what it is, unless it's sucking us in." Corkey has heard of mirages in shipwreck.

"It's land!" he says, a moment later, as he sees a tamarack scrub.

It is, in reality, a long, narrow spit of sand that pushes out above Colpoy's Bay. Beyond that point is the black and open Georgian Bay for thirty miles.

The boat will ride by, and at least three hundred yards outside. Unless Corkey can get inside, what will become of him?

If he turn away from the wind he will capsize.

On comes the point. It is the abyss of death beyond.

"We never will get it!" cries the man.

The boy's face is all contortions. He is trying to say something.

"Bail, you moke!" commands the man. But his eyes look imploringly on the peninsula of sand.

The black face grows hideous. The eyes are white and protrude. The point is off the stern of the yawl.

"Not d-d-deep!" yells the mascot with an explosion.

"Sure enough!"

"S-s-s-s-see the sand in the wa-wa-ter!"

"Sure enough!"

The idea saves Corkey and the boy. Over the side Corkey goes. He touches bottom and is swept off.

The boat drags him. He catches the boy's hand.

"Let her go," is the command, and, boy in arms, Corkey stands on the bottom. The sea rages as if it were a thousand feet deep.

If Corkey wore a life-preserver he would be lost.

Now is he on a sand-bar? This is his last and most prostrating fear. Step by step he moves toward the point. The waves dash over his head, as they dash over the yawl. Step by step he learns that he is safe.

The boat is gone forever.

The water grows shallower. The great sea goes by. The bay beyond may look black now Corkey has escaped its jaws.

He puts down the lad.

"Walk, you moke!" he commands.

The twain labor hand in hand to the point.

The man sinks like a drunkard upon the sands wet with the tempest.

When Corkey regains his senses four men are lifting him in a wagon. The mascot sits on the front seat.

Four newspaper reporters want his complete account.