The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 5, 1904, Page 2

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. ght by McClure, Phillips & Co.) break of day—a sullen dawn the sky's weight of wav- ing black cloud had balked for an hour—the schooner was still fast in the grip of the floe and driving sou'west with the gale. The reased; it disclosed the faces of men—frogen cheeks, steaming beards weighted with icicles, eyes flaring in dark pits. It disclosed the decks, where a litter of gaffs and clubs and ropes’ ends lay frozen in the blood and fat of slain seal, the grimy deck house and galley, the wrecked bowsprit, the abandoned wheel, the rigging and spars all sheathed with ice; and, beyond, es it pushed its way into the utte st shadows, the solid shape of Deadly Rock and the Blue- black Shoal lying in the path of the wind the “Does you ses un, men?” sald skipper They were seven old hands who had gathered wit! he skipper by the wind- orning, and they the night long— , heavy with with forbid- were not t other times, to the ity—men of knot- look of strength, from hich some gnarled old 1l clothed tn some coarse, last in 2 way so it made glants of the watch ested were see un—the Blueblack— the skipper bawled, for f ice and wind had over- ce the direction of his of his frozen mitt to ead ahead ies and de the was in strength or wn- ? So they wait- 1d would do with the skipper drawled at wreck. Seems that way t’ v dead ahead in the path r's drift. In every part k themselves free of color of lead d -cast down-— pans were ragments with & and hissing. The the sea like , were as for r of the pack—no hin- w sh. The scrag and between them, . the help of the waves, they passage. The machine said the skipper, L lose the schoc he bawled, out and a shake of lose her from stem tn rail, and aloft, rigging. His and there—lin- She was his life's had builded her. ‘tis,” said to the skip- her here ~sure rched ge, skipper,” ol ing his volce f the pack *Twere a haul off the Grey Islands—now, ‘twere,” said the skipper. "Twere 50 good as ever 1 knowed from a schooner,” “I ¥ ekipper. said es t' lose them pelts,” said the “I do hate t’ lose them pelts.” Never yet were I wrecked with bloody decks,” said Anderson, “that I didn’t say "twas a pity t’ lose the car- Anderson, go. Never, b'y—never! I says every time, says I, 'twas a pity t' lose the peits.” Just then Saul’s young brother, John, epproached the group and stood to listen. He was a slight, brown-eyed boy, having the flush of health, true, and a conspicuous grace, but dark eyes instead of blue ones, and small meas- ure of the bone and hard flesh of his mates. Saul moved under the fore- maest shrouds and beckoned him over. “John, b" the man said, in a ten- der whisper, leaning over, “keep along- side o' me when—when—Come,” burst- ing into forced heartiness, “there’s a good lad, now; keep alongside o’ me.” John caught his breath. “Iss, Saul,” he whispered. Then he had to moisten his lips. *¥ss, I will,” he added, quite steadily. in a low, inspiring cry. The swift upward glance—the quiv- ering glance, darting from the depths, which touched Saul’s boid blue eyes for 2 flash and shifted to the dull sky— betrayed the boy again. He was one of those poor, dreamful folk who fear the sea. It may be that Saul loved him for that—for that strange difference. “Close alongside, John, b'y,” Baul mumbled, touching the lad on the shoulder, but not daring to look in his face. “Close—close alongside o’ me.” “Iss, Saul.” It began to snow; not in feathery flakes, silent and soft, but the whizzing dust of flakes, which eddied and ran with the wind in blasts that stung. Most of the crew went below to get warm while there was yet time—that they might be warm and supple in the crisis, Also they ate their fill of pork end biscuit and drank their fill of water; belng wise in the ways of ice, each stuffed his stomach, which they call in such times with grim bumor the long pocket. Some took off thelr jackets to glve their arms freer play in the coming fight; some tightened their belts; some filled their pockets with the things they loved most; all made ready. Then they sat down to wait, and the waiting, in that sweltering, pitching hole, with its shadows and flickering light, —was voiceless and fidgety. It was the brew- ing time of panic. In the words of the Newfoundlander, it would soon be every man for his life —that dread hour when, by the ac- cepted creed of that coast, earth Is in mercy curtained from heaven and the impassive angel’s book is closed. At such times escape is for the strong; the weak ask for no help; they are thrust aside; they find no hand stretched out. Compassion, and all the other kin of love, being overborne in the tumult, flee the hearts of men; there remains but the brute greed of life— more life. Every man for his own life— for his life. Each watched the other as though that other sought to wrest some advantage from him. Such was the temper of the men then that when the skipper roared for all hands there was & rush for the.ladder and a scuffiz for place at the foot of it. “Men,” the skipper bawled, when the crew had huddled amidships, cowering rom the wind, “the ship'll strike the Blueblack inside o’ thirty minutes. 'Tis every man for his life.” The old man was up on the port rail with the snow curling about him. He had a grip of the mainmast shrouds to stay himself against the wind and the lunging of the ship. The thud and swish of waves falling back and the din of grinding ice broke from the depths of the snow over the bow—frox some place near and hidden—and the gale was roaring past. The men crowded closer to hear him. “Tis time t' take t’ the ice!" he cried “Iss, skipper!™ “Sure, sir.” Young John Nash was in the shelter of Saul's great body; he was touching the skirt of the man’s great-coat—like a child in a crowd. “Is you all here?” the skipper went He ran his eye cver them to count them. No man looked around for his friends. ““Thirty-three. All right! Men, you’ll follow Saul Nash. When you ts a hundred yards off the ship you'll t clear, o’ the shoal. Now, over the , all hand In a lull of the wind the shoal seemed suddenly very near. ’Ll_\ ely, men! Lively!” The schooner was: low with her weight of seal-fat. It was but a short the pack in which she was —at most, but a swinging drop all; even so, the side the* or feli—fell as ng. There was path was ? 2 = sound of the scatter g Sav had resisted the but were even th out of the press an pleces; save.upon those few pans, there upon d fauing back in was ne placs where a man could rest his foot,"for"Where he set it down the it sank. He must leap—leap—from one sinking fragment to another, choosing in a flash where next to alight; chanc ing his weight where it might be sis- tained for the momept of gathering to leap again—he “must le@p = without pause; he must leap or the'pack would let him through and close aver: his head. Moreover the wind swept over the pack with full force and a sting- ing touch, and it was filled with the dust of snow; a- wind which froze and choked and blinded wherg it could. But in the lead of Saul Nash, who was like a swaying shadow in the snow ahead, thirty men made the hundred yards and dispersed to the pans to wait-> thirty of thirty-three, not counting the skipper, who had lingered far back to see the last of the work of his hands. “Leave us—wait—here,” said Saul, be- tween convulsive pants, when, with John and ol’ Bill Anderson, he had come to rest on a small pan. He turned his back to the wind to catch his breath. “Us’ll clear ‘the shoal—here, he added. Ol' Bill fell, exhausted. his mouth with his arm. as any place,” he gasped. “'Tis big enough for seven men,” sald John. Bill was an old hand—an old hand; and he had been in the thick of the pitiless slaughter of seals for five days. “Us’ll let noa moare aboard, b'y,” he cried. He started to his elbow .and looked around; but he saw no one making for the pan, so he said to Saul: “’Tis too small for three. Leave th young feller loo.: out for hisself; som: other— “Bill,” said Saul, “the lad bides here.” Bill was an old hand, He laughed in scorn. Maybe,” sald he, “if the sea gets at this pan—to-morrow, or nex’ day, Saul—if the sea gets at un, an’ wears un down, ’tis yourself’ll be the first t* push the lad off, an’ not— ;Does you hear me, Bill! I says the adl John plucked Saul's slebve. *‘Tis goaln' abroad,” he said, sweeping his hand over the pack. A Then a hush fell upon the ice—a hush that deepened and spread, and soon left only the swish of the gale and the muffiled roar of the shoal. It came creeping from the.west like a sigh of relief. The driving force of the wind. had somewhere been mysteriously counteracted, The pressure was with- drawn. The pack was free. It would dieperse into its separate parts. A veer- ing of the wind—the impact of some vagrant fleld—a ‘current or a tide—a far-off rock; who knows what influence? The direction of the pack was changed. It would swerve outward from the Blueblack shoal. He shielded “'Tis so goed “Baok, men! She'll goa clear o' the shoal!” That was the skipper. They could see him standing with his back to the gale and his hands in_ his mouth. *Beyond, in the mist of snow, the schooner . lay tos€ing; her ropes and spars were a web and her hull was a ehadow. “Back! Back!” There was a zigzag, plunging race for the schooner — for more life for the hearth fires of Ragged Harbor and the lips of wiges and the clinging fingers of babies Which swam, as in a golden cloud,” in the snow the wind was driving over the deck. The ice went abroad. The pack thirined and fell away Into its fragments, which then floated free in widening gdps of sea. The way back was yanishing—even the sinking way over which they had come. Old James Moth, the father of eight, mischose the path; when he came to the end he teetered for a space on two small cakes, neither.of which would bear him, and when his feet had forced them wide he fell ba¢k and was drowned. Ezra Bull, he who had married pretty Mary o' Brunt Cove that winter, missed his leap and fell between two pans, which swung to- gethier with crushing force in the trough of the lop; he sank without a cry when they went aboard. it ias then perceived that the schooner had gathered way and was drifting faster than the pack through which she was pushing. As the ice fell away before her her speed in- creased. The crew swerved to head her off. It was now a race without mercy or reproach, As the men con- verged upon the schooner's side their paths merged Into one—a narrow, shifting way to the ice in her lee—and it was in the éncounters of that place that three men lost their lives. Two of them tumbled to their death locked in each other’s arms, and one was best- ed and flung down. ‘When Saul and John, the last of all, came to that one patch of loose ice where the rail was within reach a crowd of ‘seven was congested there, and, with brute unreason, they were fighting for the first grip. So fast was the schooner slipping away there was time left for four, at most, to clamber aboard. i ? “Saul! Sdul! She'll slip away from we.” She was drifting faster. The loos- ened pack divided before her prows. (4 HER POFF. j{ %fi 5 /.;j AND SFAFS - AAS 4 S//AfléLAf She was scraping through the ice, leav- ing it behind her, faster and faster yet. The blind crowd amidships piunged along ' with her, all the while losing something of their” positiom: Steady, John, b'y,” said Saul. “For- ‘ard, there—under the quarter.” “Iss, Saul. Oh, make haste!” In & moment they were under the forward quarter, standing firm on a narrow pan of -ice, wafting for the drift of the schooner to bring the rail within reach. When that time came Saul caught up the lad and lifted him high. But she was' dragging the men who clung to her. = They <were now Wwithin arm’s reach of John. Even as he drew himself up a hand was raised to catch his foot. Saul struck at the arm. Then he felt a clutch at his own ankle—a grip that tightened. He look- ed down. His foot was released. He saw a hand stretched up and stooped to grasp it; it was suddenly with- drawn. The face of a man wayersd in the black water and disappeared. Saul knew that a tcuch of his hand Wwas as near as ol’ Bill Anderson had come to salvation. Then the fight was upon him. A man clambered upon his back. He felt his foothold sinking—tipping—sinking. But he wriggled away, turned in a rush of terror to defend himself and grappled with this man. They fell to the ice, each trying to free himself from the other; their welght was dis- tributed over a wider surface of frag- ments, so they were borne up while they fought. The rest trampled over them. Before they could recover and make good their footing the ship had drifted past. They were cut off from her by the open water in her wake. She slipped away lke a shadow, vaguer grew, and vanished in the swirling snow. But a picture remain- ed with Saul—that of a lad, in a cloud of snow, leaning over the rail, which was a shadow, with his mouth wide open in a cry, which was lost in the tumult of wind and hoarse voices, and with his hand stretched out; and he knew that John -was aboard and would come safe to Ragged Harbor. “For'ard, there — stand by, some o' you!” 4 It was the skipper's voice, ringing in the white night beyond. There was an answering trample, like the sound of footfalls departing. “Show a bit o' that jib!” Re words were mow blurred by the greater distance. Saul listened for the creak and rattle of the sail running up the stays, but heard nothing. “'Sau-au-1-1!" The long cry czme as from far off, beating its way against the wind, mufiled by the snow between. That was the last. z Now, the man was stripped to his strength—to his naked strength: to his present store of vigor and heat and nutriment, plenteous or depleted, as might be. He was stripped of rudder and sail. It was a barehanded fight— strength to strength. Escape was by endurance—by enduring the” wind and the waves and the cold until such time as the sea’s passion wasted itself and she féll into that rippling, sunny mood in which she gathers strength for new assault. Even now € was as though the fragments of ice over which he was aimlessly leaping tried to elude him— to throw him off. So he cast about for better position—for place on some pan which would be like a wall to the back of an outnumbered man, After a time he found a pan, to which three men had aiready fied. He had to swim part way; but they helped him up, for the pan was thirty feet square, and there was room for him. “Be it you, Samuel?" said Saul. “Iss, 'tis I—an' Matthew Weather and Andrew Butfs." Saul took his jacket to wring it out. “Were it you, Matthew, b'y,” he said, making ready to put it on again, “were it you jumped on me back—out there?” “Bure, an’ I doan’t know, Saul. Maybe ‘twere. I forgets. 'Twere terrible—out there.” X “Iss, 'twere, b'y. derin’.” They sat down—huddled in the mid- dle of the pan; the snow eddied .over and about them and left drifts behind. Soon the pack vanished over the short circumference of the sight. Then small waves began to break over the pan to windward. The watér rolled to Saul's shoes and lapped them. \ “How many does you leave t' hoame, Matthew?" said Saul. “Nine, Saul.” “Sure, b'y,” Matthew's brother, Sam- uel, eried, impatiently, ‘‘you forgets the . 'Tis ten, b'y, countin’ the baby.” . iss—'tis true!” sald Matthew. “Countin’ the last baby an’ little Billy Tuft, 'tis ten. 1 were a foster father t’ little Billy. Ies—'tis ten I left. 'Tis quare I forgot the baby.” It was queer, for he loved them all, and he had a doctor from Tilt Cove for the last baby. Maybe the cold was to I were just a-won- \ The snow cloud crept near. The shadow overhung the pan. More, the wind had a sweep over open water, for the pack was now widely distributed. Larger waves ran at the pan, momentarily increasing in number One swept it—a thin sheet of wat curling from end to end. Then another; thén three in quick suce ing higher. cald Matthey, talk again. Iatthew,” said Saul. “A ited, after a2 moment’s silence, “just u wee bit of a girl. 'Tis like John'll look after she.” “*Oh, sure, bL'y—sure! will.” “That Iass!" said Saul. *“Does you think he'll give she music lessons—that wee thing?” “Iss, sure! An’ she'll play the organ > church t' Hagged Harbor—when ets one. She’ll be growed up 'Tis like John ss, maybe,” said Saul. There was a long time in which no word was spoken. A wave broke near and rose to the waists of the men. No one stirred. “Does they I'arn you about—about— how t' goa about eatin’ t' Saint John's?” sald Saul. “All about—knives n' forks?” “Eh, b'y sald Matthew, spurring himself to attend. “I always thought I'd like she t" know about they things—when she grows up,” sajd Saul. Soon he stood up, were rising higher. In the wards of the Newfoundlander, he stood up to face the seas. The others had so far succumbed to cold and despair that they sat where they were, though the waves, which continuously ran over the pan, rose, from time to time, to their waists. It was night; the man’'s world was then no more than a frozen whadow, pitching in.a space all black and writhing; and {rom the depths of this darkness great waves ran at him to sweep him off—increasing in might. innumerable, extending infinitely into the night. Then a giant wave delivered its as- sault; it came ponderously—lifted itself high above his head, broke above him, fell, beat him down; It swept him back, rolling him over and over, but he caught a ridge of ice with his fingers, and he held his place, though the wa- ters tugged at him mightily., He recov- ered his first position, and again he was beaten down; but again he rose to face the sea, and again a weight of wa- ter crushed him to his knees. Thus three more times without pause; then a respite, in which it was made known to him that one other had survived. “Be it you, Matthew?” said Saul. “Noa—'tis Andrew Butts. I be fair done out, Saul.” Saul gathered his strength to con- for the waves dnue the fight—to meet the stress and terrors of the hours to come; for it was without quarter, this fight; there 18 no mercy in cold, ner is there any compas- sion in the great deep. Soon—it may have been two hours after the assault of the five great waves—the seas came with new venom and might; they were charged with broken ice, massed frag- ments of the pack, into which the wind had driven the pan, or, it may be, with the slush of pans which the Blueblack Shoal had discharged. The ice added weight and a new terror to the waves. They bruised and dazed and sorely hurt the man when they fell upon him. No wave ¢ but carried jagged chunks of ice ne great and some small; and these they flung at the men on the pan, needing only to strike here or there to kill them. Saul shielded his head with his arms. He was struck on the legs and on the left side, and once he was struck on the left breast and knocked down. After a while—It may have been an hour after the fragments first appeared in the water—he was struck fair on the forehead; his senses wavered, but his strength continued sufficientlys, and soon he forgot that he had so nearly been fordone. Agair, after a time—it may now have beern three hours before midnight—other great waves came. They broke over his head. They cast their weight of ice upon him. There seemed to be no end to their numbe: Once, Saul, rising from where they had beaten him—rising doggedly to face them again—found that his right arm was powerless. He tried to lift it, but could not. He feit a bone grate over a bone in his shoulder—and a stab of pain. So he shielded his head from the ice in the next wave with his left arm—and from the ice In the next, and in the next, and the next. * * * ¢ The wave had broken his collarbone. And thus, in diminishing degres, for fifteen hours longer. The folk of Neighborly Cove say that when the wind once more herded the pack and drove it inshore, Saul Nash, being alone, made his way across four miles of loose ice to the home of Abra- ham Coachman, in the lee of God's Warning, Sop’s Arm way, where they had cornmeal for dinner; but Saul has forgotten that—this and all else that befell him after the sea struck him that brutal blow on the shoulder; the things of the whirling night, of the lagging dawn, when the snow thinned and ceased, and of the gray, frowning day when the waves left him In peace. A crocked shoulder, which healed of itself, and a broad scar, which slants from ‘the tip of his nose far up into his hajr, tell him that the fight was hard. But what matter—all this? Notwithstanding all, when the next sea baited Its trap with swarming herds, he set forth with John, his brother, to the hunt; for the world which lles hidden In the wide beyond has some strange need of seal fat, and stands ready to pay, as of course. It pays gold to the man at the counter in St. Johns, and for what the world pays a dollar the outport warrjor gets a pound of reeking pork. But what matter? What matter— all this teil and perfi? What matter when the pork Hes steaming on the table and the yellow duff is in plenty in the dish? What matter when, be- holding it, the blue eves of the lads and little maids flash merrily? What matter when the strength of a man provides so bounteously that his chil- dren may pass their plates for more? ‘What matter—when there comes a night wherein a man may rest? What matter—in the end? Ease is a shame; and, for truth, old age holds nothing for any man save a seat in a corner and the sound of voices drifting in. A