Woven with the Ship: A Novel of 1865: Together with certain other veracious tales of various sorts — John Shaqi
Woven with the Ship: A Novel of 1865: Together with certain other veracious tales of various sortsBrady, Cyrus Townsend
History
Woven with the Ship: A Novel of 1865: Together with certain other veracious tales of various sorts
Brady, Cyrus Townsend
Short stories, American; United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Fiction; War stories
She left the side of the admiral, sprang to the edge of the porch, and
pointed far out over the lake. A little sloop, its mainsail close
reefed, was beating in toward the harbor. The twilight had so far
faded in the storm that at the distance from them the boat then was
they could scarcely distinguish more than a slight blur of white upon
the water. But, flying toward them before the storm, she was fast
rising into view.
"Where is it, child?" asked the old man, looking out into the growing
darkness.
"There! Let your eye range across the ship; there, beyond the Point.
She's running straight upon the sunken rocks."
"I sees it, Miss Emily," cried Barry, shading his eyes with his hand;
"'tis a yacht, the mains'l's close reefed. She looks like a toy.
There's a man in it. He's on the port tack, thinkin' to make the
harbor without goin' about."
"He'll never do it," cried the girl, her voice shrill with
apprehension. "He can't see the sunken ledge running out from the
Point. He's a stranger to these waters, evidently."
"I see him, too," said the admiral. "God, what a storm! How he handles
that boat! The man's a sailor, every inch of him!"
The cutter was nearer now, so near that the man could easily be seen.
She was coming in with racing speed in spite of her small spread of
canvas. The lake was roaring all about her and the wind threatened to
rip the mast out of the little boat, but the man held her up to it
with consummate skill, evidently expecting to gain an entrance to the
harbor, where safety lay, on his present tack. This he could easily
have done had it not been for a long, dangerous ledge of sunken rocks
which extended out beyond Ship House Point. Being under water, it gave
little sign of its presence to a mariner until one was right upon it.
In his excitement the admiral scrambled to his feet, stepped to the
rail of the porch, and stood leaning over it. Presently he hollowed
his hand and shouted with a voice of astonishing power for so old a
man:
"Down with your helm, boy! Hard down!"
But the stranger, of course, could not hear him, and the veteran stood
looking with a grave frown upon his face as that human life, down on
the waters beneath him, struggled for existence. It was not the first
time he had watched life trembling in the balance--no; nor seen it go
in the end. Emily's voice broke in murmurs of prayer, while Barry
stared like the admiral.
Presently the man in the boat glanced up and caught sight of the
party. He was very near now and coming on gallantly. He waved his
hand, and was astonished to see them frantically gesture back at him.
A warning! What could their movements mean?
He peered ahead into the growing darkness; the way seemed to be clear,
yet something was evidently wrong. What could it be? Ah! He could not
weather the Point. With a seaman's quick decision, he jammed the helm
over.
"Oh, grandfather!" screamed Emily in the old man's ear; "can't
something be done?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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