yonder’s Hat Island—and we can’t make it.”
All the watches closed with a snap, everybody sighed and muttered something about its being “too bad, too bad—ah, if we could only have got here half an hour sooner!” and the place was thick with the atmosphere of disappointment. Some started to go out, but loitered, hearing no bell tap to land. The sun dipped behind the horizon, the boat went on. Inquiring looks passed from one guest to another; and one who had his hand on the doorknob and had turned it, waited, then presently took away his hand and let the knob turn back again. We bore steadily down the bend. More looks were exchanged, and nods of surprised admiration—but no words. Insensibly the men drew together behind Mr. Bixby, as the sky darkened and one or two dim stars came out. The dead silence and sense of waiting became oppressive. Mr. Bixby pulled the cord, and two deep, mellow notes from the big bell floated off on the night. Then a pause, and one more note was struck. The watchman’s voice followed, from the hurricane deck:
“Labboard lead, there! Stabboard lead!”
The cries of the leadsmen began to rise out of the distance, and were gruffly repeated by the word-passers on the hurricane deck.
“M-a-r-k three! . . . . M-a-r-k three! . . . . Quarter-less-three! . . . . Half twain! . . . . Quarter twain! . . . . M-a-r-k twain! . . . . Quarterless—”
Mr. Bixby pulled two bell ropes, and was answered by faint jinglings far below in the engine room, and our speed slackened. The steam began to whistle through the gauge cocks. The cries of the leadsmen went on—and it is a weird sound, always, in the night. Every pilot in the lot was watching now, with fixed eyes, and talking under his breath. Nobody was calm and easy but Mr. Bixby. He would put his wheel down and stand on a spoke, and as the steamer swung into her (to me) utterly invisible marks—for we seemed to be in the midst of a wide and gloomy sea—he would meet and fasten her there. Out of the murmur of half-audible talk, one caught a coherent sentence now and then—such as:
“There; she’s over the first reef all right!”
After a pause, another subdued voice:
“Her stern’s coming down just exactly right, by George !”
“Now she’s in the marks; over she goes!”
Somebody else muttered:
“Oh, it was done beautiful— beautiful !”
Now the engines were stopped altogether, and we drifted with the current. Not that I could see the boat drift, for I could not, the stars being all gone by this time. This drifting was the dismalest work; it held one’s heart still. Presently I discovered a blacker gloom than that which surrounded us. It was the head of the island. We were closing right down upon it. We entered its deeper shadow and so imminent seemed the peril that I was likely to suffocate, and I had the strongest impulse to do something , anything, to save the vessel. But still Mr. Bixby stood by his wheel, silent, intent as a cat, and all the pilots stood shoulder to shoulder at his back.
“She’ll not make it!” somebody whispered.
The water grew shoaler and shoaler, by the leadsman’s cries, till it was down to—
“Eight-and-a-half! . . . . E-i-g-h-t feet! . . . . E-i-g-h-t feet! . . . . Seven-and”—
Mr. Bixby said warningly through his speaking tube to the engineer:
“Stand by, now!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“Seven-and-a-half! Seven feet! Six -and—”
We touched bottom! Instantly Mr. Bixby set a lot of bells ringing, shouted through the tube, “ Now , let her have it—every ounce you’ve got!” then to his partner, “Put her hard down! Snatch her! Snatch her!” The boat rasped and ground her way through the sand, hung upon the apex of disaster a single tremendous instant, and then over she went! And such a shout as went up at Mr. Bixby’s back never loosened the roof of a pilothouse before!
There was no more trouble after that. Mr. Bixby was a hero that night; and it was some little time,
All the watches closed with a snap, everybody sighed and muttered something about its being “too bad, too bad—ah, if we could only have got here half an hour sooner!” and the place was thick with the atmosphere of disappointment. Some started to go out, but loitered, hearing no bell tap to land. The sun dipped behind the horizon, the boat went on. Inquiring looks passed from one guest to another; and one who had his hand on the doorknob and had turned it, waited, then presently took away his hand and let the knob turn back again. We bore steadily down the bend. More looks were exchanged, and nods of surprised admiration—but no words. Insensibly the men drew together behind Mr. Bixby, as the sky darkened and one or two dim stars came out. The dead silence and sense of waiting became oppressive. Mr. Bixby pulled the cord, and two deep, mellow notes from the big bell floated off on the night. Then a pause, and one more note was struck. The watchman’s voice followed, from the hurricane deck:
“Labboard lead, there! Stabboard lead!”
The cries of the leadsmen began to rise out of the distance, and were gruffly repeated by the word-passers on the hurricane deck.
“M-a-r-k three! . . . . M-a-r-k three! . . . . Quarter-less-three! . . . . Half twain! . . . . Quarter twain! . . . . M-a-r-k twain! . . . . Quarterless—”
Mr. Bixby pulled two bell ropes, and was answered by faint jinglings far below in the engine room, and our speed slackened. The steam began to whistle through the gauge cocks. The cries of the leadsmen went on—and it is a weird sound, always, in the night. Every pilot in the lot was watching now, with fixed eyes, and talking under his breath. Nobody was calm and easy but Mr. Bixby. He would put his wheel down and stand on a spoke, and as the steamer swung into her (to me) utterly invisible marks—for we seemed to be in the midst of a wide and gloomy sea—he would meet and fasten her there. Out of the murmur of half-audible talk, one caught a coherent sentence now and then—such as:
“There; she’s over the first reef all right!”
After a pause, another subdued voice:
“Her stern’s coming down just exactly right, by George !”
“Now she’s in the marks; over she goes!”
Somebody else muttered:
“Oh, it was done beautiful— beautiful !”
Now the engines were stopped altogether, and we drifted with the current. Not that I could see the boat drift, for I could not, the stars being all gone by this time. This drifting was the dismalest work; it held one’s heart still. Presently I discovered a blacker gloom than that which surrounded us. It was the head of the island. We were closing right down upon it. We entered its deeper shadow and so imminent seemed the peril that I was likely to suffocate, and I had the strongest impulse to do something , anything, to save the vessel. But still Mr. Bixby stood by his wheel, silent, intent as a cat, and all the pilots stood shoulder to shoulder at his back.
“She’ll not make it!” somebody whispered.
The water grew shoaler and shoaler, by the leadsman’s cries, till it was down to—
“Eight-and-a-half! . . . . E-i-g-h-t feet! . . . . E-i-g-h-t feet! . . . . Seven-and”—
Mr. Bixby said warningly through his speaking tube to the engineer:
“Stand by, now!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“Seven-and-a-half! Seven feet! Six -and—”
We touched bottom! Instantly Mr. Bixby set a lot of bells ringing, shouted through the tube, “ Now , let her have it—every ounce you’ve got!” then to his partner, “Put her hard down! Snatch her! Snatch her!” The boat rasped and ground her way through the sand, hung upon the apex of disaster a single tremendous instant, and then over she went! And such a shout as went up at Mr. Bixby’s back never loosened the roof of a pilothouse before!
There was no more trouble after that. Mr. Bixby was a hero that night; and it was some little time,
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