Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/355



3“ONCE A WEEK. [October >2,  1850.

words, and  I think  yon  make  a mistake; for  he can  shoot  like  one  o'clock,  never  misses  a thing, and I hear  he  can  ride  no  end. He was  rather  out of practice  in  his  cricket  when  he  came  down; but he  is  improving  every  day. You should  have seen the  hit  he  made  yesterday — right  up  to  the cedars.”

“Do you  think  there  is  nothing  else  for  a man to do,  but  ride,  and  shoot,  and  play  cricket?”

“Oh! that's all  very  well; but  you  should hear what  Merton,  our  second  master  says; and  a great  brick  he  is,  too. I Whatever you  do,  do  it as  well  as  you  can,  whether  it’s  cricket  or  verses.' And I believe  if  Tyrawley  had  to  fight,  he’d  go  in and  win,  and  no  mistake.”

“Ah I” said  Constance,  with  a sigh,  “he  has evidently — what is  it  you  boys  call  it? — tipped you. Isn't it?”

Indignant at  this  insult,  George  walked  off  to find  his  friend,  and  have  a lesson  in  billiards.

The day  lingered  on,  after  the  usual  fashion  of wet  days  in  September  in  full  country  houses. There was  a little  dancing  after  dinner; but  all  re- tired early in  hopes  of  a finer  day  on  the  morrow.

Tyrawley had  some  letters  to  write,  so  that  it was  past  two  before  he  thought  of  going  to  bed. He always  slept  with  his  window  open,  and  as  he threw  up  the  sash,  a fierce  gust  of  wind  blew  out his candles,  and  blew  down  the  looking-glass.

“Pleasant^ by Jove!”  he  soliloquised. “I wonder whether  it’s  smashed — unlucky  to  break  a looking-glass — I’m  hanged  if  I know  where  the matches are; never  mind; I can  find  my  way  to bed  in  the  dark. What a night,”  as  a flash  of lightning  illumined  the  room  for  a moment,  and he bent  out  of  the  window. “The wind  must  be about  nor-nor-west. Cheerful for  anything  com- ine up to  Bristol  from  the  southward. I wonder what a storm  is  like  on  this  coast. I have a great mind to  go  and  see. I shall never  be  able  to  get that hall-door  open  without  waking  them  up; what a nuisance! Stay, capital  idea! I'll go  by the  window.”

Before starting  upon  his  expedition,  he  changed the remains  of  Ins  evening  dress  (for  he  had  been writing  in  his  dressing-gown)  for  a flannel  shirt and trousers,  whilst  a short  pea-jacket  and  glazed hat completed  his  array. His room  was  on  the first floor,  and  he  had  intended  to  drop  from  the window-sill; but the  branch  of  an  elm  came  so near,  he  found  that  unnecessary,  as  springing  to  it he  was  on  the  ground,  like  a cat,  in  an  instant. He soon  found  his  way  across  country  “like  a bird,”  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff. The sea  for  miles seemed one  sheet  of  foam.

But a flash  of  lightning  discovered  a group  of figures  about  a quarter  of  a mile  distant; and  he distinguished  shouts  in  the  intervals  of  the  storm.

He was  soon  amongst  them,  and  he  found  that all eyes  were  turned  on  a vessel  which  had  struck on a rock  within  two  hundred  yards  of  the  cliff. It was  evident  that  she  would  go  to  pieces  under their very  eyes.

“Is there  no  way  of  opening  communication with her,”  he  asked  of  an  old  coast-guard  man.

“Why ye  see,  sir,  we  have  sent  to  Bilford  for Manby’s rockets; but  she  must  break  up  before they come.”

“How far  is  it  to  Bilford?”

“Better than  seven  mile,  your  honour.”

“If we  could  get  a rope  to  them,  we  might save the  crew.”

“Every one  of  them,  your  honour; but  it  ain’t possible.”

“I think a man  might  swim  out.”

“The first  wave  would  dash  him  to  pieces against the  cliff.”

“What depth  of  water  below?”

“The cliff  goes  down  like  a wall,  forty  fathom, at least.”

“The deeper  the  better. What distance  to  the water?”

“A good fifty  feet.”

“Well, I have  dived  off  the  main  yard  of  the Chesapeake. Now listen  to  me. Have you  got some light,  strong  rope?”

“As much  as  you  like.”

“Well, take  a double  coil  round  my  chest,  and do you  take  care  to  pay  it  out  fast  enough  as  I draw  upon  it.”

“You won’t  draw  much  after  the  first  plunge; it will  be  the  same  thing  as  suicide,  every  bit.”

“Well, we  shall  see. There’s no  time  to  be lost: lend  me  a knife.”

And in  an  instant  he  whipped  off  his  hat,  boots, and pea-jacket,  then  with  the  knife  he  cut  off  its sleeves and  passed  the  rope  through  them,  that  it might  chafe  him  less.

The eyes  of  the  old  boatman  brightened. There was evidently  a method  in  his  madness. “You are a very  good  swimmer,  I suppose,  sir?”

“I have dived  through  the  surf  at  Nukuheva  a few  times.”

“I never  knew  a white  man  that  could  do that.”

Tyrawley smiled. “But whatever  you  do,”  he said,  “mind  and  let  me  have  plenty  of  rope. Now out  of  the  way,  my  friends,  and  let  me  have a clear start.”

He walked  slowly  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff, looked over  to  see  how  much  the  rook  shelved outwards; then returned,  looked  to  see  that  there was plenty  of  rope  for  him  to  carry  out,  then  took a short run,  and  leaped  as  if  from  the  springing- board of  a plunging-bath. He touched  the  water full five-and-twenty  feet  from  the  edge  of  the cliff. Down into  its  dark  depth  he  went,  like  a plummet,  but  soon  to  rise  again. As he  reached the surface  he  saw  the  crest  of  a mighty  wave  a few yards in  front  of  him — the  wave  that  he  had  been told was  to  dash  him  lifeless  against  the  cliff

But now  his  old  experience  of  the  Pacific  stands him in  good  stead. For two  moments  he  draws breath, then,  ere  it  reaches  him,  he  dives  be- low its centre. The water  dashes  against  the cliff, but  the  swimmer  rises  far  beyond  it. A faint cheer  rises  from  the  shore  as  they  feel  him draw upon  the  rope. The waves  follow  in succession,  and  he  dives  again  and  again,  rising like an  otter  to  take  breath,  making  very steadily onward,  though  more  below  the  water than above  it.

We must  now  turn  to  the  ship. The waves have made  a clean  breach  over  her  bows. The crew are  crowded  upon  the  stem. They hold  on to  the  bulwarks,  and  await  the  end,  for  no  boat