In the Roar of the Sea Part 54

"I don't know, my dear; if it be done by some unprincipled ruffian he would not be stopped by us."

"It must be stopped. And, oh, think! you told me that your Oliver is coming home. Think of him."

"We will go."

Mr. Menaida was drawn along by Judith in her eagerness. They left the road to Pentyre, and struck out over the downs, keeping their eyes on the light. The distance was deceptive. It seemed to have been much nearer than they found it actually to be.

"Look! it is coming back!" exclaimed Judith.

"Yes, it is done wilfully. That is to give the appearance of a vessel tacking up Channel. Stay behind, Judith. I will go on."

"No. I will go with you. You would not find me again in the darkness if we parted."

"The light is coming this way. Stand still. It will come directly on us."

They drew up. Judith clung to Uncle Zachie's side, her heart beating with excitement, indignation, and anger.

"The lantern is fastened to an a.s.s's head," said Uncle Zachie; "do you see how as the creature moves his head the light is swayed, and that with the rise and fall in the land it looks as though the rise and fall were on the sea. I have my stick. Stand behind me, Judith."

But a voice was heard that made her gasp and clasp the arm of Uncle Zachie the tighter.

Neither spoke.

The light approached. They could distinguish the lantern, though they could not see what bore it; only--next moment something caught the light--the ear of a donkey thrust forward.

Again a voice, that of some one urging on the a.s.s.

Judith let go Menaida's arm, sprang forward with a cry: "Jamie! Jamie!

what are you doing!"

In a moment she had wrenched the lantern from the head of the a.s.s, and the creature, startled, dashed away and disappeared in the darkness.

Judith put the light under her cloak.

"Oh, Jamie! Jamie! Why have you done this! Who ever set you to this wicked task?"

"I am Jack o' Lantern," answered the boy. "Ju! now my Neddy is gone."

"Jamie, who sent you out to do this? Answer me."

"Captain Coppinger!"

Judith walked on in silence. Neither she nor Uncle Zachie spoke, only Jamie whimpered and muttered.

Suddenly they were surrounded, and a harsh voice exclaimed:

"In the king's name. We have you now--showing false lights."

Judith hastily slung the lantern from beneath her cloak, and saw that there were several men about her, and that the speaker was Mr.

Scantlebray.

The latter was surprised when he recognized her.

"What!" he said, "I did not expect this--pretty quickly into your apprentices.h.i.+p. What brings you here! And you, too, Menaida, old man?"

"Nothing simpler," answered Uncle Zachie. "I am accompanying Mrs.

Coppinger back to the Glaze."

"What, married in the morning and roving the downs at night?"

"I have been to Polzeath after my workbox--here it is," said Judith.

"Oh, you are out of your road to Pentyre--I suppose you know that,"

sneered Scantlebray.

"Naturally," replied Mr. Menaida. "It is dark enough for any one to stray. Why! you don't suspect me, do you, of showing false lights and endeavoring to wreck vessels! That would be too good a joke--and the offence, as I told you--capital."

Scantlebray uttered an oath and turned to the men and said: "Captain Cruel is too deep for us this time. I thought he had sent the boy out with the a.s.s--instead he has sent his wife--a wife of a few hours, and never told her the mischief she was to do with the lantern--hark!"

From the sea the boom of a gun.

All stood still as if rooted to the spot.

Then again the boom of a gun.

"There is a wreck!" exclaimed Scantlebray. "I thought so--and you, Mistress Orphing, you're guilty." He turned to the men. "We can make nothing of this affair with the lantern. Let us catch the sea-wolves falling on their prey."

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

THE SEA-WOLVES.

On the Doom Bar.

That very merchantman was wrecked, over which so many Cornish mouths had watered, ay, and Devonian mouths also, from the moment she had been sighted at St. Ives.

She had been entangled in the fog, not knowing where she was, all her bearings lost. The wind had risen, and when the day darkened into night the mist had lifted in cruel kindness to show a false glimmer, that was at once taken as the light of a s.h.i.+p beating up the Channel.

The head of the merchantman was put about, a half-reefed topsail spread, and she ran on her destruction. With a crash she was on the bar. The great bowlers that roll without a break from Labrador rushed on behind, beat her, hammered her farther and farther into the sand, surged up at each stroke, swept the decks with mingled foam and water and spray.

The main-mast went down with a snap. Bent with the sail, at the jerk, as the vessel ran aground, it broke and came down--top-mast, rigging, and sail, in an enveloping, draggled ma.s.s. From that moment the captain's voice was no more heard. Had he been struck by the falling mast and stunned or beaten overboard? or did he lie on deck enveloped and smothered in wet sail, or had he been caught and strangled by the cordage? None knew, none inquired. A wild panic seized crew and pa.s.sengers alike. The chief mate had the presence of mind to order the discharge of signals of distress--but the order was imperfectly carried out. A flash, illuminating for a second the glittering froth and heaving sea, then a boom--almost stunned by the roar of the sea, and the screams of women and oaths of sailors, and then panic laid hold of the gunner also and he deserted his post.

The word had gone round, none knew from whom, that the vessel had been lured to her destruction by wreckers, and that in a few minutes she would be boarded by these wolves of the sea. The captain, who should have kept order, had disappeared, the mate was disregarded, there was a general _sauve qui peut_. A few women were on board. At the shock they had come on deck, some with children, and the latter were wailing and shrieking with terror. The women implored that they might be saved. Men pa.s.sengers ran about asking what was to be done, and were beaten aside and cursed by the frantic sailors. A Portuguese nun was ill with sea-sickness, and sank on the deck like a log, crying to St. Joseph between her paroxysms. One man alone seemed to maintain his self-possession, a young man, and he did his utmost to soothe the excited women and abate their terrors. He raised the prostrate nun and insisted on her laying hold of a rope, lest in the swash of the water she should be carried overboard. He entreated the mate to exert his authority and bring the sailors to a sense of their duty, to save the women instead of escaping in the boat, regardful of themselves only.

Suddenly a steady star, red in color, glared out of the darkness, and between it and the wreck heaved and tossed a welter of waves and foam.

"There is land," shouted the mate.