The Duke's Sweetheart: A Romance

Remembering the free way in which the line had been paid out, and the fact that the sinker was now almost perpendicular under him, he concluded that the whole of the line now run out was far below the influence of the bores. These were not, by-the-way, real bores, but the term fitted them better than any other in the language.

When the next wave had gone by, Cheyne seized the edge of the passage, and catching the line in his feet and left hand, began drawing it up. At the approach of a second wave he was obliged to desist, but before a third was upon him he had the lead in his left hand, and was tearing it off with his teeth.

He had also another object in drawing the slack of that line. It was more than advisable that he should take with him into that cleft as much of the rope as would reach through; for if he had to overcome the friction between the line and the corner of the passage, his progress would be very much slower than if he could pay out as he went. Therefore, while treading the water in the slack, he made a small coil of about fifty feet of rope. He could swim with his right hand and legs.

Everything was now ready; and having waited his time, he filled his chest, threw back his head, and struck out for the opening.

The place looked forbidding. But its narrowness was greatly in the swimmer's favour. If it had been five feet wider, no man in his senses would have dared to enter it at such a time; but because of its narrowness there was only one point to expect motion from, namely, ahead. When the bore had swept through, the water was calm; there was no room for perturbation; and in so narrow a place, where one could touch both sides with hands and feet, there was not much chance of being dashed against the side.

Cheyne had, like Bence, resolved to dive under the bore. But he did not forget, what Bence had forgotten, that beneath the surface of the present smooth water the bore would rush with as much fury as in the body of the bore itself. This was not like a wave which moves with only the force of its undulation, and which has no more lateral power than its onward tidal force.

It is not the lateral force of the sea that beats the beams out of ships, and tears away the most enduring walls of man and the adamantine barriers of nature. It is the shoulder of the wave that gets under the ships and the walls and the cliffs, and pushes them to destruction. At sea we never find the water flying up into the air; of its own accord the water would not leave the cradle in lies in. It is only when it meets with an obstacle and is broken that it deserts its own bed. Then, being broken and weak, it is caught by the wind, and flung over the rocks and cliffs in spray.

But in the case of the passage in which Cheyne now found himself, it was quite different. Into this entered a new body of water, a perpendicular section of a wave which had been torn from the general body of water, and as a projectile blown through this opening by the wind.

Now Bence had not calculated on this; he thought that if he got under the body or lowest level of the bore visible, he would find himself in still water.

Cheyne had also resolved on diving, but for a very different object.

Suppose he remained on the surface, the force of no mortal man could resist that wild rush of water, and the upward thrust which would strike him in the place where such a blow would be most effective-the chest. It would turn him over as a wind would a leaf. It would in all likelihood lift part of his body out of the water, and hurl him backward into the open beyond. The rush of the water must be borne, there was no way of avoiding that; but the uplifting might be avoided.

It was plain that when a torrent, or when in repose, the cleft held just the same quantity of water, from the dead-level line down. Not a gallon more water was below the low-level water-line when the bore dashed through the cleft than a second before the incoming of the wave.

Therefore the bore, as it were, ran along the low-level water; and although the water beneath would be pushed violently forward, the horizontal motion would not be quite as much as above, and there would be little upheaval.

But Cheyne knew what Bence did not know-that no man could, by swimming alone, stem the force of even that under-current.

"When I dive," he said to himself, "and get down there, I shall let go a pretty powerful grapnel. I shall moor myself on all-fours with my hands and feet."

He swam up the cleft, paying out his little coil of rope as he went, until he heard the roller break upon the outer rocks. Then, without waiting another moment, he dived.

When he found the descending force of the dive spent, he thrust out both arms and legs until they reached the sides, then working his legs up and his hands down, until he could get the full measure of his enormous strength to bear laterally upon the rocks, he thrust forward his head and awaited the onset.

When it came it was not quite as bad as he had anticipated; but the strain was tremendous. He had no difficulty in resisting it; but another man, a man of ordinary strength, would have been taxed to the utmost, and in all likelihood driven from his hold.

Cheyne waited until the rush had past, and then rose to the surface. He found himself a few feet in advance of where he had dived.

He had not got many more feet when he heard the thunder of the roller on the rocks once more. Again he was under water before the bore entered the cleft. He had resolved to risk nothing, and his curiosity to know what his foe was like could not induce him to wait and see it.

This time the conditions below water were slightly altered. The passage was wider, and the hold, consequently, less secure; but, to compensate for this, the rush of water was less swift.

The fact that the passage widened thus gradually was a matter of surprise and much anxiety to Cheyne. He had a considerable distance to go before he got out of the cleft and within sight of the yacht, which lay to the southward a little off where he was.

If the passage went on widening as it approached the mouth, then there must be a point, and that too not far off, at which it would be impossible for him to reach from side to side, when, in fact, he would have nothing to rely upon but his powers as a swimmer. A baby would be as potent against that bore as he, if he depended on his powers as a swimmer merely.

It was necessary to proceed with the utmost caution. Should one wave overtake him, unprovided with secure holding-ground under water, all that he had hitherto achieved would be undone, and his own life most likely endangered. He must, so to speak, pick his steps. That is, thenceforth all his progress must be under water.

When the present bore had run its course he rose for breath. The period of his submersion was never more than ten to fifteen seconds. After a few hasty inspirations he dived again, and, feeling carefully along, crawled forward hand over hand, and foot over foot, for a few seconds, until it was time to expect the next wave. Then he set himself to resist it as before.

The moment the current slackened, he rose once more, took breath, and dived again.

At last he came to the place beyond which it would have been obviously unwise to advance, if he were to depend on the means hitherto adopted of stemming the torrent.

What was to be done now?

He was still a good distance from the mouth of the cleft. He had heard the men on shore say that if once he were at the mouth of the cleft he should be past the worst, as he should then be in sight of the yacht, from which a rope could be thrown to him.

He now was cut and bleeding in a dozen different places.

Another thing, too, troubled him greatly. He had during the few last dives, tried to pull up some of the rope he towed after him, and he began to feel that the few small coils he had left would not be sufficient to reach the end of the passage.

What could one do in such a strait?

Desperate cases require desperate remedies. There were two coils of that rope round his body. If he unwound these he would be able to add considerably to his few remaining coils. He could tie the end of the line to his left wrist, and then he should be no more incapacitated than he had been with the coils.

To effect this, under existing circumstances, was an enormous labour. Wave after wave he dived under; time after time he rose again to his work.

At length the line was ready, and he had only now to face his desperate swim.

He had by this time begun to feel faint. His head was somewhat dizzy and confused from long and frequently holding his breath. He was bleeding from twenty small wounds, of not one of which he felt the pain. He was too desperate, too battered, too exhausted, to feel paltry pain. He knew he had to swim between one wave and another to the end of that passage, and for the time he thought of nothing else.

At last the moment came, and he thrust himself forward through that narrow channel with the supreme mental and physical concentration of a man whose whole being is absorbed in the determination to succeed.

He reached the end of the opening, and found himself in shallow water. With a dim hazy sense of triumph he staggered to his feet. He was conscious of smiling. Then he saw standing up before him a grey-green barrier of water, and then, for awhile, he was conscious of no more.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE RESCUE

When the wave, which Cheyne had seen approaching, struck him, he was dashed violently against the rock behind. Fortunately he had got round the corner of the opening. Had he happened to be in the gap, he would to a certainty have been hurled through it into the sheltered water inside the reef, and the chances are that, if he had been thus taken unawares, he would have been killed in that gap. Another thing too, had been in his favour: the rock against which he had been thrown had a small cleft in it, and into this cleft he had been jambed by the force of the water. This fact prevented him from being knocked down and carried away.

Before another wave could strike him, he had extricated himself, and was ready to meet it. Crouching down in the recess, he bent his head, and received the full force of the weight on his crown. The moment the water fell he rose to his feet, and looked around. He was standing on a smooth piece of rock about level with the still water. On each side of him were irregular rocks, a man's height, resting on a bed of flat rock, not more than a few inches submerged in the intervals between the billows.

He looked up, and could now see the yacht forty or fifty yards off to the south-east of where he stood. He had not heard the cheer which went up from the crew when they caught sight of him, and guessed his mission. The crew did not see him until the wave which stunned him for a moment was upon him.

But while his strength was failing him, his object seemed as far from accomplishment as ever. He had now come to the end of the line, and he was still unable to reach the yacht. To venture among those low rocks out there, and face the waves, would be to court almost certain death; for it would be impossible for any one who, like him, knew absolutely nothing of the place, to move more than a couple of feet a minute, as it would be necessary for him to explore with his feet or hands every inch of the way he took, lest he should step into a hole. In case he attempted to run and missed his footing, and got into a hole, a wave would surely be upon him before he could recover himself, and then all would be lost.

Ail these thoughts passed through his mind with the rapidity of lightning. When he had done with them he looked up at the yacht.

They had not been idle there. Already a man was out on the foremast-head with a coil of rope. The man waited for the next wave to pass; then, when he saw Cheyne stand up once more, he threw the coil. Fortunately the wind was almost fair for the rope, and it fell within two feet of Cheyne. In an instant it was in his hand. In a few minutes more it was bent to the line Cheyne had tied round his wrist. Then Cheyne loosened the line from his wrist; he had not done so before lest by some mistake or failure of his strength-which he found momentarily giving way-the shore-line might be carried away before the communication had been established.

Then he drew in the slack of the line from the yacht until he had fifty or sixty yards to spare. He wound the line twice round him, and seizing the yacht end of the line, plunged forward through the shallow water. The men on board the yacht drew in the slack of the line, so as to keep it taut without putting any strain upon him.

He heard a roller burst upon the weather-side of the reef, and plunged forward with all his remaining force to reach the yacht before it was upon him.

At that moment he swayed suddenly forward and disappeared from view. He had fallen into one of holes he had feared to meet. As he did so, the tawny-headed monsters of the water dashed hissing in and swept over the pool in which he lay.

The conditions of this pool were very different from the low-level waters in the gap. Here the lower water was almost wholly undisturbed laterally, for the water, the plain of rock in which the hole was, lay almost on a level with the still water, and the water in the pool was consequently almost undisturbed by the waves.

Cheyne rose in a few seconds close to the spot where he sank. The men in the yacht had hauled in the line softly when they saw him come to the surface, and thus they drew him across the hole. In a few seconds he was once more upright, and before another wave had time to reach him he had gained the yacht. Just as they hauled him up the side, the water rose and touched him once more.

But this time it was powerless to hurt him, and with a cheer from those on board, he was drawn over the bulwark of the lee-side.

He was almost insensible. His shirt and drawers were torn into shreds, and beat in rags about him in the wind. He was bleeding from twenty wounds, not one of which, however, was dangerous. The line had chafed through his shirt at the waist, and a livid circle marked where it had tightened upon him. His left wrist was torn and discoloured by the coil, and his hands, feet, and knees were covered with bruises and small cuts from his conflict in the narrow passage.

They had to support him as he stood, while they forced some brandy down his throat. Up from the forecastle they brought blankets and wrapped them round him. It was some minutes before he had sufficiently recovered to speak.

In the meantime the sailors had not been idle.

Captain Drew was competent and energetic. He knew the yacht would not hold together very much longer, and that every second was of vital importance. Already the block had been lashed for the whip, the whip was rove, and the men on shore were now pulling in the whip by means of the line Cheyne had carried out.

When Cheyne was first carried up windward, both the Duke and the Marquis went up to him and thanked him cordially, and commended his valour. Then they saw he was not in a position to understand them, so they contented themselves with superintending the application of blankets and the administration of brandy, now and then lending a hand to support his drooping figure. All on the yacht saw he was a stranger. They had seen the attempt and failure of Bence. They had seen this other man, this strange man, strip and jump in with the rope; and then they had seen nothing of him until he emerged from that narrow opening in the rock and encountered the first wave. While he was swimming towards them unseen, they were not ignorant of his progress, for repeated signals from the men on shore kept them informed of the way he made.

At the moment Cheyne dived, the Duke turned to the captain and asked him what he thought was the chance of success.

"Bence has tried, and Bence has failed," answered Drew, with a shake of the head. There was no need to say more. The captain's opinion was plainly expressed by his words and manner. Bence had tried to swim out to the yacht with a rope, had failed, and there was no likelihood any other man would succeed.

But as time went on, and the men on shore signalled by an outward gesture of the arms, as in swimming, and by then holding up an arm for each opening passed, the excitement on board the yacht became intense. The captain ordered a man to the masthead with a rope; he also ordered another man aloft to cut away the topmast, so as to lighten her above. For now he had begun to hope.

The reason why it was utterly impossible for a man to swim from the yacht to the shore was simple enough. In order to do so it would be necessary to cross that comparatively open space between the yacht and the narrow passage, and to enter the passage with one's back to the source of danger. This alone was an enormous difficulty, added to the others already existing. But what prevented any member of the crew trying to swim ashore was the conviction that no human being could ever get through that passage with life. Bence had more than a local reputation as a swimmer, and anyone could understand his trying to do what no other man would attempt.

When at last the signal came that Cheyne had reached the seventh passage, the excitement on board became intense. Only a few seconds had before elapsed between the signal that Bence had entered and the signal that he had failed. Now minutes went by, and the men on board saw that the men ashore had not begun to draw in the line or made any signal of recall. The eyes of every man were now fixed on the mouth of the passage.

"If he does it," said the captain, "he deserves a monument."

"And he shall have it," said the Duke. No one had the least clue as to what station in life Cheyne belonged. The sailors assumed he was a seafaring man of some kind, because he would have been a credit to their class. While bathing it is difficult to recognise in the water an acquaintance until you hear his voice. But although Cheyne was battered and ragged and marred, there was something about him which told the Duke of Shropshire that the man who had come to the rescue was not an ordinary sailor. You can always tell a sailor by his hands; and the Duke saw by this man's hands that he had not had any long dealing with ropes. The hand was small and powerful, but the knuckles were not abnormally developed, and the nails were smooth and fine.

The men both ashore and on board worked with a will. The whip had been hauled ashore, and the block of it made fast; and now they were hauling the hawser to the beach. Once the hawser was made fast to the anchor on the knoll, they could begin sending the men ashore.

Meanwhile men had been busy in the ship preparing the jackets for the warp. The hawser was new and strong. The whip was of unusual thickness, and, as time was the only thing which could now beat them. Captain Drew decided that two men should go at a time.

Two deep baskets were lashed to a short spar, and then firmly to one another top and bottom. The spar was then secured to two patent blocks, and these patent blocks were slipped in on the hawser and secured. All now was ready for the first two men to go ashore.

Meanwhile Cheyne had recovered to a great extent. He was now able to stand alone. They had brought him clothes, which he had put on, and although he began to feel cold and sick the stiffness of reaction had not yet set in.

Cheyne was standing with his right arm round a pump, his blood-stained face dropped into his bloodstained hand, and his eyes fixed on the man he had sworn to destroy. The Duke and the Marquis stood by the weather rigging, anxiously watching the men at work on the baskets and hawser.

The captain stood at the lee-rigging, looking up at the men aloft. When all was ready, he crossed the deck and said to the Duke:

"Now, your grace, all is ready for you and his lordship."

The Duke pointed his long lean finger at Cheyne and said:

"That man must go first."

The captain drew back to the mast in surprise.

"But, your grace, I am afraid there is danger in delay."

The water was at every wave bursting over the rocks to the windward and rushing from aft along the deck, so that it was impossible to stand without holding on to something.

"There was danger for him when he swam with the rope. He and my son must go first. I will remain. My life is nearly done. If one is to die, let it be me."

As the Duke said this the captain noticed a change come over the Marquis. His eyes closed, his knees bent under him, and he fell to the deck. He had fainted. The relief of knowing there was now a chance of all of them being saved had been too much, and his exhausted strength had broken down under the reaction.

The men carried the insensible man to the basket, and lashed him in it.

"You are to go with the Marquis," said the captain to Cheyne.

"Go where?"

"Ashore in the sling. And here's a flask of brandy. His lordship has fainted. Give him some brandy as you are hauled ashore."

Cheyne took the flask.

"Who says I am to go ashore the first trip?"

"His grace the Duke."

"But does he know why I have come here, and who I am?"

"No, I don't think so. But do not waste any more time. If we are to escape, there must be no loss of time."

"Of course not," thought Cheyne. "The Duke may not know who I am, or anything about me. How could he know me? I have not told my name to anyone here. I thought it would be fine vengeance to come down here and kill this weakling. But would it not be a finer revenge to save him, and then, when he has recovered, declare who I am, and ask if it were likely I, who had risked my life to save him and his father from death, had written that book with an unworthy motive or could be the son of an unworthy mother? Yes, by all means, let me give what help I can."

Without a moment's hesitation he allowed himself to be hoisted up to the basket and secured.

The Marquis had not yet recovered. His head was drooping on his chest; his arms were hanging down lifelessly at his side. When Cheyne had got into the basket, and the men were lashing him, he supported the drooping head, and pressed the mouth of the flask against the white lips of the insensible man. They were above the reach of large bodies of water, but they were still deluged with heavy sheets of spray.

The gale not only continued to blow, but increased in fury. Every wave flung tons of water over the deck, and the difficulty of maintaining a position on it increased each minute.

The Duke was still standing by the weather-rigging. With his right hand he hung on by a ratlin. Already the seams of the planks on which the men stood began to gape, and when the water rushed up from the after end of the yacht and struck against the forecastle bulkhead below, it squirted up through the opening seams.

Twice had the Duke been forced from his hold and cast against the mast. He declined to be lashed. But he was no longer young, and his hold on the ratlin was not nearly as firm as it might be. The very smallness of the line, while it enabled him to grasp it round completely, tended to numb the hand. He felt cold and wretched. The wind and wetting had begun to produce pains in his shoulder more intense than any he had felt before.

The signal had been given by the man at the mast-head to the men on shore to haul in, and already the baskets had begun to glide away from the yacht, when a shout of warning and terror came from the man at the mast-head.

"On deck there, hold on for your lives!" shouted the man aloft.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when a huge wave, larger by far than any other which had struck the ill-fated yacht, burst upon her, and covered her with boiling torrents of tawny water, hissing foam, and swishing spray.

When the water cleared away two men were missing, a sailor and Reginald Francis Henry Cheyne, seventh Duke of Shropshire.

The men uttered a cry of dismay. Ropes were thrown, and two lifebuoys, which were secured to the pump-case. But neither the sailor nor the Duke was ever again seen alive by anyone on board that wreck. Before the nobleman, who left the Seabird as Marquis Southwold, and Charles Augustus Cheyne reached the shore, the Duke of Shropshire had died, and George Temple Cheyne, late Marquis of Southwold, was eighth Duke of Shropshire and virtual owner of four hundred thousand a year, five princely residences, and of all the power and influence of the great house.