CHAPTER II

A BRAVE VENTURE

THE fishermen's cottages near Reef Point were strictly an outlying part of Maxham, possibly a more ancient part than even the village; but they were commonly distinguished as being simply "down at the Point."

Despite the perilous nature of the coast, these very rocks would, when the wind was westerly, make something of a sheltered semi-harbour between themselves and the shore. In fair weather it was no such bad place for fishing; and when rough weather came on from the east, the boats which were out made no attempt to get back to Maxham. They would take refuge in the next fishing village, and await a favourable change. The fishermen of Maxham were a hardy race; and their wives had grown used to a life of suspense. If a storm broke, they were well pleased not to see their husbands' boats near land.

An unwonted stir was created when the young clergyman, with his two companions, dashed into the hamlet, demanding volunteers. Attention was already, of course, wide awake on the subject of the unhappy barque; though nobody supposed that much could be done. The men at first held back, and the women threw their influence into the safe side of the scale. But when it dawned upon them who was the first volunteer, when they looked into Mr. Gilbert's face, and heard his deep eager indignant voice, opposition wavered. How could they continue to hold back, when a clergyman and a shopman were willing to go?

It might be just possible that a boat could approach near enough, when the barque drifted on the rocks, to save any men who threw themselves overboard, or who could be hauled in with a line. All agreed that to attempt to get beyond the reef, through one of the narrow openings in it, would, in such a sea, be worse than madness. But at least it was worth making the venture of doing what they could. In a very short time the crew was complete, and the chosen boat was down at the water's edge in readiness.

By this stage Jessie had arrived on the spot, cold and blue-lipped, despite her run, with a chill at her little heart. She stood somewhat apart, looking on forlornly; and there Jack Groates caught sight of her.

He dropped a rope, and sprang to her side. The attention of everybody else was bent upon the tossing helpless barque, dimly seen at intervals in the offing. In Mokes' garden Jack Groates had barely acknowledged Jessie's presence, partly because his mind was full of another matter, partly because he knew what the Mokes family felt about his family, and he did not wish to draw blame upon Jessie. Now, however, there was not the same restraint.

"Jessie! You here! Whatever did you come for?"

"I wanted to see—" Words failed, and she clutched a corner of her shawl between two chilly hands.

"Don't stay. Go back straight home. It isn't fit for you to be here. You're like ice."

"You won't—won't—" she struggled to say, "won't get into danger?"

"I'll do my duty, I hope. Danger may take care of itself."

"I don't want you to get hurt."

He just caught the words.

"Now look here, Jessie, you're to go back home directly. It's no good your staying, not one scrap. I've got to be off; and you can do something for me. Go and tell mother about it. Tell her I'm come because it's right, and I hadn't a moment to look in and see her. If she'd a boy on board, she'd want folks to try and save him; and there's some mothers have got boys on board. Tell her to think of that. Promise me you'll go."

"Yes," faltered Jessie.

"This very minute?"

"Yes."

"And you won't look back?"

"I'll—try not."

"Groates!" shouted a voice.

"Mind! You've promised!" And he was gone.

Jessie kept her word. She turned her back upon them all, and went swiftly up the rugged road, with furze bushes on either side, never pausing till a higher spot was reached, whence she knew she could command a good view of the sea she had left. Jessie hesitated then; and the temptation proved too strong. She had not actually promised to give no backward glance.

One look, and she stood rooted to the spot. At that instant the boat, just launched and not two strokes from the beach, was caught in the grasp of a huge swell, which turned her round broadside to the land, and flung her back, bottom up. Her crew was scattered right and left.

No sound left Jessie's lips. She only stood like an image, staring, till one and another swam or struggled to shore. All were there, safe so far and apparently unhurt. Another trial would be made; Jessie saw so much. Then, remembering her promise, she once more turned away and went on along the lonely road, with a weight pulling at her heart. Who could say whether she would ever again look Jack Groates in the face?

It seemed, oh, such a pity for Jack to risk his life. Not that she would have liked Jack to be willing to hold back. Jessie thought with scorn of Ben Mokes, lazily safe at home. And yet it did seem such a pity!

Jessie had hardly known till to-day how much she cared for Jack. Barely nine months had elapsed since first the elder Groates had set up his shop in Old Maxham, and Jessie had learnt very gradually to know the family. She knew them now well, and she liked them all, unless the father were to be excepted; but certainly Jack stood first in her estimation.

And perhaps he would be dashed to pieces on those cruel rocks. Jessie was aware that just such an attempt had been made before, with a common boat, some three or four years earlier; and she remembered too well the result. Not a man of the little crew had come back alive. Then she tried to comfort herself by murmuring that that storm was worse than this.

Jack's message had to be taken to his mother the first thing. So she made her way to the western end of the main village street, and was soon standing outside the rival establishment, which was distinguished from Mokes' "shop" by the more Yankee name of "store." Jessie waited a moment. Then she slipped softly in, passing without a pause to the room behind. Business being slack that afternoon, Mr. Groates stood alone at the counter, and since he was occupied in lifting down a big canister from a high shelf, he did not even see Jessie's entrance.

In the back room was Mrs. Groates, a plump genial blue-eyed little body, with a smile like Jack's own and a motherly tenderness which had quickly won Jessie's heart. Of the seven children, six were still at home. The boy next after Jack had gone to sea. Then came Mimy, a girl of fifteen, three more boys, and one little girl. The four youngest were at school when Jessie stumbled into the room. A sudden realization of what she had to say almost overcame her.

"Why, Jessie, so it's you!" exclaimed Mrs. Groates. "We haven't seen you for days. Dear me, what an afternoon it is, to be sure! Come along and sit down by the fire, and tell us all the news. How is Miss Perkins? Why, child, you're as cold as anything. What's come to you, and where have you been?"

Jessie could not utter a word. She could only shiver. Mrs. Groates pulled her closer to the fire, and set a kettle on the glowing coals.

"I'll make you a cup of tea as sharp as can be. Just to think of you walking out in this bitter wind, and nothing on but a little thin shawl! You don't half take care of yourself, child."

She began rubbing the girl's chilled fingers between her own plump cushion-like palms; and Jessie had difficulty in checking a sob. It was dreadful to think of bringing a cloud upon that cheery face.

"I shouldn't wonder but Miss Perkins has been scolding her for something or other," thought Mrs. Groates. "It's too bad, though folks do say that her bark is worse than her bite; and she's really fond of Jessie." Aloud, Mrs. Groates asked, "Nothing gone wrong, I hope! Eh, dear?"

Jessie faltered and had a struggle to get out the words. "It's a barque," she said. "It's got dismasted; and its coming right upon the rocks."

"Dear, dear! That is bad! I don't wonder you're upset. And in this storm I s'pose there's scarce a chance for any of them. Poor things!"

"The lifeboat has been sent for; but they say it can't be here soon enough to do any good. And a boat's gone off from down at the point."

"Well, now, that's plucky, ain't it? Right enough, too! But it must be an uncommon rough sea. I hope no harm 'll come to any of them. You don't know which of the sailors is gone?"

"Adams—and Mr. Gilbert—and—"

Jessie turned her face away, and an anxious look crept into the other's eyes.

"Poor little dear!" she said, and she kissed Jessie's cheek. "You're quite upset with it all. Now, now, I wouldn't cry; there's no need, and I dare say it'll all come right. Mimy, that kettle's on the boil; it hasn't been long took off. Get out the teapot quick. Jessie will be a deal better when she has had a hot drink. Don't you fret, dearie! Things often aren't half so bad as we expect, you know. Come, cheer up! Now you shan't say another word till you've had your tea."

After a few sips Jessie was able to master the inclination to cry whenever she tried to speak. "I oughtn't to have been so silly," she said; "but I didn't know how to say it. I'm so very very sorry for—" and a break—"for you."

"Finish that cup first, Jessie . . . That's it! Now you'll be better . . . Sorry for me, are you? Then it's something to do with Jack. What has he been doing? Nothing wrong, I know."

"Oh no, nothing wrong! Only Mr. Gilbert persuaded them to try having the boat out; and he asked for volunteers. And—Jack—"

"Jack was one of the first, wasn't he? Why, of course he was! Of course he was! He wouldn't be my Jack, if he was one to hold back!" Mrs. Groates spoke bravely, though her lips twitched.

"He's a brave boy; he always was; and always ready to help other people, specially if it's a woman or child. Perhaps there's women on board."

"Yes, there is one," said Jessie, "and Jack knew. And he told me—he told me to tell you—" Jessie could not get on.

"Yes; he told you to tell me—You must tell me, Jessie. I've waited patiently till now; and I can't wait any more." The little plump woman spoke almost sternly. "Tell me, dear; you can cry afterwards."

"He said—said—" sobbed Jessie, "he was going—going—because it was right. And he said, if—if you had a boy on board, you'd want him to go. And he said some mothers had got boys on board."

"He's right, too."

Then Mrs. Groates took down her bonnet from inside a cupboard, where it hung on a nail.

"Mimy, you'll have to keep shop. I'm going, and I shouldn't wonder but father 'll want to go too. Whatever happens to Jack, I'll be there to see, and you must stop here. Maybe Jessie 'll keep you company for a while. There won't be many come in to buy. Folks' heads will be full of this. Jack's a dear brave boy; that's what he is."

"And you don't mind?" sobbed Jessie. "I didn't know how to tell you."

"Mind! Is that all you understand? I'd mind if my boy was afraid to do his duty! But—all the same—Jack's the apple of my eye—and if anything was to go wrong with him—"

Mrs. Groates for a moment hid her face in both hands, and her whole frame heaved and shook.

"Don't, please," entreated Jessie.

"I'm not going to,—not now! There's time enough by-and-by. I've got to see what they're doing now, first. Anyway, I know one thing: my Jack 'll be doing his duty."

Mrs. Groates smiled with the words, though it was a smile nearer akin to tears than to laughter; and by this time her face was quite white all over. Then she walked off, folding her shawl around her; and the girls could hear her voice in the shop, saying firmly,—

"There's a vessel drifting down upon the rocks, Jim, and a boat has gone out to help the sailors; and our Jack's gone in the boat."

Something in Groates' hand fell clattering to the ground.

"Jack!"

"Yes, our Jack. Why, of course he'd be the first to go, if he had a chance. And he's as good as anybody with his oar. I'm off straight to the Point. And if you want to come too, Mimy 'll keep shop."

"Jane, you'd best stop here. I'll go!"

"I'm not going to stay, not for anybody," was the resolute answer. Then there was silence.

"Jessie, I do hope nothing 'll happen to Jack," sighed Mimy. "I don't know how ever mother would bear it."