The Green Ray/Chapter VI
CHAPTER VI.
THE GULF OF CORYVRECHAN.[edit]
It was then six o'clock in the evening, and it wanted two or three hours till sunset. Most certainly the Glengary would reach Oban before the sun sank beneath the waters of the Atlantic, and Miss Campbell had some grounds for thinking that her wishes would be fulfilled that same evening. In fact, the cloudless sky seemed made expressly for the observation of the phenomenon, and the sea-horizon must be visible between the isles of Oronsay, Colonsay, and Mull, during the latter part of the passage.
But a very unexpected accident was about to delay the steamer's progress.
Miss Campbell, buried in her one absorbing thought, stood motionless at her post, never for a moment losing sight of the line between the two islands, and as she was undoubtedly the only person on board so intently watching that part of the horizon, she was the first to notice how rough the sea appeared to be between Jura and Scarba. At the same time she could faintly hear the far-off roar of billows, and yet there was scarcely a ripple on the placid surface of the sea through which the steamer was cutting her way.
“What is the cause of the sea being so rough out there?” asked Miss Campbell of her uncles.
They could not tell her, knowing no more than she did what was happening three miles off in the narrow pass.
Then addressing the captain, who was standing on the foot-bridge, she asked him the same question.
“It is a simple phenomenon caused by the tide,” replied he; “and the noise you hear comes from the Gulf of Coryvrechan.”
“But the weather is splendid,” observed Miss Campbell; “and there is hardly a breath of wind to be felt.”
“It does not depend in the least upon the weather,” replied the captain. “It is the result of the high tide, which, coming out of the Sound of Jura, finds no outlet except between the islands of Jura and Scarba. Hence it happens that the water rushes through with terrific force, and it would be dangerous for any small craft to venture there.”
The Gulf of Coryvrechan, justly dreaded in these parts, is regarded as one of the most curious places in the western archipelago. A legend affirms that it owes its name to a Scandinavian prince who perished there in Celtic times. It is indeed a very dangerous pass, and many are the boats which have been drawn into the eddy and lost: for its bad reputation it may be compared with the treacherous whirlpool of Maelström on the coast of Norway.
Meanwhile, as Miss Campbell kept her eyes fixed on the seething mass of waters, her attention was particularly attracted to a point of the strait, where could be seen what might have been a rock, had it not moved up and down with the heaving billows.
“Look there! look there! captain,” exclaimed Helena. “If it is not a rock, what can it be?”
“It is most likely,” replied he, “a waif drawn into the currents, or rather—”
And looking through his glass,—
“A boat!” he exclaimed.
“A boat!” repeated Miss Campbell.
“Yes!—if I am not very much mistaken—a boat in peril on the Coryvrechan!”
At these words the passengers crowded on to the bridge, and looked in the direction of the gulf. There could no longer be any doubt that a boat had been drawn into the pass, and, carried along by the high tide on the whirling eddies, was now rushing on to certain destruction.
All eyes were fixed on the point of the gulf, about four or five miles distant from the Glengary.
“Most likely it is only a boat adrift,” observed one of the passengers.
“Not so, for I can see a man in it,” replied another.
“A man—two men!” cried Partridge, who was standing beside Miss Campbell.
There were certainly two men there, who had evidently lost all control over their craft. The slight breeze off the land was not enough to fill their sail, and draw them out of the eddies, and oars were powerless in such a sea, to prevent their being carried into the Coryvrechan.
“Captain!” cried Miss Campbell, “we cannot leave those poor creatures to perish. They will be lost if they are left to themselves. We must go to their help. We must.”
All on board thought the same, and eagerly awaited the captain's answer.
“The Glengary could not venture into the Coryvrechan; but perhaps we may be able to get within reach of the boat,” he replied.
And turning towards the passengers, he seemed to wait for their approbation.
Miss Campbell went up to him.
“We must, captain, we must,” she exclaimed in a tone of entreaty. “My fellow-passengers, I am sure, wish it as much as I do! It is a matter of life or death for two of our fellow-creatures, whom you may perhaps be able to save. Oh, captain, I beseech you!”
“Yes—yes,” cried several of the passengers, moved by this young girl's generous intervention.
The captain again looked through his glass, carefully observed the direction of the currents, then calling to the man at the wheel,—
“Hard a starboard!” said he.
The Glengary gradually veered round to the west. The engineer received the order to put on steam, and the isle of Jura was soon left some distance behind.
Nobody spoke on board, and all eyes were anxiously fixed upon the boat, which gradually became more visible.
It was only a small fishing-smack, the mast of which had been lowered, in order to give her more chance of resisting the violence of the waves.
One of the two men in the boat was lying full length in the stern, the other, rowing with all his might, made strenuous efforts to extricate her from the whirling tide. If he should not succeed, they were lost.
In half an hour's time the Glengary had reached the verge of the Coryvrechan, and began to pitch violently; but not one on board uttered a protest, although the rolling of the vessel might well have alarmed simple tourists.
At this part of the strait the sea was perfectly white, and nothing could be seen but a vast sheet of foam, upheaved in great masses by the fury of the waters.
The boat was but half a mile off, the man at the oars was making a last effort to extricate her from the eddies. He well understood that the Glengary was coming to his assistance, but he also saw that she could not venture much nearer, and that he must do his utmost to reach her. His companion, lying motionless in the stern, seemed to be deprived of all power of giving assistance.
Miss Campbell, filled with the keenest emotion, never took her eyes off this boat, which she had been the first to observe, and towards which, thanks to her earnest entreaties, the Glengary was now making her way.
Meanwhile, the situation grew more critical, and it was to be feared the steamer would not arrive in time. In order to avoid serious danger she was obliged to reduce her speed considerably, and, as it was, the water shipped over the bows, threatened to inundate the engine-room, and put out the fires—a contingency to be dreaded in this turbulent sea.
The captain, leaning upon the hand-rail of the bridge, was carefully watching that they were not driven out of their course, and skilfully manœuvred so that they should not be caught amidships by the heavy seas.
The boat, however, could not free herself from the eddies. At times she was completely hidden behind some gigantic breaker, and then caught in the swirl of the gulf, was spun round and round like an arrow, or rather like a stone flung from a sling.
“Faster! Faster!” cried Miss Campbell, unable to repress her feelings.
But at the sight of the great foam-crested billows some of the passengers already uttered cries of alarm; and the captain, aware of the risk he was incurring, hesitated about going any nearer the Coryvrechan.
The distance between the boat and the Glengary was scarcely half a cable's length, and the unhappy men, on the verge of destruction, could be distinctly recognized.
They were an old sailor and a young man, the former lying helpless at the stern, and the latter rowing with all his might.
At this moment a heavy sea struck the steamer, and rendered her situation critical.
The captain dare not venture any farther in the pass, and it was as much as he could do to prevent his ship from being drawn into the surging currents.
All at once the fishing-smack, after tossing for a moment on the crest of a great wave, disappeared.
There was a cry of horror on board!
Had the boat been swamped? No. Again she rose on the back of another wave, and one last desperate effort with the oars brought her alongside the steamer.
“Bravo! bravo!” cried the sailors at the bows, and they held in readiness a coil of ropes, watching for the moment to throw them.
Suddenly the captain gave the order to put on steam, the Glengary's speed increased, and she ventured boldly between the two islands, whilst the boat again drew some fathoms nearer.
At this moment the ropes were thrown out, and seized by the man in the boat. The engines of the Glengary were reversed, in order to extricate her from this dangerous position, and she steamed back with the boat in tow.
Leaving his oars, the young man raised his companion in his arms, and, with the help of the sailors, hoisted him on board. The aged seaman had been disabled by a heavy sea whilst the boat was being drawn into the pass, and thus was totally incapable of helping his companion, who was left to depend entirely on his own efforts.
When at last the young man sprang on to the deck of the Glengary he appeared to have lost none of his cool self-possession, his face was calm, and his whole bearing showed him capable of moral as well as physical courage.
His first care was to look after his companion, the owner of the smack, who was soon brought round by a stiff glass of grog.
“Mr. Oliver!” said he.
“Ah! my old friend,” replied the young man, “and what think you of this sea?”
“It is nothing! I have seen many the like of this, and it is going down already!”
“Yes, thank Heaven; but my imprudence nearly cost us our lives! But here we are safe and sound.”
“And by your efforts, Mr. Oliver.”
“No, by the help of God!”
And the young man, warmly grasping the seaman's hands, made no attempt to conceal his emotion, which visibly affected all the passengers.
Then turning to the skipper, just as he was coming off the bridge—
“Captain,” said he, “I don't know how to thank you enough for the service you have rendered us.”
“I only did my duty, sir,” replied the captain, “and, to tell the truth, you owe more thanks to my passengers than to me.”
The young man warmly shook the captain's hand, and then turning to the passengers, he lifted his hat, and bowed gracefully to them.
Had not the Glengary arrived so opportunely, he and his companion would certainly have been lost.
During this exchange of civilities Miss Campbell had thought fit to retire. She did not wish attention to be drawn to the part she had played in this dramatic rescue. All of a sudden, as she stood on the bridge, her thoughts reverted to the object of her journey, and looking towards the western horizon, she exclaimed,—
“And what of the sunset, and the Green Ray?”
“No more sun for to-day!” said her Uncle Sam.
“No more chance of seeing the Green Ray!” added Sib.
It was too late, the sun had already disappeared below the wonderfully clear horizon, and had shot forth its Green Ray into space, whilst Miss Campbell's thoughts were occupied with other matters. Thus an opportunity, which might perhaps be long in recurring, was lost!
“It is a pity,” she murmured; however, with little regret in her tone, as she considered all that had just happened.
Meanwhile the Glengary made her way out of the Coryvrechan Pass, and again resumed her northerly course. Giving his companion a last hearty grasp of the hand, the old seaman, now quite recovered, got back into his boat, and sailed for Jura.
As to the young man, whose leathern portmanteau had been put on board, he made one more tourist en route for Oban.
Leaving the islands of Shuna and Luing, where are the rich slate quarries belonging to the Marquis of Breadalbane, the steamer coasted along the isle of Seil, and a little later entering the Frith of Lorn, she steamed between the volcanic island of Kerera and the mainland. Then, as the shades of twilight deepened into night, she came to her moorings in the harbour of Oban.