As the boat caroused on the waves, spray occasionally
bumped over the side and gave them a fresh soaking,
but this had no power to break their repose.
The ominous slash of the wind and the water affected
them as it would have affected mummies.
“Boys,” said the cook, with the notes
of every reluctance in his voice, “she’s
drifted in pretty close. I guess one of you had
better take her to sea again.” The correspondent,
aroused, heard the crash of the toppled crests.
As he was rowing, the captain gave him some whisky-and-water,
and this steadied the chills out of him. “If
I ever get ashore and anybody shows me even a photograph
of an oar—”
At last there was a short conversation.
“Billie.... Billie, will you spell me?”
“Sure,” said the oiler.
When the correspondent again opened his eyes, the
sea and the sky were each of the grey hue of the dawning.
Later, carmine and gold was painted upon the waters.
The morning appeared finally, in its splendor, with
a sky of pure blue, and the sunlight flamed on the
tips of the waves.
On the distant dunes were set many little black cottages,
and a tall white windmill reared above them.
No man, nor dog, nor bicycle appeared on the beach.
The cottages might have formed a deserted village.
The voyagers scanned the shore. A conference
was held in the boat. “Well,” said
the captain, “if no help is coming we might better
try a run through the surf right away. If we
stay out here much longer we will be too weak to do
anything for ourselves at all.” The others
silently acquiesced in this reasoning. The boat
was headed for the beach. The correspondent wondered
if none ever ascended the tall wind-tower, and if
then they never looked seaward. This tower was
a giant, standing with its back to the plight of the
ants. It represented in a degree, to the correspondent,
the serenity of nature amid the struggles of the individual—nature
in the wind, and nature in the vision of men.
She did not seem cruel to him then, nor beneficent,
nor treacherous, nor wise. But she was indifferent,
flatly indifferent. It is, perhaps, plausible
that a man in this situation, impressed with the unconcern
of the universe, should see the innumerable flaws
of his life, and have them taste wickedly in his mind
and wish for another chance. A distinction between
right and wrong seems absurdly clear to him, then,
in this new ignorance of the grave-edge, and he understands
that if he were given another opportunity he would
mend his conduct and his words, and be better and
brighter during an introduction or at a tea.
“Now, boys,” said the captain, “she
is going to swamp, sure. All we can do is to
work her in as far as possible, and then when she swamps,
pile out and scramble for the beach. Keep cool
now, and don’t jump until she swamps sure.”
The oiler took the oars. Over his shoulders he
scanned the surf. “Captain,” he said,
“I think I’d better bring her about, and
keep her head-on to the seas and back her in.”
