The Truth of the Oliver Cromwell
By James B. Connolly
Illustration by W. J. Aylward
artin Carr had done a fine thing that afternoon. Martin and John Marsh were hauling trawls, when a sea capsized their dory. The same sea washed them both clear of the dory. John Marsh could not swim. It looked as if he had hauled his last trawl, and so, beyond all question, he had, but for Martin, who seized one of their buoy-kegs, which happened to bob up near by, and pushed it into John’s despairing arms. “Hang on for your life, John,” said Martin, and himself struck out for the dory, knowing that the buoy could not support two. It was perhaps forty feet to the bottom of the dory—not a great swim that—but this was a winter’s day on the Grand Banks, and a man beaten back by a rough sea and borne down by the weight of heavy clothing, oilskins, and big jack-boots. When he had fought his way to the dory he had to wait a while before he dared try to climb up on it—he was that tired—and after he got there he found no strap to the plug, and so nothing to hang on to. He remembered then that he and John had often spoken of fixing up a strap for the plug—and never done it.
“My own neglect,” muttered Martin, “and now I’m paying for it.”
Clinging to the smooth planking on the bottom of the dory was hard work that day, and becoming harder every minute, for the sea was making. And there was John to keep an eve on. “How’re you making out, Johnnie-boy?” he called.
“It’s heavy dragging, but I’m all right so far,” John answered.
“And how is it with you now, Johnnie-boy?” he called in a little while again.
“I can hang on a while yet, Martin.”
“Good for you,” said Martin to that.
“Can you see the vessel?” then asked John after another space.
“He’s giving out, and I see no vessel,” thought Martin, but answered cheerily, “Aye, I see her.”
“And how far away is she, and what’s she doing?”
Aloud Martin said, “Five or six miles maybe, up to wind’ard—and she’s taking aboard all but the last dory, and there’s men gone aloft to look for us.” But under his breath, “And God forgive me if I go to my death with that lie on my lips—but ’tis no deeper than my lips—no deeper.”
Then they waited and waited, until John said, “Martin, I’ll have to go soon—I can’t hang on much longer.”
“Bide a while, Johnnie-boy—bide a while. Dory-mates we’ve been for many a trip—bide a while with me now, Johnnie.”
But Martin knew that it would be for but a little while for John—for them both—if help did not come soon. Scanning the sea for whatever hope the sea might give, he saw the trawl-line floating on the water. That was the line that ran from their anchor somewhere on the bottom to the buoy keg to which John was clinging. If he could but get hold of that line he could draw John to the dory, with a better chance to talk to him—to put heart into him, for Johnnie was but a lad—no more than five and twenty.
To get the line he would have to swim; and to swim any distance in that rising and already bad sea he would have to cast off most of his clothing. And with most of his clothing gone he would not last too long. Certainly if the vessel did not get them by dark, he would never live through the night. He would freeze to death—that he knew well. But could he live through the night anyway? And even if he could—but what was the good of thinking all night over it? He pulled off his boots, untied his oil-skins, hauled off his heavy outer woollens.
“Johnnie-boy, can you hang on a while longer?”
“I dunno, Martin—I dunno. Where’s the vessel?”
“She’s bearing down, John.” And with the thought of that second lie on his lips Martin scooped off for the buoy-line,83
