The three men reached the fast-gathering group under the shadow of the boat-house. They were joined by the parson with the news that the burning ship seemed to have stuck fast in the sand and that the waves breaking over the well deck, kept the fire in the after hold beneath the poop deck cabin, and prevented it from spreading amidship. He agreed with the fishermen that it would be impossible to launch a boat, but he did think that a strong swimmer might reach the wreck with a rope, and he stoutly maintained that he was quite willing to attempt it.
Accordingly, the necessary tackle was brought out from the boat-house. However, since both tide and wind were driving into the bay, it was doubtful whether a single swimmer would be able to make headway with the weight of the rope hampering him. Abel immediately suggested that if the middle of another line were fixed to the end of the rescue rope and each end attached to a cork jacket, that he would then adventure with the parson.
Both men accordingly stripped off their coats and boots and buckled on their life preservers to which the line's ends were fixed, and then with practically the whole male population of the village assembled to pay out the slack, the two heroes climbed the sea-wall, arm-in-arm, and waiting for a favorable backwash of a gigantic wave, they plunged in side by side and were swept out to meet the oncoming seas.
Meanwhile, the news of the wreck had spread through the village and reached the Court House, so that by the time the swimmers, fighting for every inch of progress, had cleared the end of the stone groyne which was about half-way to the ship, the helpers on the rope were augmented by the squire himself, four or five gentlemen who had been his dinner guests, and Dr. Sennacharib Pepper, whom they had collected on the way. With these extra strong and willing hands, it was simple for Merry to move away without being missed for while his colleagues were busy over the living, he decided that it might be more to his advantage to get busy with the dead, or nearly dead.
In his hatred of Abel Clouder—and of the parson too, for that matter—he could not help rejoicing that they had gone, through their own heroic conceit, to almost certain death. 'Yes—surely the devil would do his utmost to crush the man of God and the virtuous Abel? But if not? If they succeeded?—and the bare possibility made him curse the two heroes as 'damned flamboyant busybodies'—why, then a direct communication between the wreck and the land would be established that might at least save the strongest aboard. But with reasonable luck—not at all. The weaker bodies would be battered to pieces and be swirled under the upward curl of masonry that was the strong foundation of the sea-wall, and by calculating tide and wind in relation to the wreck, he imagined such bodies would come ashore near the flight of steps built into the sea-wall opposite Sycamore Farm. There, too, he would be able to crouch in shelter till a likely moment of action. If those busybodies, Abel and the Parson, failed, the heat of the ship's fire would assuredly drive passengers and crew overboard, or if they attempted to reach the fore-deck by way of the well, they would be washed over by the force of the breakers. Thus the bodies would be swept along to the steps just the same, and it seemed probable that he alone would be there to receive them. By the convulsive groping of his fingers for the knife, he knew what sort of a reception these victims of the storm would get, and looking at it from every point of view, he considered that such a barbarous welcome would be safe enough. The lure of the wreckage would keep the villagers opposite the breaking ship, when at low tide they could swoop aboard to get anything worth taking. They were not likely to think so cunningly as he. And yet it seemed obvious that any men of sense, travelling the world by sea where so many pirates were afloat, would secrete his valuables about his person, especially at the first danger of shipwreck. Well, the bodies that he found would not have the price of their own burial by the time he had shown them some attention.
Accompanied by these murderous thoughts, the miserable Merry scurried away under the shelter of the sea-wall till he reached his coign of vantage. Clambering up the rough tussocks of turf that faced the wall on the Marsh side, he gained the top, where he met the full violence of the wind and spray. As it was impossible to stand up, he crawled on his stomach across the flat summit to the cut steps, down which he slithered headfirst. Curling himself up against the masonry, he escaped the violence of the storm. And every cry that could be heard above the booming waves and lashing spindrift, whether the encouraging shouts of the party at the boat-house or the despairing shrieks of the people on the ship or the melancholy call of some buffeted sea-bird, this infamous man prayed to his master the devil to make it the death-cry of Abel Clouder. Once, a bright red reflection on some water held in a pool between the great boulders of the breakwater made him look round the edge of the wall towards the wreck, where he saw that flames were shooting up through a part of the poop deck, and he also perceived two men, their shadows silhouetted against the fire, climb over the bulwarks and jump into the sea. How would they reach him—dead or alive? However strong a man might be, surely the battering of those cruel waves would beat him on to the boulders more dead than alive? Besides, on reaching the shore after such peril, who would be prepared for a sudden knife attack? Not on the shores of Kent. Thus Merry comforted himself that on that score he had nothing to fear, for should the survivor thus prove himself a Hercules, he could have a good look at the fellow first by adopting the role of rescuer until, thinking himself at last to be free of peril, he might be taken off his guard, or should that be too risky, at worst there was the possibility of a handsome reward paid out in gratitude for his preservation.
So, crouched down in his strong recess like a wild beast scenting prey, he waited for what the devil would send him from the sea.
Crouched over the rope as they paid it out inch by inch from hand to hand, the villagers wondered what was happening at the other end, and whether both, or one, or neither of the men would effect a landing on the ship.
Crouched against the window, unable to pray more, Meg waited for each flash of lightning, trying to distinguish her husband's figure amongst the crowd, but the passing of the rope told its own tale, and she waited for the worst.
None of these watchers had long to wait, for catastrophe was at hand, terrifying in its sudden and surprising climax.
A particularly vivid lightning flash, which showed the valiant swimmers already beneath the broken bowsprit of the brig, was answered in the darkness that followed, by a roll of thunder, that grew louder and louder. All then that could be seen was the glow of the derelict's fire, which, confined to such a heat in the hold, had at last burst up through the flooring of the deck cabin, and up again through the ceiling which served as the planking of the poop deck.
While the rolling rotundity of the resounding thunder was drumming up to its last grandeur, a strong stench of sulphur swept down across the sea and hung in spreading fumes upon the sea-wall, until with a sharp crackle as percussive as a square of muskets, another fire, a ball of flaming gas enveloping a thunder-stone, darted across the sky and dashed with a hissing explosion into the sea.
Then up—and right above the sea-wall line arose the waters, lifting the ship into the sky and carrying it onwards, down the liquid hill that swept towards the wall. Rent sails held by the entangled cordage of the riotous rigging, streamed out their shreds of canvas, torn into strips like giant ribbons, while the ship's bell, swinging to the unnatural list, clanged out a dismal note of doom.
The sight of the brig racing helplessly in the jaws of the white-fanged breakers struck instant terror to the hearts of the men at the rope, and despite an encouraging shout from the squire to stand firm, many deserted their posts and fled for shelter of the boat-house.
Out went the sky as the thunder cracked, but not even that, nor the mighty roaring of the waters, could drown the great thud as the ship's bows cut into the masonry of Dymchurch Wall like a battering ram. The noise of rending wood splitting like a crashing forest, and the rush of water pouring over the sea-wall and sweeping them off their feet into the road below made them think that their valiant defence had been broken at last, and that the sea was flooding the Marsh. The dread of many generations had come true. The invincible wall was down. The skill and labour of centuries, paid for by hard-wrung Scots on acreage in order to keep the Marsh holdings in security, had at last been defeated by the elements. The slogan of the Marsh men, good and bad, “Serve God, honour the King; but first, maintain the Wall,” was now of no account. Yet had these men but maintained their posts of danger on the rope, they would not have lost their faith in that dark hour, for as the squire and a few faithful ones braced themselves to keep their footing and their hold on the rope while the sea water swirled for a few ghastly seconds round their waists, they then knew the wall had not failed its children, whose lives and homes depended on its strength and holding power. Damaged, no doubt, it was; but at the first fall of the tide, the squire's foreman would once again organise the Marsh men into gangs for its repair.
