As the whole party had now, by the goodness of God, reached the land in safety, they turned their undivided energies towards the bales and boxes which were rolling about in the surf. Many of these had been already collected, and were carried to the spot where Mrs Stanley and Edith lay under the shelter of a bale. As the things were successively brought up they were piled around the mother and child, who soon found themselves pretty well sheltered from the wind, though not from the rain, which still fell in torrents. Soon after Frank came to them, and said that all the things were saved, and that it was time to think of getting up some sort of shelter for the night. This was very much needed, for poor Edith was beginning to shiver from the wet and cold.
“Now then, François, Massan,” shouted Frank, “lend a hand here to build a house for Eda. We’ll be all as snug as need be in a few minutes.”
Despite the cold and her recent terror, the poor child could not help smiling at the idea of building a house in a few minutes, and it was with no little curiosity that she watched the operations of the men. Meanwhile Mr Stanley brought some wine in a pannikin, and made Edith and his wife drink a little. This revived them greatly, and as the rain had now almost ceased they rose and endeavoured to wring the water out of their garments. In less than half an hour the men piled the bales and boxes in front of the largest canoe, which was turned bottom up, and secured firmly in that position by an embankment of sand. Over the top of all, three oil-cloths were spread and lashed down, thus forming a complete shelter, large enough to contain the whole party. At one end of this curious house Mr Stanley made a separate apartment for his wife and child, by placing two large bales and a box as a partition; and within this little space Edith soon became very busy in arranging things, and “putting the house to rights,” as she said, as long as the daylight lasted, for after it went away they had neither candles nor fire, as the former had been soaked and broken, and as for the latter no wood could be found on the island. The men’s clothes were, of course, quite wet, so they cut open a bale of blankets, which had not been so much soaked as the other goods, having been among the first things that were washed ashore.
At the time they were wrecked the dashing spray and the heavy rain, together with the darkness of the day, had prevented the shipwrecked voyageurs from ascertaining the nature of the island on which they had been cast; and as the night closed in while they were yet engaged in the erection of their temporary shelter, they had to lie down to rest in ignorance on this point. After such a day of unusual fatigue and excitement, they all felt more inclined for rest than food; so, instead of taking supper, they all lay down huddled together under the canoe, and slept soundly, while the angry winds whistled round them, and the great sea roared and lashed itself into foam on the beach, as if disappointed that the little band of adventurers had escaped and were now beyond the reach of its impotent fury.
Chapter Ten.
The sand-bank—Dismal prospects—Consultations—Internal arrangements exposed and detailed
Of all the changes that constantly vary the face of nature, the calm that succeeds a storm is one of the most beautiful, and the most agreeable, perhaps, to the feelings of man. Few conditions of nature convey to the mind more thoroughly the idea of complete repose—of deep rest after mortal strife, of sleep after exhausting toil; and those who have passed through the violence of the storm and done battle with its dangers are, by the physical rest which they enjoy after it is over, the more fitted to appreciate and sympathise with the repose which reigns around them.
When the sun rose, on the morning after the storm, it shone upon a scene so calm and beautiful, so utterly unconnected with anything like the sin of a fallen world, and so typical, in its deep tranquillity, of the mind of Him who created it, that it seemed almost possible for a moment to fancy that the promised land was gained at last, and that all the dark clouds, the storms and dangers, the weary journeyings and the troubles of the wilderness, were past and gone for ever. So glorious was the scene that when Edith, rising from her rude couch and stepping over the prostrate forms of her still slumbering companions, issued from the shelter of the canoe and cast her eyes abroad upon the glassy sea, she could not restrain her feelings, and uttered a thrilling shout of joy that floated over the waters and reverberated among the glittering crags of the surrounding icebergs.
The island on which the travellers had been cast was a mere knoll of sand, not more than a few hundred yards in circumference, that scarcely raised its rounded summit above the level of the water, and at full tide was reduced to a mere speck, utterly destitute of vegetation. The sea around it was now smooth and clear as glass, though undulated by a long, regular swell, which rolled, at slow, solemn intervals, in majestic waves towards the sand-bank, where they hovered for a moment in curved walls of dark-green water, then, lipping over, at their crests, fell in a roar of foam that hissed a deep sigh on the pebbles of the beach, and left the silence greater than before. Masses of ice floated here and there on the surface of the deep, the edges and fantastic points of which were tipped with light. Not far from the northern extremity of the sand-bank a large iceberg had grounded, from the sides of which several pinnacles had been hurled by the shock and now lay stranded on the beach.
The shout with which Edith had welcomed the morning roused the whole party, and in a few minutes they were all assembled outside of their little hut, some admiring the scene, others—of a less enthusiastic and more practical turn—examining the circumstances of their position, and considering the best course that should be pursued in their difficulty.
Mr Stanley, Dick Prince, and Massan, as was their wont, held a council upon the existing state of things, and after much gazing round at the sea and up at the sky, and considerable grunting of his deep voice and rubbing of his capacious chin, on the part of the latter, he turned to Dick Prince, as if appealing to his superior sagacity, and said—
“Well, ye see, my ’pinion’s jist this: yonder’s the mainland there” (pointing to the eastward, where, about ten miles distant, the rocks and trees were seen distorted and faintly looming through a tremulous haze), “an’ there’s our canoes there” (jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the large canoes, whose torn sides and damaged ribs, as they lay exposed on the sand, bore sad testimony to the violence of the previous night’s storm), “and there’s the little canoe yonder,” (glancing towards the craft in question, which lay on the beach a hopelessly-destroyed mass of splinters and shreds of bark that projected and bristled in all directions, as in uncontrollable amazement at the suddenness and entirety of its own destruction). “Now, that bein’ the case, an’ the baggage all wet, an’ the day parfitly beautiful, an’ the sun about hot enough to bile the sea, we can’t do better nor stay where we are, an’ mend the canoes, dry the goods, an’ start fair to-morrow mornin’.”
Stanley looked at Prince, as if expecting a remark from him; but the grave countenance of the silent bowman indicated that he was absorbed in contemplation.
“’Tis quite evident, Massan,” said Stanley, “that we must repair the canoes; but a few hours could do that, and I don’t like the idea of staying another night on a strip of sand like this, which, I verily believe, another stiff nor’-wester would blow away altogether.—But what say you, Prince? Do you advise our remaining?”
“Yes,” replied Dick, “I do. Ye see there’s no fear of another storm soon. ’Tis a good chance for dryin’ the goods, so I vote for stoppin’.”
“Well, then, we shall stay,” replied Stanley. “To say truth, I agreed with you at first,