Authors: George England
With a tremendous effort, gasping and shaken, weak, unnerved and
wounded, he managed to raise himself upon one elbow and to peer about
him with wild eyes.
A strange scene that. Even in the half light, with all his senses
distorted by confusion and by pain, he made shift to comprehend a
little of what he saw.
He understood that, by some fluke of fate, life still remained in him;
that, in some way he never could discover, he had been cast upon a
ledge of rock there in the cataract—a ledge over which spray and foam
hurled, seething, yet a ledge which, parting the gigantic flood,
offered a chance of temporary safety.
Above him, sweeping in a vast smooth torrent of clear green, he saw
the steady downpour of the falls. Out at either side, as he lay there
still unable to rise, he caught glimpses through the spume-drive,
glimpses of swift white water, that broke and creamed as it whirled
past; that jetted high; that, hissing, swept away, away, to unknown
depths below that narrow, slippery ledge.
Realization of all this had hardly forced itself upon his dazed
perceptions when a stronger recrudescence of his thought about the
girl surged back upon him.
"Beatrice! Beatrice!" he gasped, and struggled up.
On hands and knees, groping, half-blinded, deafened, he began to
crawl; and as he crawled, he shouted the girl's name, but the
thundering of the vast tourbillions and eddies that swirled about the
rock, white and ravening, drowned his voice. Vague yet terrible, in
the light of the dim moon that filtered through the mists, the racing
flood howled past. And in Stern's heart, as he now came to more and
better understanding, a vast despair took shape, a sickening fear
surged up.
Again he shouted, chokingly, creeping along the slippery ledge.
Through the driving mists he peered with agonized eyes. Where was the
yawl now? Where the girl? Down there in that insane welter of the mad
torrent—swept away long since to annihilation? The thought maddened
him.
Clutching a projection of the rock, he hauled himself up to his feet,
and for a moment stood there, swaying, a strange, tattered, dripping
figure in the dim moonlight, wounded, breathless and disheveled, with
bloodshot eyes that sought to pierce the hissing spray.
All at once he gulped some unintelligible thing and staggered forward.
There, wedged in a crevice, he had caught sight of something—what it
was he could not tell, but toward it now he stumbled.
He reached the thing. Sobbing with realization of his incalculable
loss and of the wreckage of all their hopes and plans and all that
life had meant, he fell upon his knees beside the object.
He groped about it as though blind; he felt that formless mass of
debris, a few shattered planks and part of the woven sail, now jammed
into the fissure in the ledge. And at touch of all that remained to
him, he crouched there, ghastly pale and racked with unspeakable
anguish.
But hope and the indomitable spirit of the human heart still urged him
on. The further end of the ledge, overdashed with wild jets of spray
and stinging drives of brine, still remained unexplored. And toward
this now he crept, bit by bit, fighting his way along, now clinging as
some more savage surge leaped over, now battling forward on hands and
knees along the perilous strip of stone.
One false move, he knew, one slip and all was over. He, too, like the
yawl itself, and perhaps like Beatrice, would whirl and fling away
down, down, into the nameless nothingness of that abyss.
Better thus, he dimly realized, better, after all, than to cling to
the ledge in case he could not find her. For it must be only a matter
of time, and no very long time at that, when exhaustion and starvation
would weaken him and when he must inevitably be swept away.
And in his mind he knew the future, which voiced itself in a
half-spoken groan:
"If she's not there, or if she's there, but dead—good-by!"
Even as he sensed the truth he found her. Sheltered behind a jutting
spur of granite, Beatrice was lying, where the shock of the impact had
thrown her when the yawl had struck the ledge.
Drenched and draggled in her water-soaked tiger-skin, her long hair
tangled and disheveled over the rock, she lay as though asleep.
"
Dead!
" gasped Allan, and caught her in his arms, all limp and cold.
Back from her brow he flung the brine-soaked hair; he kissed her
forehead and her lips, and with trembling hands began to chafe her
face, her throat, her arms.
To her breast he laid his ear, listening for some flicker of life,
some promise of vitality again.
And as he sensed a slight yet rhythmic pulsing there—as he detected a
faint breath, so vast a gratitude and love engulfed him that for a
moment all grew dazed and shaken and unreal.
He had to brace himself, to struggle for self-mastery.
"Beta! Beta!" he cried. "Oh, my God! You live—you live!"
Dripping water, unconscious, lithe, she lay within his clasp, now
strong again. Forgotten his weakness and his pain, his bruises, his
wounds, his fears All had vanished from his consciousness with the one
supreme realization—"
She lives!
"
Back along the ledge he bore her, not slipping now, not crouching, but
erect and bold and powerful, nerved to that effort and that daring by
the urge of the great love that flamed through all his veins.
Back he bore her to the comparative safety of the other end, where
only an occasional breaker creamed across the rock and where, behind a
narrow shelf that projected diagonally upward and outward, he laid his
precious burden down.
And now again he called her name; he rubbed and chafed her.
Only joy filled his soul. Nothing else mattered now. The total loss of
their yawl and all its precious contents, the wreck of their
expedition almost at its very start, the fact that Beatrice and he
were now alone upon a narrow ledge of granite in the midst of a
stupendous cataract that drained the ocean down to unknown,
unthinkable depths, the knowledge that she and he now were without
arms, ammunition, food, shelter, fire, anything at all, defenseless in
a wilderness such as no humans ever yet had faced—all this meant
nothing to Allan Stern.
For he had
her
; and as at last her lids twitched, then opened, and
her dazed eyes looked at him; as she tried to struggle up while he
restrained her; as she chokingly called his name and stretched a
tremulous hand to him, there in the thunderous half light of the
falls, he knew he could not ask for greater joy, though all of
civilization and of power might be his, without her.
In his own soul he knew he would choose this abandonment and all this
desperate peril with Beatrice, rather than safety, comfort, luxury,
and the whole world as it once had been apart from her.
Yet, as sometimes happens in the supreme crises of life, his first
spoken word was commonplace enough.
"There, there, lie still!" he commanded, drawing her close to his
breast. "You're all right, now—just keep quiet, Beatrice!"
"What—what's happened—" she gasped. "
Where
—"
"Just a little accident, that's all," he soothed the frightened girl.
Dazed by the roaring cadence of the torrent, she shuddered and hid her
face against him; and his arms protected her as he crouched there
beside her in the scant shelter of the rocky shelf.
"We got carried over a waterfall, or something of that sort," he
added. "We're on a ledge in the river, or whatever it is, and—"
"You're hurt, Allan?"
"No, no—are
you?
"
"It's nothing, boy!" She looked up again, and even in the dim light he
saw her try to smile. "Nothing matters so long as we have each other!"
Silence between them for a moment, while he drew her close and kissed
her. He questioned her again, but found that save for bruises and a
cruel blow on the temple, she had taken no hurt in the plunge that had
stunned her. Both, they must have been flung from the yawl when it had
gone to pieces. How long they had lain upon the rock they knew not.
All they could know was that the light woodwork of the boat had been
dashed away with their supplies and that now they again faced the
world empty-handed—provided even that escape were possible from the
midst of that mad torrent.
An hour or so they huddled in the shelter of the rocky shelf till
strength and some degree of calm returned and till the growing light
far off to eastward through the haze and mist told them that day was
dawning again.
Then Allan set to work exploring once more carefully their little
islet in the swirling flood.
"You stay here, Beta," said he. "So long as you keep back of this
projection you're safe. I'm going to see just what the prospect is."
"Oh, be careful, Allan!" she entreated. "Be so very, very careful,
won't you?"
He promised and left her. Then, cautiously, step by step, he made his
way along the ledge in the other direction from that where he had
found the senseless girl.
To the very end of the ledge he penetrated, but found no hope. Nothing
was to be seen through the mists save the mad foam-rush of the waters
that leaped and bounded like white-maned horses in a race of death.
Bold as the man was, he dared not look for long. Dizziness threatened
to overwhelm him with sickening lure, its invitation to the plunge.
So, realizing that nothing was to be gained by staying there, he drew
back and once more sought Beatrice.
"Any way out?" she asked him, anxiously, her voice sounding clear and
pure through the tumult of the rushing waters.
He shook his head, despairingly. And silence fell again, and each sat
thinking long, long thoughts, and dawn came creeping grayly through
the spume-drive of the giant falls.
More than an hour must have passed before Stern noted a strange
phenomenon—an hour in which they had said few words—an hour in which
both had abandoned hopes of life—and in which, she in her own way, he
in his, they had reconciled themselves to the inevitable.
But at last, "What's that?" exclaimed the man; for now a different
tone resounded in the cataract, a louder, angrier note, as though the
plunge of waters at the bottom had in some strange, mysterious way
drawn nearer. "What's that?" he asked again.
Below there somewhere by the tenebrous light of morning he could
see—or thought that he could see—a green, dim, vaguely tossing drive
of waters that now vanished in the whirling mists, now showed again
and now again grew hidden.
Out to the edge of the rocky shelf he crept once more. Yes, for a
certainty, now he could make out the seething plunge of the waters as
they roared into the foam-lashed flood below.
But how could this be? Stern's wonder sought to grasp analysis of the
strange phenomenon.
"If it's true that the water at the bottom's rising," thought he,
"then there must either be some kind of tide in that body of water or
else the cavity itself must be filling up. In either case, what if the
process continues?"
And instantly a new fear smote him—a fear wherein lay buried like a
fly in amber a hope for life, the only hope that had yet come to him
since his awakening there in that trap sealed round by sluicing
maelstroms.
He watched a few moments longer, then with a fresh resolve, desperate
yet joyful in its strength, once more sought the girl.
"Beta," said he, "how brave are you?"
"How brave? Why, dear?"
He paused a moment, then replied: "Because, if what I believe is true,
in a few minutes you and I have got to make a fight for life—a harder
fight than any we've made yet—a fight that may last for hours and
may, after all, end only in death. A battle royal! Are you strong for
it? Are you brave?"
"Try me!" she answered, and their eyes met, and he knew the truth,
that come what might of life or death, of loss or gain, defeat or
victory, this woman was to be his mate and equal to the end.
"Listen, then!" he commanded. "This is our last, our only chance. And
if it fails—"
Stern's observation of the rising flood proved correct. By
whatever theory it might or might not be explained, the fact was
positive that now the water there below them was rising fast, and that
inside of half an hour at the outside the torrent would engulf their
ledge.
It seemed as though there must be some vast, rhythmic ebb and flux in
the unsounded abysses that yawned beneath them, some incalculable
regurgitation of the sea, which periodically spewed forth a part, at
least, of the enormous torrent that for hours poured into that titanic
gulf.
And it was upon this flux, stormy and wild and full of seething
whirlpools, that Allan Stern and the girl now built their only
possible hope of salvation and of life.
"Come, we must be at work!" he told her, as together they peered over
the edge and now beheld the weltering flood creeping up, up along the
thunderous plunge of the waterfall till it was within no more than a
hundred feet of their shelter.
As the depth of the fall decreased the spray-drive lessened, and now,
with the full coming of day, some reflection of the golden morning sky
crept through the spray. Yet neither to right nor left could they see
shore or anything save that long, swift, sliding wall of brine,
foam-tossed and terrible.
"To work!" said he again. "If we're going to save ourselves out of
this inferno we've got to make some kind of preparation. We can't just
swim and trust to luck. We shall have to malice float of some sort or
other, I think."
"Yes, but what with?" asked she.
"With what remains of the yawl!"
And even as he spoke he led the way to the crevice where the
splintered boards and the torn sail had been wedged fast.