On the Doom Bar.

That very merchantman was wrecked, over which so many Cornish mouths had watered, ay, and Devonian mouths also, from the moment she had been sighted at St. Ives.

She had been entangled in the fog, not knowing where she was, all her bearings lost. The wind had risen, and when the day darkened into night the mist had lifted in cruel kindness to show a false glimmer, that was at once taken as the light of a ship beating up the Channel. The head of the merchantman was put about, a half-reefed topsail spread, and she ran on her destruction. With a crash she was on the bar. The great bowlers that roll without a break from Labrador rushed on behind, beat her, hammered her farther and farther into the sand, surged up at each stroke, swept the decks with mingled foam and water and spray.

The main-mast went down with a snap. Bent with the sail, at the jerk, as the vessel ran aground, it broke and came down—top-mast, rigging, and sail, in an enveloping, draggled mass. From that moment the captain’s voice was no more heard. Had he been struck by the falling mast and stunned or beaten overboard? or did he lie on deck enveloped and smothered in wet sail, or had he been caught and strangled by the cordage? None knew, none inquired. A wild panic seized crew and passengers alike. The chief mate had the presence of mind to order the discharge of signals of distress—but the order was imperfectly carried out. A flash, illuminating for a second the glittering froth and heaving sea, then a boom—almost stunned by the roar of the sea, and the screams of women and oaths of sailors, and then panic laid hold of the gunner also and he deserted his post. The word had gone round, none knew from whom, that the vessel had been lured to her destruction by wreckers, and that in a few minutes she would be boarded by these wolves of the sea. The captain, who should have kept order, had disappeared, the mate was disregarded, there was a general sauve qui peut. A few women were on board. At the shock they had come on deck, some with children, and the latter were wailing and shrieking with terror. The women implored that they might be saved. Men passengers ran about asking what was to be done, and were beaten aside and cursed by the frantic sailors. A Portuguese nun was ill with sea-sickness, and sank on the deck like a log, crying to St. Joseph between her paroxysms. One man alone seemed to maintain his self-possession, a young man, and he did his utmost to soothe the excited women and abate their terrors. He raised the prostrate nun and insisted on her laying hold of a rope, lest in the swash of the water she should be carried overboard. He entreated the mate to exert his authority and bring the sailors to a sense of their duty, to save the women instead of escaping in the boat, regardful of themselves only.

Suddenly a steady star, red in color, glared out of the darkness, and between it and the wreck heaved and tossed a welter of waves and foam.

“There is land,” shouted the mate.

“And that shines just where that light was that led us here,” retorted a sailor.

The vessel heeled to one side, and shipped water fore and aft, over either rail, with a hiss and heave. She plunged, staggered, and sank deeper into the sand.

A boat had been lowered and three men were in it, and called to the women to be sharp and join them. But this was no easy matter, for the boat at one moment leaped up on the comb of a black wave, and then sank in its yawning trough, now was close to the side of the ship, and then separated from it by a rift of water. The frightened women were let down by ropes, but in their bewilderment missed their opportunity when the boat was under them, and some fell into the water, and had to be dragged out, others refused to leave the wreck and risk a leap into the little boat. Nothing would induce the sick nun to venture overboard. She could not understand English; the young passenger addressed her in Portuguese, and finally, losing all patience and finding that precious time was wasted in arguing with a poor creature incapable of reasoning in her present condition, he ordered a sailor to help him, caught her up in his arms, and proceeded to swing himself over, that he might carry her into the boat.

But at that moment dark figures occupied the deck, and a man arrested him with his hand, while in a loud and authoritative voice he called, “No one leaves the vessel without my orders. Number Five, down into the boat and secure that. Number Seven, go with him. Now, one by one, and before each leaves, give over your purses and valuables that you are trying to save. No harm shall be done you, only make no resistance.”

The ship was in the hands of the wreckers.

The men in the boat would have cast off at once, but the two men sent into it, Numbers Five and Seven, prevented them. The presence of the wreckers produced order where there had been confusion before. The man who had laid his hand on the Portuguese nun, and had given orders, was obeyed not only by his own men, but by the crew of the merchant vessel, and by the passengers, from whom all thoughts of resistance, if they ever rose, vanished at once. All alike, cowed and docile, obeyed without a murmur, and began to produce from their pockets whatever they had secured and hoped to carry ashore with them.

“Nudding! me nudding!” gasped the nun.

“Let her pass down,” ordered the man who acted as captain. “Now the next—you!” he turned on the young passenger who had assisted the nun.

“You scoundrel,” shouted the young man, “you shall not have a penny of mine.”

“We shall see,” answered the wrecker, and levelled a pistol at his head. “What answer do you make to this?”

The young man struck up the pistol, and it was discharged into the air. Then he sprang on the captain, struck him in the chest, and grappled with him. In a moment a furious contest was engaged in between the two on the wet, sloping deck, sloping, for the cargo had shifted.

“Hah!” shouted the wrecker, “a Cornishman.”

“Yes, a Cornishman,” answered the youth. The wrecker knew whence he came by his method of wrestling.

If there had been light, crew, invaders, and passengers would have gathered in a circle and watched the contest; but in the dark, lashed by foam, in the roar of the waves and the pipe of the wind, only one or two that were near were aware of the conflict. Some of the crew were below. They had got at the spirits and were drinking. One drunken sailor rushed forth swearing and blaspheming and striking about him. He was knocked down by a wrecker, and a wave that heaved over the deck lifted him and swept him over the bulwarks.

The wrestle between the two men in the dark taxed the full nerves and the skill of each. The young passenger was strong and nimble, but he had found his match in the wrecker. The latter was skilful and of great muscular power. First one went down on the knee, then the other, but each was up again in a moment. A blinding whiff of foam and water slashed between them, stinging their eyes, swashing into their mouths, forcing them momentarily to relax their hold of each other, but next moment they had leaped at each other again. Now they held each other, breast to breast, and sought, with their arms bowed like the legs of grasshoppers, to strangle or break each other’s necks. Then, like a clap of thunder, beat a huge billow against the stern, and rolled in a liquid heap over the deck, enveloping the wrestlers, and lifted them from their feet and cast them, writhing, pounding each other, on the deck.

There were screams and gasps from the women as they escaped from the water; the nun shrieked to St. Joseph—she had lost her hold and fell overboard, but was caught and placed in the boat.

“Now another,” was the shout.

“Hand me your money,” demanded one of the wreckers. “Madam, have no fear. We do not hurt women. I will help you into the boat.”

“I have nothing—nothing but this! what shall I do if you take my money?”

“I am sorry—you must either remain and drown when the ship breaks up or give me the purse.”

She gave up the purse and was safely lodged below.

“Who are you?” gasped the captain of the wreckers in a moment of relaxation from the desperate struggle.

“An honest man—and you a villain,” retorted the young passenger, and the contest was recommenced.

“Let go,” said the wrecker, “and you shall be allowed to depart—and carry your money with you.”

“I ask no man’s leave to carry what is my own,” answered the youth. He put his hand to his waist and unbuckled a belt, to this belt was attached a pouch well weighted with metal. “There is all I have in the world—and with it I will beat your brains out.” He whirled the belt and money bag round his head and brought it down with a crash upon his adversary, who staggered back. The young man struck at him again, but in the dark missed him, and with the violence of the blow and weight of the purse was carried forward, and on the slippery inclined planks fell.

“Now I have you,” shouted the other; he flung himself on the prostrate man and planted his knee on his back. But, assisted by the inclination of the deck, the young man slipped from beneath his antagonist, and half-rising caught him and dashed him against the rail.

The wrecker was staggered for a moment, and had the passenger seized the occasion he might have finished the conflict; but his purse had slipped from his hand, and he groped for the belt till he found one end at his feet, and now he twisted the belt round and about his right arm and weighted his fist with the pouch.

The captain recovered from the blow, and flung himself on his adversary, grasped his arms between the shoulder and elbow, and bore him back against the bulwark, drove him against it, and cast himself upon him.

“I’ve spared your life so far. Now I’ll spare you no more,” said he, and the young man felt one of his arms released. He could not tell at the time, he never could decide after how he knew it, but he was certain that his enemy was groping at his side for his knife. Then the hand of the wrecker closed on his throat, and the young man’s head was driven back over the rail, almost dislocating the neck.

It was then as though the young man saw into the mind of him who had cast himself against him, and who was strangling him. He knew that he could not find his knife, but he saw nothing, only a fire and blood before his eyes that looked up into the black heavens, and he felt naught save agony at the nape of his neck, where his spine was turned back on the bulwarks.

“Number Seven! any of you! an axe!” roared the wrecker. “By heaven you shall be as Wyvill! and float headless on the waves.”

“Coppinger!” cried the young man, by a desperate effort liberating his hand. He threw his arms round the wrecker. A dash and a boil of froth, and both went overboard, fighting as they fell into the surf.

“In the King’s name!” shouted a harsh voice.

“Surround—secure them all. Now we have them and they shall not escape.”

The wreck was boarded by, and in the hands of, the coast-guard.