WHEN I arose shortly after dawn the next morning, it was with no small degree of satisfaction that I found the sun brightly shining, and every indication present of a continuance of the fair weather and gentle breezes which had now held continuously for ten days. Very anxious to know the condition of the breakwater, Mr. Millward and I, shortly after a hearty breakfast of fish freshly caught, started for a walk up the beach to the resting-place of the galleon. We found no apparent change in the condition of the larger breakwater,—the one across the mouth of the chasm,—but strangely enough the smaller one, across the exit passage, had so far silted up with sand as to form an almost complete obstruction to the flow of a current through the chasm at low water. Indeed, the sand had almost buried the branches we had cast in, and was risen so far as to be plainly visible just below the surface of the water. This was an altogether unexpected result, and it now looked very much as though the silting and filling was to take place from the exit backward to the mouth, instead of from the mouth as we had calculated. However, it mattered not to us how the capricious waves chose to do their work, if only it were done.

We had brought the axe along, and without delay we began to cut and pile into the exit passage more limbs and branches and rocks, until the place was full to a level somewhat above high-tide mark. To facilitate further the formation of this bank, we cast many branches into the waters of the chasm just back of the newly formed sand-bar, that it might be caused if possible to rise high enough to prevent any through current and consequent scouring action even at high tide.

We tried hard to ascertain whether the sand had begun to accumulate at the breakwater across the mouth; but were unable to do so because of the lack of transparency of the water, which held in suspension a large percentage of sand and foreign matter stirred up by the swell. We both expressed our confidence that as soon as the current through the chasm was stopped, the sand would begin to silt in and fill up the main breakwater.

It was two hours after noon when we returned to the house again. After dinner we all three turned to the work of digging sweet potatoes in my old garden, and storing them under the shed. All the crops were doing finely and we found some green Indian corn just ripe enough to boil. In the cool of the evening we sat under the shed to watch for the new moon to rise, discussing the theory and probable action of sand deposit by waves.

Mr. Millward’s theory—and I believe it to be the correct one—was that the sand was held in suspension only while the water was in very considerable motion; and that it fell to the bottom almost instantly when the motion of the water ceased. He likened it to stirring sugar, not yet dissolved, in a glass of water. As soon as the stirring stopped the sugar fell to the bottom. “Thus, for example,” he explained, “when a wave comes up on the beach in front of us, it is more or less charged with sand; the sand is deposited just when the wave has spent its force and paused before the return flow. But, of course, the sand so deposited on the naked beach would be picked up again and carried back, to be again brought up, and so on in ceaseless round.” And the reason, he insisted, why the sand gathered at the last breakwater in the chasm instead of at the first one, was simply because at that place the current and consequent motion were least.

Each morning I walked up the beach to the chasm, sometimes alone and sometimes accompanied by Mr. Millward. In two days the breakwater at the exit was completely covered with sand, which rose above the level of high tide, and the sand had already begun to silt into the chasm back of the exit. On the third day we found a great shark embayed in the chasm and dashing around the old hull every little while, as though in a flurry of excitement. Each time a wave would break in he would endeavor to swim out, following the retreating water,—for now there was no longer a current through,—but the trees and limbs prevented him. Mr. Millward said he seemed like an evil spirit set to guard the galleon and its treasure; and indeed it would have been a dangerous thing for any one to attempt exploration of the wreck while this man-eating sentinel patrolled the narrow water where she lay.

The sight of this voracious fish reminded me very forcibly of the great danger which would have attended any attempt to reach the hull by diving when the galleon lay out in the sea. Had I brought my diving-apparatus safely to the island, as I originally intended to do, it is quite possible, and even probable, that I should have found a grave among the gastric fluids of some such shark. Strangely enough, in all the many times I had looked at the wreck through the water-glass while it lay out in the sea, I had never seen a single shark, though other fish had been visible in considerable numbers and variety. But doubtless, as is the treacherous nature of this tiger of the sea, he was lying there concealed and instinctively watching the boat in expectation of prey. It made me shudder involuntarily to think of the possible encounter that I might have had. As the shark imprisoned in the chasm was no present inconvenience to us, we allowed him to remain undisturbed where he was.

As we stood on the rock which adjoined the shore, watching the frothing of the surges through the breakwater at the mouth of the chasm, I pointed out to Mr. Millward that every few minutes, at intervals of about every third wave, the water rushing back met the incoming wave exactly at the breakwater and the resulting interference produced there a temporary quiet in the waters.

“Now,” said I, in reference to this fact, “if your theory is right we ought to be getting a discharge of sand at the breakwater every time there is such a meeting of the waters there.”

“Of course,” said he, “there is no doubt of it; and we shall soon be having a bar at this point. Whether this bar will rise high enough to stop the water materially from coming in before the whole chasm has silted full of sand is something we cannot determine except by waiting to find out by actual test.”

“Nor does it greatly matter,” I added, “for in either event the galleon would be safely housed.”

The weather held fair for a week longer, and at the end of that time it had become quite evident that a bank of sand was steadily forming at the mouth of the chasm. It was already nearly up to the surface at low water, so that the inrush of water was very small compared with what it had been. We had gone up to the chasm in the morning as usual, and then again in the evening of the same day, as the weather was very threatening and the heat intense, and a glassy calm was on the sea, which, almost devoid even of a swell, spread out in a flat, metallic-looking plain with scarcely a wrinkle. A storm was surely brewing, and we might expect it that night or the following day at latest. But as there was nothing to do, except to wait its arrival and abide the result, I only went to the chasm to satisfy my curiosity. When I arrived, an hour or two before sunset, and examined the place carefully, I thought the galleon would probably be safe, unless the surge became so heavy as to sweep the breakwater out on its return flow. Mr. Millward was of the same opinion.

About midnight that night I was wakened by a tremendous crash of thunder. The sky was black with heavy clouds, lit up at short intervals by the lightning, and it had already begun to rain. Owing to the heat, I had been sleeping in my hammock at the shed. I immediately got up, partly dressed myself, and carried my hammock to the house, where I found my companions both wakened by the thunder. I called Duke in and secured the door, expecting a heavy rain, which speedily came down with a rush and steady roar upon the thatched roof. The wind followed from the old quarter, the northeast, and soon became almost a gale, beating and driving the rain against the walls in angry gusts.

Mr. Millward and I, talking through the darkness, speculated on the probable result to the galleon; but being unable, of course, to reach any satisfactory conclusion, we dropped finally to sleep, thus forgetting our worry and anxiety.

In the morning, after a cold breakfast, without coffee,—for the fire was out, everything in the way of fuel was wet, and there was no sun visible,—I started for the chasm. Breasting the stiff gale, which was accompanied by spits and dashes of rain, I made my way along the beach, full of apprehension as I saw the huge rollers come crashing in, and the heavy swell that had been raised by the gale. When I came to the north cape, and the rocks forming the chasm were in sight, the scene was indeed one of grandeur, and my worst fears seemed to have good grounds. The tremendous swell running in against the rocks broke with a thunderous noise; the spray flew high in the air, and was blown apparently clear over the rocks.

I had hurried along thus far as rapidly as I could travel against the strong wind; but now I hesitated, dreading to go far enough to see what had happened to the galleon. However, no good could come of waiting, so I plunged ahead and soon came to the rock which joined the shore, and ascended it that I might have a fair view of the chasm. I found that the chasm no longer existed as we had known it. Instead of an open race-way through which the current rushed, or into which the rollers broke, there was now a peaceful little pool, in the midst of which the galleon was dimly visible, sunk some feet below the surface. The water in this pool was not very clear; for every few minutes a mighty shower of spray flung on high fell like rain upon its surface, and the rocks all about were drenched, and covered with little rivulets. Even the spot where I stood was not exempt, but I took the wetting with cheerful fortitude under the circumstances. Both breakwaters were completely covered with sand. The one at the mouth was almost like a sand-hill, and reached nearly to the stem of the galleon, but was so drenched by the falling spray that I did not care to go upon it. The one at the rear, or exit, was far enough away so that the spray did not fall upon it to any great extent, and I therefore climbed down upon it to see how firm it was. I was very certain no one seeing this bank of sand would have imagined how it had been made. There was no indication whatever that the hand of man had had anything to do with its construction. It looked quite as though the sand had lain there for ages. The waves had done their work most thoroughly, and the aged hulk now rested in a quiet, land-locked harbor, as safe and secure from the sea as though it were in a dry dock.

Wet through by rain and spray combined, but elated and in the highest of spirits at the condition of our work, I hastened back as fast as my feet would carry me, helped on by the wind now at my back, to convey the joyful intelligence to my companions. Duke, who had accompanied me, seemed to read my satisfaction in my face and actions, for he bounded along frisking and barking as though the whole thing were a grand frolic. When I came to the creek he had already run on ahead to the house, so that Mr. Millward and Alice were apprised of my return, and were at the door looking for me as I came up to the house.

“What news do you bring?” asked the old man, anxiously.

“The best of good news,” cried I, “the very best of good news! The galleon is safely and snugly at rest in a basin where a tornado could not reach it.”

“Well, that is good!” said the old man, fervently.

“Excellent!” echoed the daughter, and added, solicitously, “but you are very wet, Mr. Morgan, and you must change your garments at once. It will never do to have the courier who brings such good tidings take harm by his journey.”

After I had gone into my little sleeping-place and put on dry clothing, we sat down, and I had to describe minutely what I had seen. We then went into general committee to discuss ways and means for getting at the cargo of the sunken hull. Mr. Millward was for setting sail at the first favorable wind for Martinique to get divers and return with them. But I could not bring myself to agree to leaving the galleon to chance for so long a time as that might require. We had already successfully overcome so many difficulties that those remaining seemed trifling in comparison; though I am free to confess that just how we were to get at the contents of the hull was not at all clear to my mind at that time.

We had discussed the situation a long time, and as I had nothing to offer but mere resistance and unwillingness to leave, I felt that the old gentleman was gradually getting the better of the discussion, and had fairly driven me to the last ditch, when Alice came to my assistance with a suggestion that supplied a new stock of ammunition to my retreating forces.

The dear girl’s suggestion was in these words, “Why don’t you pump the water out of the basin and leave the galleon dry?”

Why, indeed? What was to hinder? It would be difficult to make an air-pump, but not at all difficult to contrive some sort of water-raising device.

“Thanks, fair Alice, for the idea. It rehabilitates me,” thought I; and meeting her eyes I added aloud, “You have hit upon the very idea, Miss Alice. We can get the water out of that basin with far less trouble than a voyage to Martinique and return would cost.”

The old man was silent.

Turning to him I said, “Your daughter deserves our warmest thanks, Mr. Millward, for this suggestion. Now we have only to contrive some water-lifting device, and we can set to work on the final task. What do you say?”

“I say that if it is feasible I will stay of course.”

We discussed all the water-raising contrivances we had ever heard of, from the primitive Egyptian shadoof—a bucket on a balanced pole—to the rotary steam-pump. But steam-pumps were not to be had, and it was aggravating to think about them. However, I went conscientiously through the entire list, and was listened to most patiently. It chanced that among other devices there was one I had heard of as being used in India by the natives to raise water for irrigation. It consisted of a wheel to which were suspended a number of gourds. Mr. Millward at once remembered seeing these very machines in use, and told how he had witnessed the breech-clouted coolies toiling with them on the banks of the rivers. He immediately agreed that we could easily build such a machine, and that it would accomplish the work.

“The amount of water raised in a day from the river with one of these rude machines and poured into the irrigating canal by the efforts of a single native workman is truly astonishing,” said he. After thinking a moment he added, “But you overlook one thing, Mr. Morgan. These machines are only adapted to lifting water from a river or other source of supply which remains at or near a constant level. Now, here the water to be lifted will be getting constantly lower, and as it falls the wheel also must be lowered and would soon be so low that it would no longer bring the gourds high enough to discharge their contents above the breakwater. You see that, do you not?”

In truth, I had not seen it at all. But when the difficulty was thus suggested it was plain enough that such a wheel would never do for what we wanted. I did not answer this most pertinent suggestion, for the very good reason that it could not be controverted. The wheel idea was quite out of the question.

After a little while he resumed by saying, “But I have also seen a modification of the same sort of machine, in which the gourds were attached to an endless rope instead of to the wheel itself. This device is used by the same people where the water is to be raised to a greater height than can conveniently be done with the wheel. I think we might possibly make such a modification work successfully.”

“Can you recall how this modification was constructed?” said I, anxiously.

“Perhaps I can recall enough to enable you to get the idea,” he replied, throwing back his head and closing his eyes in the effort to remember. “Yes,” said he, after a little reflection, “I think I can. I remember the general features very well indeed. However, the most vivid recollection I have, connected with these machines, is the hideous, creaking screech of their ungreased axles as they were turned hour after hour all through the hot summer nights, the natives ‘spelling’ one another at the work. How well I remember the dry, hot nights when I lay listening to these sounds from far and near. You could easily tell when the laboring coolie was tired by the gradual slowing of his machine and the lengthening of the interval between screeches. Then a fresh man mounted the treadmill and the screeches quickened; and so these monotonous alternations continued through the still night.”

After a few reminiscences of his old life in India the old man proceeded to give a description of the machine as nearly as he could recall it. It consisted of a drum, or skeleton wheel, about six feet in diameter, mounted on a platform over the water; each end of the drum overhung the platform and carried an endless rope, to which open-mouthed gourds were tied at regular intervals. The drum was revolved by stepping on its bars as in a treadmill. The gourds were carried down into the water empty and brought up full by the endless rope. Troughs at each side received the water as the gourds tipped to return. In short, it was a sort of chain-pump, or modification of that well-known device. From his description, aided by my own imagination and a full knowledge of the result sought, I was able to reconstruct in my mind this machine, or at least to see how one could be built that I conceived would answer the purpose. We agreed that we would start at this work as soon as the weather was pleasant enough to be out of doors with reasonable comfort.

It was very tedious to be without any fire or means of obtaining one during the rain. The house was getting damp; we missed our hot coffee; cold victuals were not pleasant, and our supply of cooked food was about gone, so that if the rain continued we should speedily be reduced to raw bacon and cocoanuts. As the leaden sky gave no immediate promise of sunshine, Mr. Millward and I concluded to try our hand at producing fire by friction. For this purpose we attached a piece of hard wood to the final shaft of the old fanning-mill, and setting it in rapid motion held a piece of soft wood against it as it revolved. I turned the crank while he held the wood. It presently began to char and smoke, but no fire came, though I ground away until the sweat poured off my body. We were about to give it up as a bad job, when Mr. Millward hit upon the idea of rasping off a quantity of fine wood-dust by grinding a piece of wood on the end of the iron shaft itself. When he had collected some of this and sprinkled it into the hot, smoking cavity of the softwood stick the motion soon caused the light material to catch fire, and we were speedily rewarded with a glowing coal from which we were able to start the fire, which you may be certain was not permitted to go out again. I very quickly had a hot fire in the oven, one near the shed out of doors, and a third in the fireplace of the house. With fire, life became speedily more endurable.

The comforting and cheering influence of an open fire, the sight of the blaze or the glowing coals, is a mysterious thing, and is not to be explained by the mere personal comfort due to the warmth, for a close stove or a steam coil will give that as well and perhaps better and more equably. There is an instinctive something deep down in the heart of man that responds to the open fire, and makes it act like a tonic on the disposition. This feeling is common apparently to all mankind. Everybody alike, old or young, rich or poor, is cheered by the glow and blaze of the fireside, the crackle of the burning, the sight of the flames on the hearth. Men who have been brought up from childhood to live in houses heated by the modern steam, hot-water, or hot-air apparatus, or have lived in the tropics where fires for warmth are rarely if ever needed, no sooner approach the blazing hearth than they feel its cheering influence. I have thought sometimes that the explanation might be found in heredity,—in a deep-seated habit of the human mind descending from parent to child through countless ages and generations. Far back of history, in the dim twilight of primitive life, we may imagine our ancestors living in such wildness as can scarcely be found on earth to-day even among the lowest savages; and we can picture the primitive hunter returning exhausted from the chase to seek his rest and comfort by the open fireside. By the fireside he rests, by the fireside he eats, here he meets his family, here in his nakedness he is warm, here are all his joys and loves and comforts. Every pleasure and every comfort are directly associated with the sight of the glowing embers and the bright, leaping blaze. And this has been going on through thousands and thousands of years. When Nature so impresses their habits upon her creatures that the dog, ages after it has become domesticated, will yet run round and round before lying down on a carpet, because its wild ancestors did so in order to flatten the tall grass in which they slept, is it too much to believe that man should have kept the habit of associating comfort with the sight of an open fireside?

Whatever may be the true explanation, the fact was that the glowing fire in the chimney cheered our hearts, and made us merry, as we sat laughing and talking and joking, and listening to the old man’s tales that night; and this pure delight was not in any wise lessened by the moaning of the wind and the intermittent dash of the rain upon the walls and roof. We three and Duke, in a sociable semi-circle lighted only by the flickering rays of the fire, enjoyed the shelter, the homelike sense of comfort, and the quiet of perfect content that night, and it seemed to all, I doubt not, as it did to me, a pity that the hour of bedtime should come around to break up so pleasant a party.