# Left to Themselves/Chapter 9

Published by Hunt & Eaton, in New York.
CHAPTER IX.
TWO OUT OF TWELVE.
IT is not good to dwell upon such scenes and moments. To write of them does not make us more composed in them when they come. But, as it proved, things on board the Old Province that night were wonderfully calm after the first breaking of the news. It has been said that the steamer was far from crowded. Many of the men and women were humble. Many of them were brave. The fact that there was indeed ample time and boat room was over and over again pressed on every one's attention, with excellent effect. The preparations to leave the ship went forward swiftly, orderly. People hurried about with white and frightened faces. Now and then there were exclamations from one or another quarter, but there was no panic. Captain Widgins and his aids seemed to be in all places, cheering the timid and directing every thing. No tug came to the rescue, nor did the steady signaling bring any other ​help through the murk. The pumps did their duty stanchly. But the water poured through the ill-stopped, ragged hole blown out, far down in the hull; and it gained pitilessly.
Philip and Gerald had little to do. It was only slipping into their state-room and catching up the few things lying ready; some broken sentences together there, of which Philip afterward could remember nothing except his bidding the younger boy be of good heart, for a tug from the shore or a steamer might come to their help at any moment, before they need enter the boats. Gerald used to say that in his sudden dread and bewilderment—poor little fellow!—the cheerfulness Philip managed to keep in his voice did him more good than any of the words that might have been uttered. Philip led their way through the tumbled cabin. They pressed out into the gloom and foggy chill of the open deck and halted, bidden to do so, on the outer edge of the little crowd already huddling together there, waiting—waiting for what was to come next.
After all, there were not so many to be provided for, besides the ship's officers and crew and servants. The dazed company kept bravely ​in order. Except for the signals of distress, the hollow roar of the escaping steam behind them, and the bustle of the crew ahead where the boats were making ready, there was a kind of breathless stillness. Philip could hear, now and then, the breaking of the surge below. The mist, thicker than ever, drove into their faces. The lanterns made only too plain its denseness The strain was too great for them to speak. The solemn thoughts that passed, one after another, through the spirits of each boy, the younger as well as the older, I do not intend to try to describe here. They are less our business than any thing else in this story. Be sure that in such times of sudden danger and defenselessness, no matter how short a time we may have lived in this world, where the best of us leave undone so many of the things that we ought to do and do so often the things we should not, we will have our reflections, best known then and afterward only to our own souls and to God.
Belmont was not discoverable. But one special fear again beset Philip. When the confusion of getting into the boats came might not Gerald be separated from him? That ​Gerald had also a great doubt and dread of it he knew from the way in which he clung to him and over and over asked, "I shall surely be put into the same boat with you, Philip, won't I, if we have to go? I don't mind any thing, if they will only let us keep together." And what prayers Philip made were confused enough, but no thought repeated itself more earnestly than that Gerald and he might indeed "keep together" through it all, even to the unknown end; and that, doing whatever he could for Gerald—fighting the very wrath of the sea itself for him—he might not fail in his guardianship, even with his uttermost stroke and his uttermost breath.
The disembarking was made into two or three boats at once. Something soon directed Captain Widgins's eye to where the two waited their turn tremblingly, patiently. He waved his hand. "Quick, my lads!—you two there—next!" he called. "Make way there, Watson!" Before Gerald could realize that the descent was begun, he and Philip found themselves side by side in the nearest of the boats. It seemed to have more packages than people aboard it; and indeed it had. Some consignments of special ​value were on it, under charge of the second mate, Mr. Eversham. There were ten people besides themselves; but the captain knew best what were the responsibilities on him and what was the proper thing to do. As the boys found their places he called out sharply, "Eversham, are you ready? Give way, then! Quick! Remember, Knoxport Cove! Man the cutter there, next! This way, ladies. You're wanted now."
But just as Eversham repeated his orders, and as the loaded boat was being cast off to give place to the great cutter, Philip heard a voice overhead that he well knew. The boat was rising and falling. Gerald held fast to his arm. But he strained his ears for each syllable.
"I say, captain! Captain Widgins!" Belmont shouted. "Stop that boat! I go in her too! My son is aboard her. Halloa, Mr. Eversham!"
The Old Province deck seemed very high overhead. The fog made the lights on it dim. Philip could just make out Belmont's figure and gestures.
"What boat, sir?" inquired the old captain, angrily. "Why didn't you speak sooner?"
​"That boat yonder—Eversham's! Holloa, I say, bring her about a moment till I get aboard!"
Philip hastily said something to Mr. Eversham. Eversham wished no more in the boat in any case. He called out, "His son isn't here! He's made a mistake!"
"That's a lie! He is there! I saw him. I see him now!" cried Belmont, leaning over the companion-ladder. "Let me pass, I say!" This to a sailor barring his way.
"I tell you he's not here," returned Eversham, obeying Philip's prompting willingly, "and the boat's full. The gentleman's no business here!" With this, so strong a wave rolled under them that nothing but promptness saved them from a collision with the cutter behind and with the ship's side.
"Clear away, Eversham!" shouted Captain Widgins, furious at the whole interruption. "Stand out of the way, sir! Mind your own business!" This to Belmont. "You can't go in that boat! Foolery! This is no time for disputing orders. Clear away, I say!"
The captain was obeyed. The boat passed out from the vessel. Belmont could be heard ​in angry altercation. But he was left behind, to Philip's intense relief.
How quickly the lights and noises aboard the Old Province became indistinct! It was startling. The boat rose and sank, driven further and further onward. All was darkness, except the lanterns and the pale light from overhead that revealed each anxious face and the glitter of the wave-crests. The few women crouched together. Gerald pressed close to Philip's side, but now uttered no word. They had begun the lonely and dangerous pull to Knoxport Cove, the nearest harbor. The strong arms of those who rowed conquered half mile after half mile. It was impossible to see two yards around them. Once they thought that a tug was passing somewhere beyond. That was something to be feared as well as hoped for. Under Eversham's rallying they cheered again and again. Two of the men fired their pistols. They heard nothing more, however, and the rowers settled down again to their battle. All had gone well enough, so far. If they could but know whether the other boats from the abandoned ship were making as safe a progress as theirs! At length, too, there came over the ​surge the chime of a bell, faint at first, but gradually more distinct, "One—two—one—two—one—two—one—two; a strange, lonely rhythm, but unmistakable.
"I take it that's the buoy on Leunggren's Rock!" exclaimed Mr. Eversham. "Our course is all right."
Every one drew an easier breath. Gerald was resting his head on Philip's shoulder, listening in almost perfect silence to whatever Philip, from time to time, said softly to keep him tranquil and even to make him think lightly of the perils of their situation. The boy sat up now and hearkened. "Yes, it's a bell, Philip; it's a bell! I hear it," he presently said. "It sounds like the church-bell at Ossokosee, don't it?" he added wearily—"just before Mr. Sprowers stops ringing it. I wonder how they will land us when we get to that place we're trying for."
But, as he spoke, a shriek, a dreadful shriek, broke from the lips of a woman opposite. She had carried a baby in her arms tightly wrapped in a shawl. Standing upright, she struggled frantically with those nearest her, who held her back from leaping over the gunwale. In ​changing her position she had lost her balance and stumbled, and the child had fallen from her very arms into the sea!
"Sit down, say! Sit down for your lives!" cried Eversham. "The boat will be swamped!" The packages of plate in the middle were shifting perilously, falling against each other. Too late! Lurching violently on the very crest of the roller, the boat toppled, plunged, and then cast out its load—men, women, boys, cars, all—pell-mell together.
For two or three seconds—the kind that seem an eternity—Philip Touchtone, thrown sidelong, struggled in the sea, conscious of but two things. He gripped the gunwale with one hand, half his body submerged. The other was upstretched, and with the palm and each finger pressing with the strength of iron levers, as it seemed, it held back Gerald Saxton from falling out, over his shoulders. Gerald had been hurled against the gunwale, not over it. Philip pushed upward and hung on. The boat righted itself. Lightened of its load, the succeeding wave lifted it like a withered leaf. It swirled it, eddying onward into the fog, out of the reach of those other strugglers in the ​black water, in a twinkling. All this took place in less time than it takes to tell it.
"Philip! Philip!" came Gerald's faint cry.
"Hold on! hold on!" Touchtone gasped. He pulled himself a few inches higher. With a desperate effort he dragged his legs over and rolled down into the boat, dashing what little breath was left in Gerald's body out of it, as the terrified boy, who had in falling clutched a thwart, raised his dripping and bruised head. Touchtone struck out his arm and caught hold of Gerald's shoulder.
They were drenched to the skin by the water shipped; but so quickly had the dreadful calamity happened that not a fourth part of what might have invaded the boat was swashing about in it. They drew themselves upward. The knowledge of their deliverance became more distinct. But they were—alone! They glanced fearfully around. The pallid, feeble light from overhead told them it again. Alone! The cries of those struggling with the sea, with exhaustion and death, pursued them. Eversham's voice—they heard it. But the despairing sounds came from a distance, rods out of their reach, in the fog. The sea was running ​like a mill-race. Not an oar lay in the boat. The distance widened with each wave. To give help was impossible. Presently the cries ceased. All was still except the lapping of the water within the boat and without.
O, mysterious choice of heaven! Out of all the rest, they two, only, were there alive! Hand grasped hand feebly.
"Gerald?"
"Philip?"
Is your head better where you struck it? Come closer to me." He drew the dripping boy to him. "I want to feel sure that it's you. We are safe. Don't tremble so."
"Yes, we are safe—but O, Philip, where are—the rest?'" His head fell back against Philip in complete exhaustion. "Hark! hark!" he added, faintly, "don't you hear the bell?—the bell on the rock—that is like the one—on the church? It sounds as if—as if we were—going home."
Philip could scarcely catch the last words. Gerald's hand grew cold within his own. The boy had swooned. With Touchtone bending over him in attempts to recover him the boat still swept along in the mist. They were left indeed to themselves, and to god.