The Atlantic’s Christmas Gift

Evening Star, Issue 20053, 19 December 1928, Page 13

The Atlantic’s Christmas Gift

A hard gale from the north-east—a dcad-muzzler—-welcomed the , Aerial to the North Atlantic, promising real Christmas weather. "With tho yard* /braced up on tho backstays, and sail shortened to lower topsails and a reefed foresail, Captain Amos Stokes said good-byo' to iiis hopes of making port in time,' and cursed tho luck of the unkindly, seas. He had taken big risks and driven his ship like a fury for three hard months, hut alt the reckless hurry in the world couldn’t beat that black north-easter. “ Never , mind, dear,” Mrs Amos Stokes said, in the captain’s snug cabin; “don’t'worry so much; I’ll bo all right.” “We could do it yet, if tho wind shifted; but it’s nailed in tho northeast and might stick there a month—two months. I was a fool to allow you to come to sea with me!” “It’s been worth it—easily,” sighed Ethel Stokes. Amos Stokes returned to the deck to shako his big lists in the wind’s eyo and curse afresh tho illluck that had companioned him. He was afraid of tho future. Ordinary ' perils left him undaunted, but this matter of aiding a new, fragile life into tho world was a different thing. With a ship you know where you were, even in the worst conditions; with a woman—where wore you? He took counsel of mate and steward, both elderly men, who had been married, but—owing to tho sea’s ruling—had never been at homo when their children were born. Both prophesied that Mrs Stokes would bo all right when her timo, arrived. They expressed these opinions with spindrift cutting them bitterly in tho teeth. Staring oirt over tho livid, wlutc-crcstcd enormity ■of tho wintry sea, Amos Stokes tasted doubt. ‘Remembering how keenly. Ethel had looked forward to tho coming of tho child, ho hoped for the best—without much hope. And his worst fears were realised. After three days of riotous ; wildness, what time she seemed determined to chase . her own tail, the , Ariel gave a display of restlessness that surpassed all her previous attempts just as Ethel’s hour of travail arrived. Amos’s presence on deck was urgently necessary to aid tho ship through her flurries; it was equally necessary below, where his wife fought tho Terror alone and unaided. Ice snapped on his eyebrows when ho entered the cabin, breathless, like a man who had fought a dozen harsh rounds: ho was sodden to tho skin, salt-soaked, ho felt, to his marrow. When ho returned to tho wave-swept poop, where Tunbridge,, his mate, hung to the mizen-swifter, Amos Stokes’s face was grey and drawn. “No use!” he, said curtly, because of tho lump in his throat. “Meaning, sir ?” “Child’s—dead! I’m not surprised. Curse tho sea!”

“And—your good lady, sir'-'” A strange weakness afflicted Amos Stokes. His knees shook beneath him, and he reached a steadying hand to Tunbridge’s shoulder. Tho Aerial, as though exulting in tho tragedy below, hung herself to a towering wavc-crcst, and then swung sickcuingly down a seemingly interminable watery slope where tho dead things of tho sea seemed to taint the air. Stokes spat tho salt water out of his mouth, and spoke wryly; “She—doesn’t know, yet. She’s alive—just. Asleep, sort of—coma. She’ll probably die, too. She sot a'lot on that child.” Tho mate, sympathetic, but helpless, nodded. “They do—when they’re first children, sir, I know.” And Stokes’s grasp on his sulibrdinate’s shoulder tightened. “Do you know enough to give her—to giro 'her—life . ho rasped, -his. Taco working. He happened to bo devoted to bis wife, as most deep-water sailors are. “Curse this gale! Sho needs peace and quiet and care—and what’s she getting? Hell! When sho wakens, if she does, she’ll ask for the child—and I’ve got to tell her. Then she’ll break her heart and die—l know.” Ho stared aloft half sightlessly, visualising au ordeal. It is not good for a mail to ho condemned to chase tho happiness from a loving woman’s soul, lint it would have to bo done—at tho appointed time. Ethel would ask for her baby. Ho pictured the rapt joy of her eyes as sho mado tho request. He also imagined tho bleak hopelessness of those eyes when tho truth hamhicred itself homo to her brain/ Being a sailor through it all, lie said:

“Send a couple of men aloft to . miiko that Joco topgallant sail fast—- - it’s blowing loose!” “ Ay, ay, sir!” Sir Tunbridge hollowed his hands about his mouth and bellowed. Two men sneaked out of cover and moved, waist-deep in swil'ling brine, along the deck to the mainmast. They surmounted the sheerpole, aiid seemed literally to bo blown aloft ! by the frantic weight of wind. _ Presently one of them, jockeying a jolting vard, bawled something down to the .- deck. “What’s ho say?” demanded Amos, just about to run down to his cabin. “Says there’s a ship showing dis- , tress signals to leeward, sir.” ' “Let her go to—the devil, then!” Not that it was like Amos Stokes to talk in that fashion customarily. He had a name for hardihood and gallantry; and ho had more than once been ■ associated with deep-sea rescue work of the most daring kind. Men had said, indeed, that the bigger tbe danger offering the readier Stokes was to dare it; ho liked to lick the sea at its own game. He tried to banish the idea of that distressed ship from his mind as lie softly opened his cabin door and tiptoed to his wife’s side/ Ethel was 1 restlessly asleep—occasionally calling in staccato words that were incoherencies. She was in a high fever—dan- • gerously high. Her damp hands, which he caught, seemed to be reaching out to cradle the child that had never known life. There was little to be done for her, it appeared; but, dreading lost sbe should waken and ask that unanswerable question, Stokes administered a sedative, touching the woman he loved with infinite gentlo- ■ ness that seemed impossible in so big and strong a man. _ There were certain sad rites to be performed, and ho performed them. Then he entered the chart-house and wearily opened the log-book. It_ was necessary to make an entry therein. “December twenty-fourth!” ho mumbled. “ Christinas Eve, eh?” It . was utterly impossible not to think of another, Babe, for his own thoughts were running on children. His own disappointment was intense—soulshattering indeed. Ho had dreamed of a strong son to carry on his name and his family traditions of sea-fight-ing. The Stokeses had been sea-war-riors almost from time immemorial. “We were going to call him Noel, weren’t we?” he husked, dampness that was not sea spray dimming his . eyes, “ A Christmas baby!” He dried his hands, and, taking the pen, wrote shakily:; “This day, the ship labouring heavily, Ethel Stokes bore stillborn child—body committed to the deep.” A force, stronger than his own will, caused him to add; “ I pray God bo merciful to her—atjd mo!” Then ho closed the book and went on deck., The short day was already closing in, .a horror of low-hanging cloud and snarling seas, _ There was an unnatural, livid glare in the sky that was . hardly light. Big water scourged the Ariel, pouring over her main brace . blocks, swirling incessantly along her■, 4«clia. .

Hr CAI’T. FRANK H. SHAW. (Published by' Arrangement with tho General Press, Ltd.)

Mr Tunbridge, an arm locked about tho mizzeu-swifter, was raking tho dosod-iu horizon with his binoculars. “ What is it?” asked Stokes. “That wreck, sir—there she is.” “Let her go hang! Give mo a hand here.” The weather forbade tho opening of a prayer book; but Stokes recited what ho could remember of tho burial service as he committed the body of his son to tho tragic sea. , Darkness closed down almost as the pitiful ceremony was conipleted. The thin thread of an upsoaring rocket illuminated tho lowering sky to leeward, to burst, in vivid sparks under tho canopy of cloud. “Shall I answer it, sir—give ’em a bit of hope to hang on to?” asked Mr Tunbridge. “They'll need comforting —oven if nothing comes of it.’L “ We can’t do anything—raise false hopes I Why should they have comfort when—when- ” He felt lie hated all .humanity. Why shouldn't - they suffer as ho was suffering now?' Why should thoso harassed men out'.there look to a robbed man for succour? In a little while now he would have to break the news to Ethel —and'he believed the news would kill her,Women were like that; they clung to hope unbelievably, but when hope died they lost their hold on life and just crumpled up and—died! With sickening force it was borne in on Captain Amos Stokes just what his own existence would bo without his wife.

“If they know we’re standing by through the night, sir ” persisted .the mate. “Oh, all right, then—hut it’s no use.” Tho answering rocket screamed upwards into the yelling void, to be answered from the wreck. It was as though a choir of fiends yelled mockery as tho wind screamed and harped in tho rigging and tho, canvas boomed. “ Regular Christmas weather!” said Stokes bitterly. “ Wonder if it was like this in Bethlehem that other night?” He tried to think bitterly of that astounding natal night close on two thousand years ago. Ho tried to think of tho coming ordeal through which ho must presently pass, when Ethel’s consciousness returned and she reached out her hands knowingly, with tho tender question on her lips. But, tho human brain being what it is, and his environment stormy, lie discovered himself to bo thinking with increasing persistence of the hapless wreck out there in tho hell broth. Somehow the weight of his own misery seemed lightened by reflection on tho misery and suffering of others. Furthermore, ho was a seaman—sympathetic and dauntless. 'When all was said and done, it was his own fault that the shipboard tragedy had occurred. “1 ought to have made her stay ashore,” ho brooded. “It was selfishness mado me bring her—selfishness. Well, it’s too late to fret now. Wonder what sort of weather those poor beggars are making of it?” Ho heard tho scream of a wilder _ squall—its note was mocking and triumphant, as if gloating over him—Amos Stokes, who had beaten tho sea on countless occasions.

“ Get that foresail off her—bring her to,” ho ordered. “And send up another rocket—show him we’re standing by.” He took the kicking wheel himself, as tho handling of tho great foresail demanded tho services of every available man; and for an hour or two fought his ship with the old-time battle courage stimulating him. Tho rocket was answered from the distance'—the wreck still survived. He presently surrendered tho helm to a relief and ,mado his cautious way below, his heart in his throat. Ethel, less restless than before, had sunk into a sodden sleep of exhaustion, _ tho sedative taking, ■effect; He-studied her wan. damp-face for a long time, his soul a-shudder within him, apprehensive of her awakening. It had been better, he thought bitterly, if she had died with the child; sorrow would have been spared her. Ho dashed moisture from his eyes, reflecting on their joint dreams. His must bo the hand to strike!tho cup of joy from her pallid lips. Since the atmosphere of the cabin stifled him he went hack to tho deck, to_pace feverishly, staggering to the ship’s restless plunges, yet feeling some sort of wild delight in tho rasp of tho greedy wind ou his cheek. Ho shook his fist at tho devouring sea, hating it. He cursed this riotous Christmas weather. Half a dozen times ho descended to the cabin, each time to discover Ethel heavily asleep. He was pacing the sluicing deck when tho laggard Christmas dawn broke, to reveal tho wreck in sorry plight.

He studied the sodden hull over which white water broke in.unceasing wildness.

“Can’t live ■much longer!” ho declared. For a long time ho stood, staring, his fists clenched until the knuckles showed white. It went against the grain, but—he was snffer■ing the torments of the damned, so why should these other fellows rejoice? Then—what would Ethel have decreed? ho wondered. Ho knew, without asking the question. “Ease her off the wind!” ho suddenly cried. “ Ituu her down to that ship!” And the crew, clustered on the poop, understanding what was in his mind, raised a wavering cheer. “Less noise!” ho ; commanded fiercely, as if the puny cries could outvie the yelling tumult of the elements! “Save your breath—it’ll bo needed!” “Going to try it, sir?”-asked Tunbridge,- as stout a sea-fighter as his superior.

“ Yes—clear away that leo lifeboat!” He bad a, desire to take the frail boat across the horror of boiling sea himself—with a hope that he might not return to faco tbo pending inquisition. But the ship demanded his energy and presence. “You game to try it?” he asked Tunbridge. “I’ve been praying you’d give me the chance, sir!” “Volunteers, then. Do vour best; ITI help all I can.” He didn’t owe it to God to try to save His suffering creatures, for God had stolen happiness from the best woman in the world. Ethel would die when she knew the truth. Why should unknown men live? Still, a man had to do what he could—and that Babe Who had lived wouldn’t wish Amos Stokes to act a gospel of an eye for an eye. It was queer how much he was thinking of the Bethlehem Baby, for he didn’t pose as being a religious man. Ho edged, the Ariel cunpingly towards the wreck; and then forgot his own misery in the clean joy of fighting. There was no lick of volunteers, and at the opportune moment he slipped the lifeboat, with a trickle of oil from his scuppers to smooth its passage. Tunbridge was a good man in a boat—there was no denying that fact. Amos Stokes watched the tiny craft -miraculously negotiate waves that seemed vast enough to overwhelm the largest liner afloat. He saw it tower high on' noisy crests, saw it disappear from view in clamorous troughs.' Then it reached , the wreck and vanished' under, its squattering stern. There being nothing' else to do, Captain Stokes ran Ins frantic ship ahead of the wreck, and then, wearing her, worked up to her lee in time to’ receive his returning boat. Then followed diectic moments as the shivering survivors were brought aboard, and in this time the wreck lifted, her stern towards the sky and sullenly plunged below a mighty comber, not again to reappear; But Amos _ Stokes hardly noticed the culnunation. of. this tragedy of the pea.

Mr Tunbridge was speaking—gasping out unbelievable words. “ Captain’s wife—died—baby born—alive! Captain dead—killed by falling mast. Baby here—alive—alive!” The mate edged into the shelter of the companionway and opened a bundle he carried in the crook of In's arm. A newly-born baby’s face, puckered but peaceful, showed. “Give it to me!” said Amos Stokes, and snatched the bundle. There was a ,clioking thickness in his throat as he softly entered his cabin. He tried to move soundlessly, but because of his burden the door escaped his hand and slammed to a wild roll of the ship, and the noise wakened Ethel, - who turned big, wild eyes on her husband’s face. “ Baby!” she moaned. Amos Stokes laid the bundle in her searching arms. She drew it slowly and hungrily to her starved breast. The wildness faded from her eyes, leaving them filled with golden wonderment. Amos held Ids breath, watching life triumph over the menaco_of death. Ethel smiled at him —a smile of growing radiance. Then the baby whimpered, and she held it closer, hushing it—crooning the eternal mother song over its downy head. .With new masterfulness she motioned Amos away, but _ her accompanying smile was a benediction, too. Lumpy of throat, vet exalted, Amos returned to the deck, to pound Mr Tunbridge wildly between bis rheumaticky, aching shoulders. “ Old Atlantic’s 'given up a proper Christmas gift!” he gloried. “Blast it—bless it! She’ll never know, unless some fool talks,” “They won’t talk—l’ll see to that,” said Mr Tunbridge grimly. “Looks to me as if the wind was freeing for a straight run home.”