Fordham's Feud Part 7

"Rather," said Philip. "It'll send us along at twice the pace--inspire us, don't you know. Make us keep time--if anything will," he added, significantly.

There was some little demur among the girls, who were shy of singing without accompaniment. Then they started the Canadian boat-song, and the effect of the clear voices floating out over the mirror-like water was pretty enough, for the said voices certainly did "keep tune," even though the oars--thanks to the star-sc.r.a.ping proclivities of the maladroit Scott--failed with exasperating frequency to "keep time." And the scene was a lovely and a peaceful one, inspiring, too, if you came to contrast the utter insignificance of that c.o.c.klesh.e.l.l boat floating there on the blue expanse of lake, with the sombre grandeur of the great mountains--many a jagged and fantastic peak starting into view above and behind the abrupt forest-clad slopes sheering up from the water's edge as the distance widened between them and the Savoy sh.o.r.e. Then, dominating the flat Rhone Valley, the towering Dent de Morcles, and further in the background the snowy head of the Mont Velan peeping round the volcano-like crest of the pyramid-shaped Mont Catogne, and above the green slopes around Les Avants, the rocky hump of the Naye shone red in the beams of the westering sun.

But in spite of the calm and peaceful stillness lying alike upon the water and the encircling mountains, Jules Berthod seemed not altogether at ease. There was a heavy loom of cloud over the purple Jura, which to the mind of the experienced boatman had no business to be there. At the same time a kind of lurid opacity crept over the hitherto radiant sun.

"_Crr-rre nom! Si on allait nous flanquer un coup de vent, par exemple_!" he muttered between his teeth as he sent more than one uneasy glance to the westward.

There was one upon whom that glance was not lost--who had also begun to read the face of the sky. That one was Fordham.

"What do you say to my taking your place, Mr Scott?" he said. "We must be nearly half-way across by now. If anything, rather more."

Scott, who had had enough of it, jumped at this proposal, and sank down with a sigh of relief into the cushioned seat among the ladies.

"When are we to take our turn?" asked the youngest Miss Ottley.

"Better wait until we have broken the back of the work," answered Fordham, who knew, however, that no feminine hand was destined to handle the oar that day.

"Bless my soul, but how chilly it has turned," said General Wyatt.

It had--and more. The boat no longer slid smoothly over the gla.s.sy water. Something of a swell had arisen.

"By Jove! If only we had a sail we should slip along sweetly. There's quite a little breeze getting up," said Philip, resting a moment on his oars. "Well, we haven't, so it's of no use wishing. But how about another song? We want invigorating. Does any one know the Eton fourth of June song?"

It happened that n.o.body did, and Philip remarking that that inspiriting chorus was a thin affair if rendered as a solo, was urgently a.s.sured that he never was more mistaken in his life and as urgently pressed to give practical proof of the same. Then the disputants abruptly paused.

For Jules Berthod was resting on his oars, and seemed deep in a hurried consultation with Fordham, who, it will be remembered, now occupied the middle seat.

"_Nom de nom_!" he growled. "_Ca arrive--ca arrive. Je l'attendais bien--allez_!"

"What is the matter?" exclaimed Marian Ottley, with a shade of alarm.

"Is it going to be rough, or what?"

A heavy lumping swell was now running, into which the boat rose and fell with a plash and an angry hiss, as each well-timed, powerful stroke forced her through. But a marvellous and magical change had come over the whole scene. The great curtain of cloud seemed now to spread over half the lake, and was gliding on, on. It stole up over the Savoy mountains, and each hitherto shining summit now reared itself dark and threatening against the inky veil. It had thrown out an advance guard of flying scud, which already partially enshrouded the peaks and ridges dominating the Rhone Valley to the eastward, and still it crept on. The air was stirred in fitful puffs, moaning and chill, and the sun had disappeared. The sudden metamorphosis from golden unclouded afternoon to the brooding lurid gloom of half day was inexpressibly awesome-- almost appalling.

"Do you mind taking a 'trick at the wheel,' General Wyatt?" said Fordham. "We shall want some masterly steering directly."

"No, uncle. I can do it better than you," objected Alma, firmly.

"That's one advantage my riverside dwelling has left me--handiness with the tiller ropes."

"But you'll have to keep us head to a tolerably heavy sea," said Fordham. "That is, not straight at it, but as nearly so as possible.

You must not let her fall away on any account."

"I thoroughly understand boats--in smooth water or rough," answered the girl, calmly.

"Hurrah!" cried Phil. "Three cheers for our c.o.xswain!"

She spoke no more than the truth. There was strength in those supple young wrists and judgment within that well-shaped head, and all there realised that the General at his age would make the more indifferent helmsman of the two.

A whirring vibrating hum seemed to fill the air. Over the water not half a mile distant stretched a dark line. Nearer, nearer it came, and as it swept steadily on, those in the boat had no difficulty in making out a jagged, serrated ridge of leaping wave crests, banked up white and gleaming against the inky scud which seemed urging it on. On, on-- nearer, nearer. It was a critical moment. Most of those in the boat held their breath. Could that c.o.c.klesh.e.l.l live a moment against that creaming surging wall of water rolling on to engulf it?

Nearer--nearer! The fearful roar of the advancing waves became stunning, deafening. It was a terrible moment, and to those awaiting the shock it seemed as hours. Philip, grasping his oars rigidly in the intensity of the crisis, cast one look over his shoulder at the advancing terror, then at the group in the stern-sheets. The two Ottley girls had buried their faces in their hands. Scott was livid, his eyes starting from his head. Even the old General's face looked rigidly nerved for a desperate emergency. But she who sat holding the tiller ropes--not a quiver was in her countenance. There was the keenness of steel in her grey eyes, and the little hands seemed to conceal the strength of a vice, as the boat's head swept round to meet the advancing shock.

It came. With a mighty roar the huge wall of water struck them. The little craft seemed literally flung into the air, then plashed down again, and those within her thought she had buried herself in the waves for good and all. She reeled and rocked, and but for those firm hands that held the tiller ropes would have spun round and sunk headlong.

Several great seas swept beneath her, leaving her half full of water, and the terrified shrieks of the two thoroughly frightened girls, the million bellowing voices of the gale, the roaring, hissing tongues of the leaping billows, the weird darkness of the lowering scud out of which leapt each succession of towering curling seas thundering down upon the tiny craft like ravenous monsters sure of their prey, const.i.tuted a scene and surroundings well calculated to try the boldest nerves.

For awhile n.o.body spoke. Those in charge of the boat knew exactly what to do, and did it--fortunately so, or the fate of every soul there was sealed. In the teeth of the fierce tornado it was all the three strong men could do to keep steerage way on her, and well they knew that should she fall away for one instant the next would witness her capsize. And ever the huge waves flung her from crest to crest, drenching her occupants, while the air was filled with clouds of spray torn from the breaking summits and hurled away high overhead.

"Oh, my G.o.d!" shrieked Scott, his eyes starting from his wet and livid countenance, as a sudden volume of water struck him full on the neck, nearly knocking him overboard. "Oh, my G.o.d! We shall never see land again?"

"Shut your mouth, you snivelling sneak?" said Philip, exasperated beyond all patience. "Look at Miss Wyatt there and then heave your pitiful cowardly carcase overboard." At which remark Fordham laughed aloud, his short, dry guffaw more sardonic than ever.

But the wretched chaplain was impervious even to this humiliation, so abject, so overmastering was his terror. He cowered in the bottom of the boat, his face hidden in his hands, moaning.

"Get up, will you!" cried Fordham, savagely. "You're in Miss Wyatt's way. And make yourself useful if you can. Take that hat of yours and bale like the devil."

The peremptory tone had some effect, and the wretched man made an effort to obey. But a fresh sea dashed the hat from his hands and carried it away.

"This'll never do," muttered Fordham, in a tone only audible to Philip.

"Why can't those two d.a.m.ned women rouse themselves and bear a hand, instead of screeching there like stuck pigs?"

The General had been baling away manfully, but it was terribly uphill work, for every wave that struck the boat sent a pouring, hissing stream right into her.

But if her two girl friends were cowering and trembling under the terror of death, no weakness of the kind had impaired the calm resolution of Alma Wyatt. With head bent slightly forward and brows knitted, she never removed her steadfast glance from the work before her. Her eyes full of blinding spray, her wrists stiff and aching with the terrible strain upon them, she watched the advance of each crushing billow, appalling, unnerving in its towering height, and the boat's head was held true, though her whole frame would tremble with the fearful exertion involved. Philip, tugging manfully at his oars, noted all this. Even though they should go down he did not care greatly, in the excitement and ecstasy of the moment. They would die together, at any rate.

The flying wrack was so thick that they could not see fifty yards around on either side. Already it seemed darkening as with the closing in of twilight. To lie tossing about on the angry surging expanse all night would be a serious matter. Still, Fordham felt sure that the waves had somewhat abated in fierceness. But the muttered remark of Jules Berthod behind him shattered this hope just as he was on the point of expressing it.

"_Nom de Dieu! Cochon de veni! Voila que ca va nous accrocher de nouveau. Cette fois on va chavirer. Oui, cette fois on coulera--nom de nom_!"

Again that terrible vibrating hum was in the air. A fresh gust was upon them. The boat half full of water, all hands nearly played out after their abnormal exertions--how could they live out a fresh tornado?

"All up, Phil. Stand clear for a swim directly," he said, in an undertone.

Philip could hardly repress a start. Well he knew the other would not so have spoken without good reason. Besides, the hideous symptoms of renewed tempest were now manifest even to his ear. He looked hard at Alma, and his plans were laid. The instant the boat went over he would seize her and drag her clear of the struggling crowd. If possible he would secure an oar, which would help to keep them up. He was a strong swimmer and felt that they might stand a chance. At the same time he realised that it would be a very poor one.

On it came, the howling of the hurricane, the livid line of boiling seas. But this time not in that mountainous wall, for the windows of heaven were opened and a mighty rain descended with such violence as to beat down the heads of the waves, which, flattened beneath the terrific force of the downpour, had lost much of their power for peril. For a quarter of an hour this continued, then a red straggling glow stole athwart the livid scud.

"_Bon_!" muttered Jules. "_Cette fois on ne coulera pas. Mais non_!"

The red glow brightened. Suddenly as the parting of curtains, the dark wrack opened out, revealing a patch of blue sky. Then a golden sun-ray shot through, and lo! the whole ridge of the purple Jura, lying beyond the great heaving, tumbling ma.s.s of blue water dotted with myriads of white foamy crests.

"Hurrah!" roared Philip. "We've weathered it this time. Fordham, old chap, isn't that our haven?" as a grey town about three miles distant stood disclosed by the retreating scud.

"Yes, that's Vevey all right," was the answer. "Give way. We shall be there in half an hour or so. I needn't tell you how to steer now, Miss Wyatt. Hold up for a little while longer, Mr Scott. This company does not carry a steward." For the unfortunate chaplain, relieved of his fears as to mortal extinction, began to show symptoms of falling a prey to the agonies of sea sickness.

There was still a pretty stiff sea running, and every now and then a wave would strike them, sousing them from head to foot. But it was little enough they cared for this after their recent experiences, and soon the boat was running in under the lee of the _debarcadere_.

Quite a little crowd had collected to witness the landing of these "mad English," as they put it. Then, directing Berthod to call later for the very liberal remuneration awaiting him, the whole party started for the Hotel Monnet to get their dripping clothes dried and to dine, causing quite a sensation as they hurried through the streets of the sleepy little town, in their capacity of shipwrecked castaways.