CHAPTER XVII

The day became sultry when the mist had cleared away, and by noon the heat was more oppressive than had been known all the Summer. Wesley was exhausted by the time he set out with Mr. Hartwell to return to the village. They needed no mariner's compass now to tell them the way.

They scarcely exchanged a word. They seemed to have forgotten the conditions under which they had gone forth in the early morning. A new world seemed to have been created since then—a world upon which the shadow of darkness could not fall for evermore.

They had gone straight to the cliffs, hoping for a breath of air from the sea to refresh them; but they were disappointed; the air was motionless and the reflection of the sunlight from the waves was dazzling in its brilliancy.

“I should have thought that the very weight of this heavy atmosphere would make the sea like glass,” said Wesley, while they rested on the summit of the cliff. “And yet there are waves such as I have never seen on this part of the coast unless when something akin to a gale was blowing.”

“I daresay there was a strong breeze blowing, though we did not feel it in the shelter of the hollow of the Tor,” said his companion.

“True; it would require a strong wind to sweep away the mist so suddenly,” said Wesley.

“Ah, sir,” said the other, “I did not think of a wind in that connection. Was it the fingers of the wind, think you, that swept that thick veil aside, or was it the Hand that rent in twain the veil of the Temple?”

“I am reproached, brother,” said Wesley. “Let us give thanks unto God. May He give us grace to think of all things as coming from Him—whether they take the form of a mist which obscures His purpose, or the darkness of a tempest on which He rides. I know myself wanting in faith at all times—in that faith without reserve which a child has in his father. I confess that for a moment in the morning I had the same thought as that which was expressed by the old man who joined us: I thought it possible that that fog which threatened to frustrate our walk had been sent by the Enemy. Should I have thought so if our work had been hindered in very truth? I dare not say no to that question. But now I know that it helped rather than obstructed, us.”

“There can be no doubt about that,” said Hartwell. “For myself, I say that I was never so deeply impressed in my life as at that moment when I found myself looking at you; you were speaking of the world awakening, and it seemed to me that I had been asleep—listening to the sound of your voice—the voice of a dream, and then I was full awake, I knew not how. I tell you, Mr. Wesley, I was not conscious of the change that was taking place—from darkness to light.”

“Nor was I,” said Wesley. “My eyes were closed fast while I was preaching. I had closed them to shut out that incongruous picture of obscurity, while I thought of the picture of the breaking of light; when I opened my eyes the picture that I had been striving to paint was before me. It was the Lord's doing.”

While they remained resting on the cliff the officer of the Preventive men came upon them. He knew Hartwell, and had, when Wesley had been in the neighbourhood before, thanked him for the good influence his preaching had in checking the smuggling.

He now greeted them cordially and enquired if they had come from the village, adding that he hoped the fishing boats had not suffered from the effects of the tide.

“We left the port early in the morning, and in the face of the mist. What is the matter with the tide?” said Hartwell.

“You have not been on the beach? Why, 'tis a marvel, gentlemen,” cried the officer. “The like has not been seen since I took up my appointment in this neighbourhood—a tide so high that the caves are flooded to the roof. List, sirs; you can hear naught of the usual boom of the waters when the pressed air forces them back.”

They listened, but although there was the usual noise of the waves breaking along the coast, the boom from the caves which had been heard at intervals through the mist was now silent.

“As a rule 'tis at high tide that the sound is loudest,” said Hartwell.

“That is so,” said the officer. “The higher the water is, the more the air in the caves becomes pressed, and so the louder is the explosion. But this day the water has filled the caves to the roof, leaving no air in their depths to bellow. One of my men, on his patrol an hour ago, was overtaken by the tide at the foot of the cliffs at a place high above spring tide mark. He had to climb to safety. He did so only with difficulty. Had he been at Nitlisaye, nothing would have saved him.”

“What, are Nithsaye sands flooded? Impossible,” cried Hartwell.

“Flooded up to Tor, sir. I tell you the thing is a marvel!”

“All the more so, since there is no wind to add to the force of the tide,” said Wesley.

“True, sir; there was a strong breeze in the early morning that swept the sea-mist over the shore; but there has not been a capful since,” said the officer.

“But see the waves! Are they the effects of the early wind, think you, sir?” asked Wesley.

“Maybe; but if so, this also is past my experience of this coast, sir,” replied the man. “But I allow that when I was sailing with Captain Hawke in the West Indies I knew of the waters of the Caribbean Sea being stirred up like this in the dead calm before a hurricane that sent us on our beam ends, and one of our squadron on to the Palisades Reef at Port Royal.”

“Do you fear for a hurricane at this time?” asked Wesley.

“A gale, maybe; but no such hurricane as wrecks the island it swoops down on in the Leewards, sir. Oh, a hurricane in very deed! Our ship's cutter—a thirty-foot boat swung in on the iron davits—and lashed down to iron stanchions on the deck—was whisked adrift as if it had been an autumn leaf. I say it went five hundred fathom through the air and no man saw it fall. I saw a road twenty foot wide shorn through the dense forest for five miles as clean as with a scythe, as you go to Spanish Town—a round dozen of planters' houses and a stone church had once stood on that cutting. They were swept off, and not a stone of any one of them was ever found by mortal after. Oh, a hurricane, indeed! We need expect naught like that, by the mercy of Heaven, gentlemen; though I care not for the look of yon sun.”

They glanced upwards. The sun had the aspect of being seen through a slight haze, which made it seem of a brazen red, large and with its orb all undefined. It looked more like the red fire of a huge lighted brazier than the round sun, and all around it there was the gleam as of moving flames.

“Looks unhealthy—is't not so?” said the officer.

“There is a haze in the air; but the heat is none the less,” said Hartwell.

“I like it not, sirs. This aspect of the sun is part and parcel of some disturbance of nature that we would do well to be prepared for,” said the officer, shaking his head ominously.

“A disturbance of nature? What mean you? Have you been hearing of the fishing-boats that have been hauled up on the stones at the port for the past two days? Have you taken serious account of the foolishness of a man who calls himself a prophet?” asked Hartwell.

The officer laughed.

“Oh, I have heard much talk of the Prophet Pritchard,” he said. “But you surely do not reckon me as one of those poor wretches whom he has scared out of their lives by threatening them with the Day of Judgment to-morrow? Nay, sir; I placed my trust in a statement that begins with soundings, the direction of the wind and its force, the sail that is set, the last cast of the log, the bearings of certain landmarks, and the course that is being steered. My word for it, without such a preface, any statement is open to doubt.”

“And have you received such a statement in regard to your 'disturbance of nature,' sir?”

“That I have, sirs. Our cutter was cruising about a league off shore two nights ago, light breeze from west-nor'-west, sail set; mainsail, foresail, jib, speed three knots. Hour, two bells in the morning, Master in charge on deck, watch, larboard—names if necessary. Reports, night sultry, cloudless since second dog watch, attention called to sounds as of discharge of great guns in nor'-nor'west. Lasted some minutes, not continuous; followed by noise as of a huge wave breaking, or the fall of a cataract in same quarter. Took in jib, mainsail haul, stand by to lower gaff. No further sounds reported, but sea suddenly got up, though no change of wind, force or direction, and till four bells cutter sailed through waves choppy as if half a gale had been blowing. After four bells gradual calm. Nothing further to report till eight bells, when cutter, tacking east-nor'east, all sail set, gunner's mate found in it a dead fish. Master reports quantity of dead fish floating around. Took five aboard—namely, hake two, rock codling one, turbot two, rock codling with tail damaged. That's a statement we can trust, Mr. Hartwell. Yesterday it was supplemented by accounts brought by my men of the coast patrol, of quantities of dead fish washed ashore in various directions. And now comes this marvellous tide. Sirs, have not I some grounds for touching upon such a subject as 'a great disturbance of nature'?”

“Ample, sir, ample,” said Wesley. “Pray, does your West Indian experience justify you in coming to any conclusion in regard to these things?”

“I have heard of fish being killed by the action of a volcano beneath the sea,” said the officer. “I have heard it said that all the Leeward Islands are volcanos, though only one was firing broadsides the year that I was with my Lord Hawke. 'Twas at Martinique which we took from the French. Even before the island came in sight, our sails were black with dust and our decks were strewn with cinders. But when we drew nigh to the island and saw the outburst of molten rocks flying up to the very sky itself—sir, I say to you that when a man has seen such a sight as that, he is not disposed to shudder at all that a foolish fellow who has never sailed further than the Bristol Channel may prate about the Day of Judgment.”

“And to your thinking, sir, an earthquake or some such convulsion of nature hath taken place at the bottom of our peaceful Channel?” said Wesley.

“In my thinking, sir, yes. But I would not say that the convulsion was at the bottom of the Channel; it may have been an hundred leagues in the Atlantic. And more is to come, sirs; take my word for it, more is to come. Look at yonder sun; 'tis more ominous than ever. I shall look out for volcano dust in the next rain, and advise the near-, est station east'ard to warn all the fishing craft to make snug, and be ready for the worst. I should not be surprised to find that the tide is still rising, and so I wish you good-morning, sirs.”

He took off his hat and resumed his patrol of the coast.

“This is a day of surprises,” said Wesley.

“The story of the fish is difficult to believe, in spite of the cocoon of particulars in which it is enclosed,” said Hartwell. “The greatest marvel in a mariner's life seems to me to be his imagination and his readiness of resource when it comes to a question of memory. A volcano mountain in our Channel!”

“Do not condemn the master of the revenue cutter too hastily,” said Wesley. “His story corresponds very nearly to that narrated to me yesterday by Polwhele.”

“Is't possible? True, Polwhele was the only fisherman who went out to the reef three nights ago,” said Hartwell. “And the strange sounds——”

“He heard them also—he thought that they came from a frigate discharging a broadside of carronades.”

Hartwell was silent for some time. At last he said:

“I could wish that these mysterious happenings had come at some other time. Are you rested sufficiently in this place, sir? I am longing for a cool room, where I can think reasonably of all that I have seen and heard this day.”

Wesley rose from the hollow where he had made his seat and walked slowly down the sloping path toward the village. But long before they had reached the place of his sojourning, he became aware of a scene of excitement in the distance. The double row of straggling cottages that constituted the village of Porthawn they had left in the morning standing far beyond the long and steep ridge of shingle, at the base of which the wrack of high water lay, was now close to the water's edge. The little wharf alongside of which the fishing boats were accustomed to lie had been hauled up practically to the very doors of the houses. Scores of men and women were engaged in the work of hauling them still higher, not by the machinery of the capstans—the capstans were apparently submerged—but by hawsers. The sound of the sailors' “Heave ho!” came to the ear of Wesley and his companion a few seconds after they had seen the bending to the haul of all the people who were clinging to the hawsers as flies upon a thread. The shore was dark with men running with gear-tackles with blocks, while others were labouring along under the weight of spars and masts that had been hastily outstepped.

Mr. Hartwell was speechless with astonishment.

“It is indeed a day of wonder!” exclaimed Wes—ley. “A high tide? Ay; but who could have believed such an one possible? Should we not be doing well to lend them a hand in their emergency?”

He had to repeat his question before the other had recovered from his astonishment sufficiently to be able to reply.

“Such a tide! Such a tide!” he muttered. “What can it mean? Lend a hand? Surely—surely! Every hand is needed there.”

They were compelled to make a detour landward in order to reach the people, for the ordinary path was submerged, but they were soon in the midst of them, and bending to the work of hauling, until the drops fell from their faces, when the heavy boat at which they laboured had her bowsprit well-nigh touching the window of the nearest house.

Wesley dropped upon a stone and wiped his forehead, and some of the fishermen did the same, while others were loosing the tackles, in readiness to bind them on the next boat.

Nelly Polwhele was kneeling beside him in an instant—her hair had become unfastened, for she had been working hard with the other women, and fell in strands down her back and over her shoulders. Her face was wet.

“Oh, sir; this is overmuch for you!” she cried.

“Far overmuch, after all that you have gone through since morning. Pray rest you in the shade. There is a jug of cider cooling in a pail of water fresh drawn from the well. You need refreshment.”

He took her hand, smiling.

“I am refreshed, dear child,” he said. “I am refreshed.”

“Why should that man he treated different from the rest of us; tell me that,” came the voice of a man who had been watching them, and now stepped hastily forward. Wesley saw that he was Bennet. “Is there a man in the village who doesn't know that 'tis John Wesley and his friends that has brought this visitation upon us? Was there anything like to this before he came with his new-fangled preaching, drawing down the wrath of Heaven upon such as have been fool enough to join themselves to him? Was there any of you, men, that thought with trembling limbs and sweating foreheads of the Day of Judgment until John Wesley turned the head of that poor man Pritchard, and made him blaspheme, wrapping himself in Wesley's old cloak, and telling you that'twas the mantle of a prophet?”

Nelly had risen to her feet before his last sentence was spoken, but a moment afterward she sprang to one side with a cry. She was just in time to avoid the charge of a man on horseback. But Bennet was not so fortunate. Before he was aware of a danger threatening him, he felt himself carried off his feet, a strong man's hands grasping the collars of his coat, so that he was swung off the ground, dangling and scrawling like a puppet. Down the horse sprang into the water, until it was surging over the pommel of the saddle. Then, and only then, the rider loosed his hold, reining in his horse with one hand, while with the other he flung the man headforemost a couple of yards farther into the waves.

“The hound! the hound! that will cool his ardour!” cried Parson Rodney, backing his horse out of the water, while the people above him roared, and the man, coming to the surface like a grampus, struck out for a part of the beach most remote from the place where he had stood.

Wesley was on his feet and had already taken a step or two down the shingle, for Parson Rodney's attitude suggested his intention of preventing the man from landing, when he saw that Bennet was a strong swimmer, and that he, too, had put the same interpretation upon the rider's raising of his hunting crop.

“Sir,” said Parson Rodney, bringing his dripping horse beside him, “I grieve that any man in my parish should put such an affront upon you. Only so gross a wretch would have done so. Thank Heaven the fellow is not of Porthawn, nor a Cornishman at all. If you do not think that my simple rebuke has been enough, I am a Justice, and I promise you to send him to gaol for a month at next session.”

“Sir, you mean well by me,” said Wesley; “but I would not that any human being were placed in jeopardy of his life on my account.”

“That is because you are overgentle, sir,” said Rodney. “Thank Heaven, my fault does not lie in that direction.”

“Repent, repent, repent, while there is yet time In a few more hours Time shall be no more!” came a loud voice from the high ground above the bank.

Everyone turned and saw there the figure of Richard Pritchard, standing barehead in the scorching sun, his hands upraised and his hair unkept; and a curious nondescript garment made apparently of several sacks hastily stitched together, with no sleeves. On his feet he wore what looked like sandals—he had cut down the upper portion of his shoes, so that only the sole remained, and these were fastened to his feet by crossed pieces of tape. He was the prophet of the Bible illustration. It was plain that he had studied some such print and that he had determined that nothing should be lacking in his garb to make complete the part which he meant to play.

Up again went the long, lean, bare arms, and again came the voice:

“O men of Porthawn, now is the accepted time, now is the Day of Salvation. Yet a few more hours and Time shall be no more. Repent, repent, repent, while ye have time.”