the buoy had travelled out safely and the half-frozen workers ashore had seen the keeper disengage himself and clamber into the maintop. they had also seen him help one of the crew into the buoy and had received the signal—jerks on the rope—to haul away.
hauling away with a will they brought to the top of the dune, half-drowned by the upleaping surf as he was borne shoreward, a sailor, one of the forecastle crowd.[284] two men picked him up and carried him to the house.
as they cleared the buoy for the trip out dick hand came forward to take his place in it. he put himself in, first one leg then the other, and shouted: “all fast!”
they began hauling him out.
out he went, not rapidly, out over the dark and frightful tangle of waters that flooded the smooth beach below him. he was facing shoreward. the moment his feet left the edge of the dune he was, to all intents and purposes, in the midst of an immense void, a bottomless region of water and blackness and cutting, stinging wind without landmark or landfall, terrible, thunderous, and empty of anything but sound. beneath him the stout strength of the buoy bore him up. that, at least, was tangible. it was as if he rode slowly through chaos on an invisible steed, winged, at home in the air.
a little way and then a great wall of water coming unseen out of the darkness rose and curved and fell upon him. one instant he sensed its black, glittering height at his back, the next he was in the midst of it, as submerged as though he had been a thousand fathoms below the immense atlantic; an instant later he was free of the barrier, drenched, drowning, water running off him in streams—riding slowly seaward, riding slowly on.
the line carrying the breeches buoy was as taut as it[285] was possible to make it but inevitably it sagged in the middle, especially when the buoy was bearing a man’s weight. for a part of his journey dick was under water almost continuously. he had to hold his breath and draw breath as cautiously as a swimmer in a heavy sea. the impact of waves bruised and shook him, the roar of the water deafened him. he could see neither ship nor shore. he grew doubtful, almost, of his own existence. still he rode on.
as he neared the ship he was lifted above the angry flood that seethed about the vessel. now he went forward more slowly, for he had to be hauled not only out but upward. eventually he found himself hard upon the ship’s maintop, her torn rigging, singing deep bass notes in the wind, all about him. a little farther, a little farther, yet a little more and he was able to reach out his hand and clutch a ratline. a moment more and he was struggling to get his feet on the tiny platform of the top, tom’s hand was under his shoulders, and tom’s voice was in his ear.
“fine work! good boy! you’re just....” that much tom’s voice managed to get to him above the awful noise.
