A Tragedy of the Columbia [pp. 513-520]

A Tragedy of the Columbia
useless. If he had been caught beneath the
mast he must have been past all recoverv
long since; if uninjured, hlie was a strong
swimmer, and not finding his mate about
the wreck, ought now to be well toward
the shore, which, he calculated, was about
two miles distant. Placing the precious
oar beneath his arm, close up and parallel
with his body that it might not retard his
progress, he set out with long, steady
strokes, directing his course by the occasional bellow of the buoy which came
faintly to his ears from the outer bar.
Days, it seemed to him, he struggled on,
many times on the verge of despair, ready
to give up the fight, loose his hold of the
oar, and sink beneath the dark water.
There comes a time after great and
long-continued bodily exertion when the
desire for rest is of such overpowering
strength as to supersede all else-love of
life or fear of death. That time had come
to Bill,-how cool and soft the sandy bottom,-what immeasurable happiness there
to lay him down in peaceful sleep,-in
quiet rest.
Then arose before him a vision of home;
he saw, standing in the doorway of the little white-washed cottage, the figure of his
wife, her patient, careworn face turned to
the river as she shaded her eyes in vain
search for the homebound boat. Gradually
the furrows of care and time faded from
her brow and he saw once more the happy
Indian maiden, with eyes like the young
deer; heard again the merry laugh, soft as
the wind in the pine-tops or the murmur
of the silver streams of her native northland. Saw again the two brown-eyed baby
boys she bore him that winter's night so
long ago. A terrible storm raged about
the rough log hut, and the snow drifting
in, formed little banks upon the floor.
They were alone that night; he had sent
for one of the mothers at a distant Indian
village, but she had not come, for the snow
lay deep and it was far. Only the flame
in the great open fireplace lit up the room,
dancing upon the rough-hewn logs, and
over the mother's face. How bravely she
bore up. And when it was past and the
two small bodies close wrapped in the
bear's skin had been placed in a rude box
before the fire, she smiled.eaintly, and he
had kissed her softly as she lay there.
Happy they were,-three whole years; too
happy. Then a sickness came to the
country, an awful sickness which made the
body hot and dry, and closed up the throat;
and the little boys had died. None ever
came again, though they grew old with
waiting.
The vision aroused him; the watching
eyes of his wife seemed calling to him.
He steeled himself against the deadly
weariness, hugged the oar more closely,
and renewed the long, steady arm-sweep,
alternating with intervals, which grew
more and more frequent, of rest, when he
only clung to the oar and drifted. But he
feared such moments, for in them, despite the strong will, he sank into wild, uncouth dreams, only to be awakened again
by the strangling waves. He feared, too,
the turning of the tide before he reached
the shore, for with the tide against him,
all hope must vanish.
How long he had gone on thus he did
not know, when, at last, he realized by the
less turbulent waves that he had passed
from the bar to the quieter water just off
shore. Then the fog began to lift and
gradually faded from the surface of the
river, and there, blessed sight, not above
a quarter-mile away, hallowed by the silvery moonlight, rose the dim white line of
the sand-hills, and beyond, the dark, pineclad mountains. Only the breakers between him and life,-life and the waiting
one at home. A seconid time that night
arose to the throne of the Infinite that
prayer of Thanksgiving, "God'lmighty
be praised." Slowly, with feeble strokes
and reeling brain he went on again.
The stars had vanished one by one
before the bright shafts of coming day.
The fog had gone from the bosom of the
mighty Pacific, from the river's breast and
the lowlands, and now clung with ragged
hand to the mountain's brow, there gone,
perhaps, to receive the first kiss of the
dawn. The tide was high and sang full
merrily, as it rushed far up the sandy
shore, halted, and turning, fled again.
Through the dim light of the early
morning, an ancient spring-wagon jogged
along the sand.
"Brighlt lights were da-a-nc-i-i-ng
Iti the gratl' ball-ro-o-o-m,
"Ha, you Jack, Jim, git out o' here er
I'11 feed ye some more raw hide. I'm
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