George Fenn - The Master of the Ceremonies

“A boat!”

“The life-buoy!”

“Ropes here, quick.”

“Help! – help!”

Cries; the rush of a crowd to the end of the pier.

A very Babel of confusion, in the midst of which a man was seen to plunge off the end of the pier and swim towards where Cora Dean could be seen clinging to the broad splashboard of the carriage, drawn through the water, while, after rising from their plunge, the ponies swam together for a few moments, and then began to snort and plunge, and were rapidly drowning each other.

“Oh, horrid, horrid, horrid!” cried a woman’s voice. “Help! help! Josiah, come back! He’ll be drowned!”

For Josiah Barclay had seized a life-buoy, and throwing off his coat, boldly plunged in after the first man had set an example.

“A good job if he is,” muttered Sir Matthew Bray – a kindly wish echoed by several lookers-on who thought of certain slips of paper (stamped) that the money-lender had in his cash-box at home.

But Josiah Barclay did not find a fair amount of stoutness interfere with his floating powers, as he held on to the life-buoy with one hand, swimming with the other towards what looked like a patch of red in the sea, surrounding a white face; and a roar of cheers rose from the crowd who were watching him as he reached Mrs Dean, who had rolled from the carriage, and now gripped the life-buoy as it was pushed towards her, and fainted away.

But the majority were watching the daring man who was striving after the ponies, which were now about fifty yards from the pier, and instead of swimming away, pawing the water frantically, so that the end of the accident seemed near.

Boats were putting off from the shore, but it would be long enough before they could do any good. The chances were that the end would have come before they reached the spot, and Richard Linnell was now within half a dozen yards.

“Let go,” he shouted to Cora. “Try and throw yourself out this side, and I’ll get you ashore.”

She only turned a dazed, despairing look in his direction, too much paralysed by the horror of her situation to even grasp his meaning.

“All right, Master Linnell, sir,” growled a deep voice. “Take it coolly, and we’ll do it.”

Linnell glanced aside, and saw that the swarthy fisherman who had been shrimping was not a couple of yards behind him.

“Look ye here, sir. Let the lady be. I’ll go round t’other side. You go this. Mind they don’t kick you. Take care. Wo-ho, my pretties; wo-ho, my lads,” he cried to the ponies, as, perfectly at his ease in the water, he swam past their heads, well clear of their beating and pawing hoofs, and got to the other side.

In cases of emergency, whether the order be right or wrong, one that is given by a firm, cool man is generally obeyed, and it was so here, for Linnell took a stroke or two forward towards the off-side pony, leaving Cora clinging to the front of the little carriage.

“Wo-ho, my beauties. Steady, boys,” cried the big fisherman soothingly.

“Woa, lad, woa, then,” cried Linnell, in imitation of his companion.

The ponies, the moment before snorting and plunging desperately, seemed to gather encouragement from the voices, and ceasing their frantic efforts, allowed themselves to sink lower in the water, let their bits be seized, and with outstretched necks, and nostrils just clear of the water, began to swim steadily and well.

“That’s it, lads, steady it is!” cried the fisherman. “Lay out well clear of ’em, Master Linnell, sir. Mind they don’t kick you. I’ll steer ’em, and we shall do it. You hold on, mum; it’s all right.”

Cora’s head and shoulders were above the water and the ponies were swimming well now, and obeying the pressure of the fisherman’s hand, though they needed little guidance now they were making steadily for the shore.

“I thought they’d do it, Master Linnell, sir. Good boys, then. Good lads. Pity to let ’em drown,” said the fisherman coolly.

“Right,” cried Linnell, easing the pony on his side by swimming with one hand. “Keep still, Miss Dean. We shall soon be ashore. There’s no danger now. Yes, there is,” he muttered. “Those boats.”

Cora turned her eyes upon him with a frightened look, but she was growing more calm, though she could not speak, and the ponies kept on snorting loudly as they swam on.

“Keep quiet, will you, you fools!” grumbled Dick Miggles, as bursts of cheers kept rising from the pier, answered by a gathering crowd on the beach about where they were expected to land, while the cliff was now lined with people who had heard of the accident on the pier.

“Here! hoy!” roared Dick Miggles, who had grasped the danger. “Wo-ho, my boys, I’m with you. It’s all right.”

“Ahoy!” came from the nearest boat, whose occupants were rowing with all their might.

“Back with you. D’ye hear! Wo-ho, lads; it’s all right. Back, I say. You’ll frighten the horses again.”

“We’re coming to help you,” came from the boat.

“Go back, curse yer!” roared Dick. “Don’t you see what you’re doing.”

The ponies were getting scared by the shouting, but by dint of patting and soothing words, they were calmed down once more, and the boatmen, in obedience to the orders given, ceased rowing.

“Go back, and bid ’em hold their row,” cried Dick, as he guided the ponies. “We must get in quiet, or the horses’ll go mad again.”

The men rowed back, communicating their orders to the other boats, whose occupants rested on their oars, while, like some sea-queen, Cora was drawn on in her chariot towards the shore, but looking terribly unaccustomed to the mode of procedure, as she still clung to the front of the little carriage.

“Miggles.”

“’Ullo?”

“Can you manage them alone? The lady.”

“All right, Master Linnell, sir. They’ll go now. We shall be ashore directly.”

He had turned his head and seen what was wrong as Richard Linnell loosed his hold of the pony’s head, letting it swim on, though the frightened beast uttered a snorting neigh and tried to follow him, till its attention was taken up by the soothing words of Dick Miggles, and it struck out afresh for the shore.

Meanwhile Richard had caught Cora Dean as she loosened her grasp of the front of the carriage, for he had seen that something was coming as her countenance changed and her eyes half-closed.

It was an easy task, for he had only to check her as she was floating out of the carriage, and take hold of the front with his right hand to let himself be drawn ashore.

She opened her eyes again with a start, as if she were making an effort to master her emotion, and they rested on Linnell’s as he held her tightly to his breast. Then she shivered and clung to him, and the next minute the ponies’ hoofs touched the shingly bottom, and people began to realise how it was that the carriage had not sunk in the deep water and dragged the ponies down.

It was plain enough. There was nothing but the slight body with its seats, which had been torn from springs, axle-trees, and wheels, giving it more than ever the aspect of a chariot drawn by sea-horses through the waves.

The ponies were for making a fresh dash as soon as they felt the yielding shingle beneath their hoofs, but a dozen willing hands were at their heads; the remains of the carriage were drawn up the beach, and the traces were loosened and twisted up, while Cora was borne by a couple of gentlemen to one of several carriages offered to bear her home.

As for Linnell, he was surrounded by an excited crowd of people eager to shake hands with him, but none of whom could answer his questions about Mrs Dean.

“Mrs Dean?” said a wet, thick-set man, elbowing his way through. “All right; sent home in Lord Carboro’s donkey-carriage. Mr Linnell, sir, your hand, sir. God bless you, sir, for a brave gentleman! Nice pair of wet ones, aren’t we?”