A Terrible Coward | Page 2

the while in admiration at
their older companions.
For there was something very stirring in the act, and a stranger to the
place would hold his breath in dread as he saw Mark Penelly, who was
the finest swimmer at the port of Carn Du, climb up the side of the
great black rock upon some fine summer evening, then go round along
the narrow shelf of shaley stone, till he stood alone there forty feet
above the sea, his white figure as he rested against the black rock, every
muscle standing out from his well-knit frame, and his arms crossed,
looking like some antique statue in its niche.

There were plenty of young men who could perform the feat, but Mark
Penelly was acknowledged to be the master.
Dotted about the swelling surface there would be the heads of plenty of
swimmers--men and lads--some going smoothly along, mounting the
rollers as they came in, and descending softly into the hollows; others
again swimming to meet each wave, then rising a little, and with a
plunge like a duck or one of the great bronze-black shags, or
cormorants, that sat upon the rock-shelves, diving right through the
mass of water, to come out fairly on the other side.
Some would swim out to the little buoys, rest by them for a time, and
swim back. Others would make for one of the cinnamon-sailed luggers
lying at anchor, to go round and back, or would get into one of the
boats; while some, more venturesome, or really more confident in their
powers over the water, would go boldly out, perhaps a mile, to meet
some lugger coming in from the fishing-ground, sure of being taken
aboard and riding back abreast of the boulders where they had left their
clothes.
To be a good swimmer was everything at Carn Du. They looked upon it
as a business--as part of their education--for no boy or man was
counted fit to go out in a boat who could not leap overboard and swim
alongside, or, during a capsize, keep himself afloat, and help to turn the
boat and bale her out.
But from the meanest to the best swimmer there, every one paused to
watch Mark Penelly standing statue-like up against the black rock,
waiting till a great ninth wave came majestically rolling in, sweeping
over the outer rocks--the Shangles--and then with a boom leaping at
Carn Du, running up it, as it were, in a mighty column of water, some
twenty feet even on a calm day.
Now was the time, calculated by practised eyes to the moment.
As the wave struck, Mark could be seen to grow suddenly less
statuesque. His arms would drop to his side, and then as it rushed up
towards where he stood, like some mighty sea-monster seeking to make

him its prey, Mark's hands joined above his head, he bent forward
slightly, and then with one tremendous leap seemed to leave the rocky
ledge, and plunge down head foremost into the wave.
The effect was electric, but its daring seemed to savour of madness.
There one moment stood the statuesque figure, white as a cameo cut in
the black rock, the next moment there was a gleam of something
flashing through the air, and passing into the deep blue wave, which, as
if by the contact of the figure, broke into silvery foam, rushing back
like a vast cascade towards the Shangles.
Where all before was smooth heaving water all was now rushing foam,
as the broken wave raced back, as if to pass between two narrow jagged
pieces of rock rising up like a gateway some fifty yards away before the
next wave came in.
The breath of the person who saw it for the first time was held as he
looked in vain for the brave diver, or wondered whether the act he had
seen was not some mad effort to destroy life. There was the foaming
water, there the black rocks, that were swept over by the roaring wave,
but now showing plainly amidst a sheet of white surf, with beyond
them a comparatively smooth surface, through which a current seems to
run.
But there was no diver to be seen, nothing but the racing, hissing foam.
Yes: there he was--that was his head, rising out of the foam thirty or
forty yards away, and being carried to inevitable destruction against
those terrible jagged rocks.
No man could swim against the furious, racing torrent which was now
passing between them. No one could get out of such a current when
once in. It was horrible to look at, for the helpless swimmer seemed as
if he would be dashed against the crags and then float, stunned,
wounded, and helpless, out to sea.
That seemed to be