A Brave Man's Sin.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXI, Issue III, 18 July 1903, Page 155

A Brave Man's Sin.

Copyright Story.

By

HEADON HILL.

(Author of “The Peril of the Prince,” etc.

It was a wild night when William Laxton, the second coxswain of the lifeboat, fetched the doctor to see his ailing wife. The rain lashed the casement, and vicious gusts shook the cottage as he tramped to and fro in his’ tiny kitchen and waited for the doctor’s tread on the stairs. But when the good man came down at last the distant thunder of the surf drowned the creaking of his boots, and the stalwart giant in the blue guernsey first learned of his presence in the room by the presence of a kindly hand on his shoulder.

“Your wife is very ill —very ill indeed, William,” Doctor Cramp shouted, his voice wrestling with the storm. “First stage of pulmonary phthisis—consumption, you know. But the case is not hopeless—yet. She must be fed up and taken care of—port wiue and plenty of chicken broth, and a rest from the family wash-tub. Nice nourishing things and an easy time will pull her round quicker than physic, though I’ll send her a bottle of stuff in the morning, of course. Lord, what a blizzard, but I must faee it; I suppose. Good-night, and keep a good heart.”

Laxton nodded grimly, and, having let the doctor out into the night, sat down at the table and buried his face in his hands. “Keep a good heart,” indeed) Easy words to speak, aye, and an easy thing to do if it was human life to be snatched from the tempest at the risk of one’s own; but a different matter when the life was his nearest and dearest, and could only be saved by money—money which he did not possess. The once prosperous fisherman had never made a song about misfortune to the gentry, and the doctor did not know that the heavy guns at the new fort had frightened all the fish away, and that his source of livelihood had dwindled almost to vanishing point. But the village shopkeepers knew it, and he knew that his credit wasn’t good enough for a pound of cheese, to say nothing of port wine and chicken broth. And as to the rest from the wash-tub • —who was to care for the four youngsters asleep upstairs in the next little room to Susie’s? Well he knew that while there was breath in her body she wouldn’t have the girls go without clean pinafores and the boys without starched collars, and he hadn’t a penny piece to pay a woman to do these things for her.

He raised his head at last and turned wild, unseeing eyes and clenched lips to the rattling doorway. There -was one way—an only way, so far as he could find —out of his trouble. He would have to steal—he, William Laxton, who had always held his head so high—but he would even do that for Susie and the bairns, and the plunder was ready to his hand. Yes, he would become a thief, and win that way the necessities which an unkind providence had denied him.

The contribution-box at the lifeboathouse should furnish him with the means for obeying the doctor’s orders. The collector had not emptied it for months, and part of the time included the tailend of the holiday season when tourists and visitors were about in plenty, so that the contents should run to four or five pounds at least.

The box was fixed on the inside of the boathouse door, which had a slit in it to tempt coins from passers-by. As second coxswain he had a key to the house, but he would not be such a fool as to use it. No, he would he cunning, for Susie’s sake. He would break in by climbing to the window of the sail-loft, and so leave it to be inferred that the thief was an outsider, driven to such means of access. Tip-toeing up to the bedroom, he saw that his wife had fallen into a deep sleep, while the snores from four little noses in the next room told him that the children were all right. He tip-toed down again, and, putting on his oilskins and sou’-wester, let himself out into the lane that wound down to the beach. The halffrozen rain stung his face, and the gale tugged at his crisp-curling beard, but he

held steadily on till his sea-boots crunched the shingle and the loom of the boathouse grew out of the darkness ahead. Working round to the rear of the squat brick building, he searched in the sedgy grass at the foot of the sloping cliff for a broken oar he knew of, and, having found it, the rest was easy. Raising the oar to the sail-loft window, he shinned up the improvised ladder, prised back the bolt with his knife and clambered through. He dared not strike a light lest it should be seen from the coastguard station on the cliff at the end of the bay, but he knew every inch of the interior by heart and soon groped his way to the great folding entrance doors.

The rising tide, lashed by the storm, thundering and gurgling on the slip outside, joined with the hurly-burly of rattling shingle to deaden nil other sound, and Laxton attacked the box without fear of being heard. He was a very thorough man. this steadfast seaman, and having laid this nefarious course for himself stuck to it with the dogged determination that had marked his hitherto honest life. Remorse would come afterwards, but as he was to be a thief, for Susie's sake, at least he would not bungle the job. With the help of a boat - hook he wrenched the box open at last, but so violently that the coins as well as their receptacle fell in a clattering, jingling shower to the concrete floor. As he stooped to fumble for the money there sounded above the riot of the elements a sullen “Boom!”

He straightened himself and stood listening intently. Yes, after a brief interval, there it was again, and well he knew the purport of the sound—well as the war-horse knows the trumpet-call to charge. It was the mortar fired by the coastguard to call the lifeboat crew for a wreck. Even now his hardy mates would be hurrying to the boat-house; in a few minutes they woidd be swarming in with lights, eager to launch the boat to the rescue.

Laxton stooped again and commenced a feverish search, making the whilst a rapid calculation. The first to reach the boat-house, by reason of his cottage being nearest, would be Amos Duberly, the coxswain—Amos Duberly, the rival whom he had ousted from Susie’s wavering affections ten years ago, and who had never forgiven him, though they had stood by each other in many a stirring deed of rescue since. Duberly was a bitter man, biding his revenge, and here it was, cut and dried for him, if the money could not be picked up before his coming. For the money at all hazards Laxton meant to have, and if he was quick and lucky he might get it before Duberly arrived. The coxswain might be expected in seven minutes. He would allow himself five, and then he w’ould decamp by the way he had come with such of the coins as he had recovered, and approach from the front—ready for duty. He groped frantically, transferring a good many coins to his pocket—two he knew by the feel to be sovereigns—-but he realised that be had accounted for nothing like the shower that had fallen; and his wife’s needs dominating his mind, he overshot the limit of time. The roar of the wind and and sea overmastered the grating of the lock, and his first warning came in a dazzling ray from a lantern, and in a gust through the suddenly opened door. Amos Dnberly’s hard eyes took in the scene at a glance—the broken box, the stooping figure, the glittering of money on the floor. And the hard eyes grew harder with the gleam of triumph as Laxton stood un and faced him.

“So, I’ve caught you in the very act, Mr Thief,” he rolled out sonorously, enjoying to the full the sweetness of his revenge. “Well, you won’t have long to wait for the constable; he’ll bo down with the rest directly, I reckon.”

“Susie’s like to die for want of comfort: I shouldn’t have done it else,” said Laxton, hanging his head. And then for his wife’s sake he shook off his shame and made an appeal that no other force would have dragged from him. “This’ll kill her outright,” he added desperately, “unless —unless, Amos, you’ll pass ■it over and say naught if I put the money back. You and she was friends once, you mind.” He could not have made a more unfortunate reference. His mind was entirely centred on the sick woman; that of Duberly on his own fancied wrongs. To be reminded of his defeat by his victorious rival inflamed the first coxswain to fury, as though he had been made the target of deliberate insult. “You mean, sneaking hound—to shelter behind a woman’s petticoat,” he hissed. “And in the same breath to go and fling it in my teeth that you bested me with her. Why, I’ve been thanking God this ten year that I was quit. of the false-tongued trollop.” The vile epithet was no sooner uttered than Laxton was on to him like a wild cat, by the sheer weight of his onslaught bearing him to the ground. The lantern was extinguished in Duberly "s fall, and for forty terrible seconds they struggled in the darkness, each striving with furious fingers for the other’s throat. Laxton, from his upper vantage, won first grip, and being, as has been said, a very thorough man, proceeded to hammer his enemy’s skull on the concrete till there could be no manner of doubt that he was dead.

“May God forgive mo,” he groaned, rising and mopping his brow. “1 shouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t miscalled Susie, bu* now ’tis done 1 must use if for her good.” He went out of the door and ran a little way along the beaeh till he met several of the life-boat crew and a coastguard carrying a lantern. “There’s something wrong at the boat house,” he cried in excitement that needed no feigning. “There’s a man lying inside, but I don’t know who ’tis, as 1 came away from home when the signal went too quick to grab my lantern. Look slippy with your glim, Davy.” A few moments later they stood over the lifeless body of Duberly, and their gaze wandered from it to the broken eash-box and the open window of the sail-loft. Out of their element they were slow-thinking men-—these heroes of the salt-sea foam—and having come out with a set purpose it was a shock to their primitive intelligence to be thus rudely switched on to a different track.

But It he indications were sufficiently clear, and having once mastered them they were unanimous.

“Amos must have come along—first, as he always did—and have found someone that had broken in through that window stealing the cash. Then there was a fight, and the thief settled him,” was the verdict of the coastguard, to which all murmured assent. Not a breath of suspicion rested on Laxton. His presence on the spot was explained by his supposed response to the call of duty, and all were aware that he had a key and could have entered without any window-opening. “Well, boys, we’re here to save life; we can grieve for him that’s gone tomorrow, and I must take her cut, I reckon,” said Laxton, turning to the fast mustering crew and pointing to the great blue and white boat, that had been the silent witness of his crime.

The response was a willing assent, and the village constable, who had now arrived, and the “helpers,” having removed the body, there was a general donning of cork jackets, and in something over her record time the life boat with Laxton at the helm slid down the slip into the angry sea. But the small crowd that had assembled, awestruck by the tragedy, omitted to speed her on her wav with the accustomed cheer.

The wreck proved to be a Norwegian barque, hard jammed among the breakers a mile down the coast, but, thanks to Laxton’s masterly handling- of the life-boat, her crew of nine were safely {brought to shore ere she broke up in the grey of dawn.

The murder of Amos Duberly passed into the list of undiscovered crimes, Laxton’s evidence at the inquest and the oar at the sail-loft window all pointing to the deed having been committed by a stranger. The money which Laxton obtained provided for his wife’s immediate wants, and strangely enough, from that very hour his circumstances took a turn for the better. Heavy gun practice was discontinued at the fort, the fish returned to the bay, and once again prosperity seemed to smile on the cottage in the lane. But a load weighed upon his soul, and though the change was so gradual as not to excite suspicion, fie became moody and taciturn—a kind husband and a good father, but uncompanionable outside his own family. The village gossips had it that he was puffed up by reason of his having stepped into Dnberly’s shoes as first coxswain of the lifeboat.

Life-saving became a mania with him, and he trained his crew into such a state of efficiency that the boat became famous on the coast. The men, though a little afraid of him, gave him their entire confidence, and would put out into the wildest weather with ‘ our William,” as they proudly termed their chief, at the helm. On several occasions he saved life by his own individual daring, and was thrice decorated with the Humane Society’s medal.

So ten years passed, and Laxton s short wiry beard began to be streaked with grey. His eldest girl had married and left the village, and the two boys were doing well in Canada, whither they had emigrated by their father s advice. His only companions at home were .Susie and his youngest daughter Nell.

Then, suddenly, the disease which she had only in part shaken off gripped his wife again, and there came a day when poor Susie was carried up to the churchyard bn the hill by the pick of the lifeboat crew. Bowed with grief, Laxton stood looking into the grave with tearless eyes till the sods covered the coffin, and then astonished the bystanders by raising his head and gazing fiercely round with an audible sigh of relief. After Which he stalked away with resolute tread down the village street, and only slackened his pace at a door over which was the inscription — “County Police.”

He was about to knock, when a tremulous hand was laid upon his arm, and wheeling round he saw the pretty face of his unmarried daughter, Nell, enshrined in its new mourning bonnet. “Don't go in there, father! Come home with me,” the girl panted, breathless with catching him up. He shook her off, but very gently. “No. my lass, I can’t come home. 1 have business with the constable,” he replied, and. stooping, kissed her. “Father, 1 know your business. You’ll ruin my life if you go,” Nell whispered, clinging to him. “Come away before we're noticed here.”

Laxton allowed himself to be led away, but did not speak till they reached the cottage. The married daughter was unable to be present at the funeral, so they were quite alone.” “I’ve been talking in my sleep?” he murmured hoarsely, adding :qitiekly wheirt the girl nodded: “Did she—-did mother know?”

“Nd, it was since she died —the last four-nights,” was the reply. “Thank God!” Laxton exclaimed. “It was done for her: that is my only justification. And now, my girl, how would it ruin-your life if 1 was to ease my soul by giving myself up? You don't seem to want to marry. You’ve sent most of the boys packing, and you’ll have a snug bit df money when I’m gone. It’ll soon blow over.” “I- sent the -boys away, father, because the right one didn’t come a long till a week ago,” Nell sobbed. l-anei it is, but his people would never let him have me if—if—“lf your dad had been hanged,” Laxton finished the sentence for her. smoothing her hair. “Well, it’s not for the likes of me to stand between young folks and their happiness. Fred is a steady lad and should be a good man to yiou. I will bear my burden a while longer for your sake, Nell, as I did for your mother’s.”

“Bear it always, father, for your own sake,” wept the grateful girl. “Why should you suffer after all the.-e years for what can’t have been really your fault ? Duberly had no kin to cry for vengeance; it is forgotten —done with long ago. Promise you’ll keep silence for ever.” But to that Laxton would not commit himself, and bade her Ise satisfied that no confession should interfere with her prospect of marriage. With that she had to remain content, and as the months rolled on she discerned an increasing ■ lieerfulncss in her father which filled her with hope that he had abandoned his intention. Tin- courtship proceeded uneventfully. and when Susie had been laid at rest a year the wedding day was fixed Laxton threw himself into the preparations with a heartiness that finally disarmed his daughter’s fears for him. The bridegroom who had been telegraph clerk at the post office, had obtained the offer of a better situation in Cornwall. and Laxton pressed his acceptance of it. At first Nell demurred to going to such a distance, but laixton assured her that he should be better by himself, and so gained his end. as he had in the case of his other children. His wife had often wondered at his persistence in rooting his offspring out of their native village —contriving a London marriage for his eldest daughter, and sending his boys to Canada.

The wedding day broke stormy, with heavy clouds banking to the ’westward and an ominous growl in the surf on the beach. By the hour fixed for the ceremony it was blowing half a gale, but that had no effect on the spirits of the marriage party. The lifeboat crew mustered in force at the church. and later assembled at the cottage to drink the health of their chief’s daughter. Then Laxton, who bad carried himself with a chastened and dignified goodfellowship throughout. walked up to the railway station with the young couple and saw them off. On his leaving the station one or two people noticed that lie was smiling, and putting their heads together concluded that he was glad to be rid of Nell because he meant to marry again. Such is the way of wiseacres. Laxton swung down the village street with his free sealurch, and once again made for the door superscribed “County Police.” There was no one to'hinder him nojy, and lie tapped and entered. ’ ' ‘ “ The policeman, a new " importation since the days of Amos Duberly, met him on the threshold and greeted him warmly. As a law-abiding citizen and , one who paid his way, the coxswain of the lifeboat was entitled to respect. “I’ve conic to give you a bit of astirprise. Barker,” said Laxton, holding outhis hairy wrists. “Got a pair that’ll fit ’em?” - - The constable broke into a guffaw. “You're having your little joke after the. wedding, Mr Laxton. All passed off well. I hope?”, . .. “I’ni mot one to jest. Barker. Oblige nie .by taking—Laxton had got. so far when lus next word was drowned bv a loqd report that clattered the crockery and set both men’s ears agog. Another bang resounded —the. signal for the lifeboat crew. "A wreck!” cried the constable, struggling into his tunic, while Laxton astonished him by hesitating, half-dazed ip the passage. But only for a moment. The old instinct was too strong for the champion life-saver. With a sigh and a snap

of his jaw he dashed into the road, pre\ented for the second time on the verge of surrender. The denizens of the cove will tel! you with pride how their renowned coxswain for all his fiye and forty years, was first at the boat-house that ilay, and beat all previous records in getting the boat launched. Thirty minutes only elapsed between the firing of the signal and the rush of the great boat into the boiling surf with Laxton, stern and vigilant, at the tiller. The wreck lay on a saw-back reef that ended the point at the northern limit of the bay, and was therefore in full view of the spectators on the shore. Huge seas were breaking over her, aud Laxton’s practised eye saw at a glance that it would be touch and go whether he could approach near enough to take off the six hands visible in the rigging. Moreover, she was bumping heavily and was in immediate danger of going to pieces.

With masterly skill he edged the lifeboat as near as jiossible under the brig’s lee and bade his bowman cast a line aboard into the tumult of waters. While the slack was being coiled in Laxton kicked off his sea boots. “Come to the helm; I’ll board her,” he said to his second coxswain, and going forward he took the line from his bowman.

“You’ll never do it. Bill.” his trusty comrade tried to stay him. “We can’t afford to lose you.” “I wasn’t born to be drowned,” was the answer, taken as a jest by his hearers, but uttered in grim earnest. And with a few curt instructions he plunged into the seething breakers, fast gripping the line.

Bruised and half-choked, he won through the broil at last and clambered up the quaking side of the dying brig. A feeble cheer rose from the rigging overhead and a louder one from the shore, but heedless of both he made fast the line and set to work to haul in the stouter rope paid out from the lifeboat. Not till that too was secured did he deign to notice the men he had come to save.

But then they had his sole attention, and one by one he brought them down and settled them in the breeehes-buoy till all had been safely hauled into the lifeboat save. one. This last of the mariners was ‘Hinging to the main shrouds, and Laxton was shinning up to assist the poor numbed creature down when

the vessel shivered under an enormous wave, and from below came the noise of rending timbers. Tile end was at hand. To the coxswain that sound presented the simple problem that either he or the shipwrecked sailor had to d:e. The brig would not hold together while the buoy made two journeys. Laxton solved the problem in favour of the sailor, though well aware that he himself was too exhausted by his exertions to battle baek to the boat through the breakers.

Hr continued to climb steadily till he reached the man. “Now. mate, look alive if you want to keep alive.” he shouted. “Shell break up in half a shake. I’ll help you down.” The descent was safely accomplished, Laxton being far too occupied to look at the seaman’s face till he had got him lashed in the breeches-buoy, but just as the apparatus went dancing along the rope towards the lifeboat he caught a glimpse of his features. Wonder of wonders! The features of the man whose life he had preferred to his own were the features of Amos Duberly, slain bv his own hand ten years before.

Laxton pressed that same hand to his forehead now. striving to piece the mystery that hammered at his worried brain. Then something seemed to snap in his head: there was mystery no longer, and he sank to his knees on the rocking deck and thanked Heaven that by some means—how mattered not —- the past had been a dream. There was r.o blood upon his hands. He had not taken Duberly’s life, but had saved it —at the expense of his o« n. •’My God. I bless Thy name for this!” he cried in an eestacy. his salt tears mingling with the sea-brine as with a last grinding crash the brig’s back broke and the waters engulfed her.

The rescued sailor’s resemblance to what Anics Duberly had been was noticed by one or two people, but it was not so striking as to be generally admitted. The man was a Suede, and the likeness could not therefore have been a family one. Can it be that the coincidence was sent in mercy to crown the expiation of a sin not too harshly judged above? That is beyond our ken, but Coxswain Laxton sleeps in honour in the churchyard alongside his Susie, his secret untold, and “Our Bill” is the standard by which the hardy sons of the cove-judge themselves: wlien high courage and whole-souled devotion to duty are at issue.