Cobb's Island
"THERE'S nothing new under the sun," they say, yet the history of Cobb's Island, off the coast of Virginia, differs from any romance ever told.
The story of a lone island in the ocean has ever been an enthralling one, both to the old and the young alike, whether the island is peopled by savages, castaways, or buccaneers; and its buried treasures have ever been the favorite theme of the historian, dramatist and story-teller. Yet what romancer has ever told of a speck of land in mid-ocean that grew day by day, until it became a broad domain, and produced more wealth than any pirate's hoard ever contained? Furthermore, when this lone isle in the sea passed from the possession of the sons of Neptune, the ocean recalled its gift, the island sank from whence it rose and now the heaving billows sweep unchecked over the place where but a few years ago there flourished a large village, with its hotel and sportsmen's lodges.
Some time between 1825 and 1830 there lived on the eastern shore of Virginia an old man named Cobb, who had emigrated from Marblehead, Massachusetts, and who gained a living by fishing and oystering.
This fisherman was a shrewd old fellow, and after much cogitation he conceived the idea that if
he could find a good, solid piece of land near the source of supplies it would save him time and money. So keeping his eyes open, he came across a small sandbank a few acres in extent, about sixteen miles from the mainland, off the Virginia coast, that evidently had risen directly out of the ocean by some convulsion of Nature. This solitary spot was already occupied by a lone fisherman who spent the spring and summer in catching fish and gathering oysters. A bargain was soon struck between the two, and for and in consideration of the sum of thirty dollars and a sack of salt the fisherman transferred all his rights to the sand dunes to his rival, no doubt congratulating himself that he had gotten rid of a doubtful piece of property, inasmuch as it was likely to be swallowed up by the waves. Probably, like many an unlucky fellow, he deplored to the day of his death the fact that his fore-sight was not equal to his hind-sight, for he lived to see the time when old man Cobb refused a cash offer of one hundred thousand dollars for the property.
The new owner was a man of great nerve, and coolly took all the chances of having his family name extinguished, by moving his family, bag and baggage, to the sandbank and making the place his permanent home, though the ground was by no means secure, and would tremble, so the story goes, like a bowlful of jelly whenever an unusually large and heavy billow struck it. It is said that many seasons passed before the women of the island could sleep quietly in their beds when a storm was raging along the coast.
Day by day the island grew in area and solidity, and in about two score years there was a substantan-
tial piece of land, of fully fifty acres, and sea meadows of several thousand more.
Old man Cobb and his sons formed a wrecking company, and fortune smiled upon them. A ship loaded with coffee from Brazil went ashore, and the Cobbs saved the cargo, and received $10,000. Another ship panned out $5000 for salvage, and their last windfall was a three-masted bark of $4000. Had old man Cobb and his three stalwart sons been content to remain in their humble sphere, they would have been kings of fishermen, the emperors of sportsmen, and Rothschilds among the toilers of the sea.
Then the United States Government built a station, and manned it with a picked crew, and the Cobbs found their salvage fees gone. They had more money than they could spend, but when is man ever content?
So the Cobbs, who received a steady income from visiting sportsmen, determined to make Cobb's Island a summer resort. Just here it may be well to say that this place was then by far the finest shooting-grounds on the Atlantic coast for wild fowl and bay-birds. It was not only the feeding-grounds of enormous numbers of brant, geese, and snipe, but, beings so far out in the ocean, it attracted, as a resting-place, vast flocks of migrating birds, and it was literally the paradise of sportsmen.
The Cobb's erected a long, rambling structure of boards along the line of architecture of the inns of Virginia and North Carolina, which have been built in the same style since the memory of man. Several cottages were also added, and the season opened auspiciously with two hundred guests.
I happened to be there at the opening, and it made a greater impression upon me than any seaside resort I ever visited. The attempt of three simple-minded, honest fishermen to run a watering-place, without the remotest idea of anything outside of their storm-tossed isle, was certainly unique and rare.
Warren Cobb, the eldest son, was a rough and ready mariner, with a voice like a fog horn, and an insatiate thirst. He was a typical ruddy-faced, good-natured, weather-beaten, ocean fisherman. He never refused an invitation to "splice the main brace," and each succeeding drink only made him happier than the one before.
Nathan, the second son, was a very tall, angular man, of powerful build, and withal as gentle and tender as a child. He was the only sportsman in the family, and was, without exception, the finest shot I ever met. He probably killed more wild fowl for market than any other gunner in America. With all his simplicity, he had strong horse sense, and refused to join the hotel syndicate. "Here I is, and here I stays," was his ultimatum, as he pointed to his neat house and fine garden. So he stuck to his business, and in the course of time he owned nearly the whole island.
Albert, the youngest, was the bright one of the family; he was a sport, too, but his game was draw-poker.
Well, the opening was a great success. However, a young, inexperienced fellow from the mainland, a friend of the family, was installed as clerk at the hotel. But he kept no books; he carried the current sheet and ledger in his head, and at the end of the season he "skipped," and left nothing
behind save his conscience, and that was probably of small value.
It was truly ludicrous, these untutored, unimaginative wreckers catering to the wants of the delicate, refined pleasure-seekers. Well, the balance was about even; these Norsemen did not understand their guests, and the guests certainly did not comprehend their landlords.
The guests were, for the most part, fashionable people. When the hotel and cottages were filled at the opening of the season the Cobbs were simply dumbfounded that there were people in the world who could want so much. Livery, telegrams, drainage, laundries, waterpipes were as Sanscrit to these simple-minded men, and they were as much out of place as was Christopher Sly in the lord's palace.
The fare was plentiful, most profuse; in fact, it was served in wholesale quantities. For example, a guest would call for fish, and a huge seatrout, some two feet long, enough for a whole family on Good Friday, would be placed on the table. Bread -- a corn-pone the size of a Belgian curbstone would be handed up. Beef -- and a collop that would satisfy a Pawnee Indian would arrive. Soft crabs -- six at a time would be brought. Such things as sauces, pickles, condiments, preserves, were unthought of there -- simply because they were unheard of. Indeed, the weather-beaten wreckers who had lived, as it were, in a world of their own, must have felt as did our savage Saxon ancestors when the witching dames par de la monde, of the French Court, following in the wake of William of Normandy, appeared before the eyes of the uncultured Britons.
These wreckers, like the old Norsemen, were children of Nature; they ate when they were hungry, drank when thirsty, rose with the dawn, and retired to their rest at the end of the day. So, the rich and fastidious sportsmen, brought their wives, sisters, cousins, and aunts to the island on a kind of lark -- and they had it.
It must be confessed that some of the sportsmen, for the sake of a practical joke, inveigled their people to Cobb's, and many of the visitors expected to find on the island a modern hotel with gas and electric lights, splendid band (alas for that one fiddle and harp!), superb bar, wine vaults, tonsorial accommodations, billiard saloon, telegraph facilities, and many other things considered by many the necessaries of life; and when they saw the meager establishment, a few actually returned home, but the majority remained, and many declared it to be the best time of their lives. There was no conventionality at Cobb's, no grades of social position; every one was on an equal footing, and as one of the Cobbs was heard to remark, "If they didn't like it, they could lump it."
But it was in the ballroom, where the "band" was waving and weaving a "voluptuous well," that the proprietors would saunter through the room clad in their usual costumes of an oilcloth hat, Guernsey jacket, canvas breeches, and rubber boots reaching to the hip. But withal, there were no bonifaces in America that were as popular, for the Cobbs were so sincere, so true, so democratic that they treated all alike. Whether you were noble or serf, rich or poor, famous or unknown, it was all the same to them; and when the visitors left the island it was with regret at the parting.
Old man Cobb took no part in the new deal; none ever saw him at the hotel. He had a fine plot of ground, and a snug, comfortable house, and there he stayed with his tame brants, as isolated as if he were a lone fisherman on a lone isle, as in days of yore.
For many years Cobb's Island was the most famous resort in America for the combined attraction of hunting and fishing; and a week's stay at that place was like taking an ocean trip abroad. It possessed a peculiar fascination for the sportsman, and many of us went to the island year after year.
We went in the spring for the robin-snipe; in the summer for the bay-birds, and in the winter for that king of salt-water birds, the brant.
Cobb's Island was a favorite rendezvous for the American Yacht squadron, and the summer all sorts of craft filled with pleasure-seekers would anchor off the place, and there would be feast, fun and frolic.
Warren Cobb was a favorite guide for the sportsman, as nothing could ever disturb his good nature or exhaust his patience. He used to tell a tale of a dude huntsman and his valet, whom he once took out snipe-shooting. Warren said all the girls gathered on the porch to see them off. The valet had to get a cart to carry his traps down to the landing, where a boat lay.
Arriving at the blind just off Wreck Island, Warren set the decoys, and if the sportsman was not made comfortable, it was not the fault of the valet. A large camp-chair was placed within the blind, and then the valet held an umbrella over his master's head to keep off the torrid rays of the
August sun, and actually fanned him as the heat grew more intense. A big block of ice had been brought along and with it a half dozen bottles of champagne, a few bottles of beer and quantity of old rye. Then the fun commenced.
A few young birds came up to the decoys, in spite of the strange appearance of the place, and Warren Cobb swears that after the sportsman fired he would hand his gun to his Jeems Yellowplush to be reloaded. "And," said Warren, "bust my breeches if we didn't have a drink around over every bird that he kilt! And when the water riz and come in the blind, he makes me take him on my back and carry him to the boat."
I asked Warren how many birds the dude killed? He replied that he counted ten, and then his memory "done give out."
Bill Johns, another guide, more like Warren in looks and temperament than any of his brothers, swore that Warren did not let out all the details of the dude's eventful hunt. He avers that he had to bring the whole crowd home, and that the mixture of beer, champagne, and whiskey was a sure knockout for them all; the valet was as helpless as his master. However, Bill said he got them all onto the wharf save Warren, who, in attempting to jump from the boat to the wharf, went headfirst in the water, which was about three feet deep, and that the shock only half sobered him, for when he arose, and spit about a bucket of the briny from his mouth, he hiccoughed out, "Doggone it, Bill Johns, how your boat do leak!"
A few years later, under modern management, Cobb's Island became a popular watering-place, and was known as the sportsmen's heaven. The bay-
birds were killed by the thousands every summer, and the fishing was a revelation to many of the guests. The islanders were making money, and when affairs were at high tide, old ocean gave them a high tide of Neptune's.
On the 19th of October, 1879, a steady rain commenced falling, which continued for two days, and on the night of the 21st, the north winds shifted to the southeast, and by nine o'clock was blowing a hurricane; the windows rattled, shutters banged, and the pine board hotel shivered in the force of the wintry blast. The Storm King let loose, careened at pleasure across the wide waste of waters, and shrieked in its mad glee as it swept resistlessly over the broad Atlantic.
"A bad night for vessels," remarked some one, and then all retired for the night; for the islanders were used to hard blows, and could slumber quietly in a tempest that would cause a landsman to say his prayers and keep on praying the night through.
All were asleep except the coastguardsmen, who kept watch, ever and anon looking through the window, trying to pierce through the darkness, it being impossible to patrol the beach; the wind was so violent it would carry them off their legs.
About midnight the different inmates of the cottage were aroused, one by one, by the coastguard with the startling information that the tide was rising and bursting over its high-water mark, and was advancing in angry charges that would sweep the island away.
Like the dreadful cry of fire in dreaming ears, it woke the slumbering inmates, who started up affrighted, in such garments as they could hastily
snatch in the darkness. They all ran for safety to the hotel, which occupied the highest point of ground on the island.
The angry roar of the waves was now heard, mingled with the scream of the blast, and surely and slowly the black billows advanced; the bathhouses were swept away; next the coastguards' house was torn from its place, and drifted inland. The crowd assembled in the ballroom of the hotel. The women cried and moaned; the men cursed and prayed alternately. They could do nothing; and stout wreckers as they were, inured to the dangers of the deep, they shrank appalled as the treacherous waves closed in around them. No boat could live in such a sea; and, like caged rats, they could only wait and hope for the coming day and the subsidence of the waters.
About four o'clock in the morning a dreadful sound smote their listening ears. Above the noise of the warring elements they heard the crash of a building, the splitting of timbers, and the falling in of beams and planking. It was the New York house, within fifty yards of the hotel, that had caved in, the supports having washed away, and the whole fabric sank in an unsightly ruin.
Old man Cobb sat stoically waiting for death. His son Nathan was bidding his wife farewell, and Albert sat with his head buried in his hands. But Warren, jovial-hearted son of Neptune, seeing all hope gone, waded across to the bar-room, and, lighting a tallow candle, which cast a ghastly light over the scene, he and Bill Johns drank until they grew recklessly happy, and began playing seven-up on the counter, where they both sat cross-legged, for fifty cents a game, while the water was
two feet deep on the floor and the chairs and tables were swimming around the room.
At half-past four o'clock the waves lapped the porch; at a quarter to five the steps were washed away, and the beat of the charging rollers thundering on, made the island tremble and rock as if it were in the throes of an earthquake. At five the fluid in a thin stream trickled through the cracks of the closed door, and then they all thought their time had come. But the storm had reached its height; in a few minutes the water began to recede, and every one drew a long breath. By eight o'clock the ocean was in its usual place.
Daylight showed that the topography of the island was much changed. Immense sand lines were thrown up, looking like miniature mountains; the ground was covered with driftwood, spars, shells and marine vegetation. All the fences were washed away, as were several cottages.
A most singular circumstance of this flood was that all of old man Cobb's tame brant were swept away. Many of them drifted into Chesapeake Bay, and some of them found refuge on Hog Island, twelve miles distant; but they every one returned, and their show of delight at again meeting one another seemed almost human.
It was several years before Cobb's Island recovered from the blow; but at last patrons were assured that floods, like the eruption of Vesuvius, never happen twice in a lifetime, so the old place was regaining its former prestige.
I will long remember one Christmas I spent on the island all alone. My two companions had business engagements compelling their presence at home, and they left on Christmas Eve.
The morning of Christmas was warm, bright and sunny. The ocean lay in all its majestic beauty, as calm, still and smooth as a lake hid away in some mountain fastness; stately ships decorated with bunting appeared motionless on the surface, and earth, air and water harmonized in one grand anthem in honor of the Nativity.
"It's too calm for ducks," said Nathan, whose opinion on all matters pertaining to hunting was as irrefutable as the laws of the Medes and the Persians, "but it's a perfect day for snipe."
"Why?" we asked.
"Because bad weather scatters the large clocks in every direction, and they are very shy; but on a calm, warm day they unite and become lazy and will let a man walk almost up to them. I'll make the boy get the cart and carry you where there are acres of them."
In a short time we were on our way along the beach toward Hog Island.
After going about five miles, our island gradually contracted, until a narrow strip of sand some fifty yards wide, over which the waves at high tide dashed, showed where the possessions of the Cobbs ended.
On this sandbank the snipe were feeding in countless numbers, and I am not exaggerating when I say that the bar running into the sea was so thick with them that there was not a bare spot discernible. Creeping up on my hands and knees to within forty yards, I sighted along the fluttering mosaic-looking ground and pulled trigger. A long swath of dead and dying marked the track of the shot.
For every one killed there were two wounded,
and I had a lively chase in the water after them. Many escaped, for the tide was rising and the crippled birds can swim like a duck. They soon reached deep water and were safe from me, but not from the sea hawks, who came out in force and swooped down on the wounded.
I gathered up the dead and piled them in great heaps. I had nearly gotten through when I stopped work for further sport. A flock of snipe fully a hundred yards long and thick were performing the most beautiful evolutions possible to conceive. A leader marked the way, and with unerring precision each bird followed and kept his proper distance. There was no confusion, no jostling, as they spun through the air with the speed of the wind. Now skimming along the surface of the water, then in a second up in the blue vault with the suddenness of a rocket, next a slanting curve, a concentric circle in every movement. Each bird would seem to turn its body, and the bright sun shining on the mass that shifted in color every moment made the result indescribable.
I was brought back to earth by Bill Johns, my guide, who grasped my arm, and said we had better hurry back home.
"It's going to be splendid day for brant. See, the northwest wind is rising."
I looked around; it was true; the surface of the ocean was ruffled by the breeze, and what sportsman does not feel his pulse thrill at the thought of a perfect day with the brant?
There must be three elements, all favorable, before one can have any luck over the decoys. The tide must be just right, -- that is, falling, on the ebb at daybreak, -- the sun must come out
brightly, and the wind must be blowing. During all of our stay these three things did not conjointly appear. If a wind was blowing, the tide was wrong. If the tide was right, there was a perfect calm. If the sun was shining and the wind blowing, the tide was on the flood; or if not on the flood and the wind was just right, then the clouds were banked up in the sky. In fact, these three uncertainties making one harmony was as risky a thing to count on as a call in faro, and all sportsmen know how uncertain a thing that is.
Arriving at the hotel the guide left the cart, and we hurried to the wharf where the boats, loaded with decoys, always floated. I only stopped long enough to change my box of No. 8 shot for No. 4's and fill my flask.
We were soon under weigh, and reached the blind off Gull Island about noon. Bill scattered about a hundred decoys around the blind, and left me in a little flat-bottomed boat inside the blind. He with the larger boat put back to Gull Island, about a half mile distant.
Now it must be understood that the deep ocean did not surround Cobb's Island. On the south side was what is known as theBroadwater; that is, sea-meadows, sand-bars and mud-flats, with deep channels running through them. These flats were covered at high tide with from four to six feet of water; at low tide they were bare, and it is here that the brant have their haunts, feeding on the young mussels, clams, and the like.
The blind was built of long, slim cedar trees, about six feet by four, just wide enough to enclose a small flat-bottom boat.
The wind had freshened, and, as it came from
the north, it was piercing and cold. The tide was falling. It would probably be an hour or two before the birds would flock to the flats to feed.
Shades of AEolus, how old boreas was spreading himself! I cowered in a corner of the blind, lit my pipe, tied an old glove over the bowl to save the tobacco from being blown out, humped my shoulders, and gave free rein to my imagination.
Here was the one day in the year when every man feels his heart softened and touched, and "good will toward man," for twenty-four hours at least, is something more than a mere sentiment. Here was the day which the whole civilized world celebrated, when reunion of family and friends is the universal custom. What mortal would voluntarily leave home, relatives, or boon companions to sit out in the ocean, in a driving wind, solitary and alone? "Surely, no sane man would do such a thing," is what nine-tenths of the people would say; but the fraternity of sportsmen would, almost to a unit, agree that he would leave everything his heart held most dear, for a shy at the royal brant, even though the day be Christmas, Thanksgiving and Fourth of July rolled into one.
The silent, solitary figure in the blind, who smokes his pipe and waits motionless hour after hour, has a keen and vivid sense of enjoyment incomprehensible to those who have no sporting instincts in their make-up. What do they know of the thrilling pleasure which comes with the sight of game, or at a neat, quick shot?
What do they know of the quiet, meditative happiness of watching the distant flight of birds, and speculating upon their possible movements? What do they know of the delight of strained
expectancy that a sportsman feels as, with finger on the trigger, he watches with keen eye the rapidly fluttering wings which bring the game within shot?
Of all human enigmas, the majority of people will pronounce the sporting crank the greatest. The time, vigor and money wasted is, in the estimation of most people, inexcusable. Whether it is worth while to go through so much to gain so little, -- as the charity-boy said when he was whipped through the alphabet, -- does not admit of argument, they will announce with utter conviction. "Why," said a lady to me on one occasion, "my husband has periodical fits of insanity. They attack him in the fall of the year, in the full of the moon, when he seizes his gun and goes forth to get his feet wet, his face scratched, his hands roughened, his clothes ruined, to return with about as much game as I could buy for a dollar in market, to say nothing of the money he spends on his trip; and then he keeps a horrid dog the year round which fills the house with fleas, and chews up enough linen on the clothes line to clothe 'some poor orphan.' I don't understand it."
If quaint old Izaak Walton was a married man, how many lectures he must have had for mooning about the streams and lakes! His neighbors probably pointed him out as the greatest crank or most innocent idiot in the country.
But my meditations were cut short by a brant -- a brant is about the size and weight of a Muscovy duck -- darting by; evidently he was a scout sent to learn if the flats were visible.
I knew by the sings that the birds would soon appear, and I prepared for action.
Just here I want to say a word about brant hunting. It requires so much exposure to shoot brant that few sportsmen will endure it. It is generally a severe ordeal, sitting still for hours in the open, with nothing to break the force of the freezing wind. On this occasion I followed Nathan Cobb's advice, and did not suffer from the cold.
When I go brant hunting I put on a thin summer undershirt and drawers, then don woolen garments; this makes a lot of difference. A pair of linen or silk socks covered by two pairs of thick yarn ones will keep the feet perfectly comfortable. Always wear corduroy. Another valuable hint I will give to sportsmen. Get an oilcloth of the best make, carry it to a tailor, and get him to make a pair of breeches or trunks reaching to the knees, and coming high up to the waist; these should be as wide and ample as a Dutch burgher's. Lastly, high hip boots, reaching to the thighs, make the lower limbs snug and warm. The outer shirt should be of blue navy flannel, over that a vest of Saxony wool, and over all the corduroy vest and coat. Thus equipped, a man is wind-proof, cold-proof and water-proof. The cap should have flaps to pull over the face, and the throat must be protected by a thick comforter of woolen or fur, preferably the latter. In hunting brant never wear gloves; wear woolen mits, so that they can be easily slipped off when one is shooting. If the hands get cold, hold them awhile in the freezing water to take the frost out. These are little details, but it is just such simple minutiae that mark the difference between comfort and discomfort.
But to return to the brant. The tops of the
sandbars now began to be visible among the waves, or rather the surf, for the wind was simply howling over the ocean, and it drove all the brant from the ocean into the Broadwater, and tore the big flocks all to pieces.
I had expected good sport, but I never dreamed that it would rain brant; for when they did appear, they came with a rush, and from all points of the compass. I fired at least fifty shells loaded with No. 4 shot, as fast as I could slip the shells in, and my gun-barrel became so hot that I had to immerse it in the water.
The brant must have seen the decoys glistening in the sunlight for miles, for I could see the birds high in the sky, coming to the blind with wings set on a gentle decline. Many of them actually settled among their wooden prototypes, a rare thing for them to do. There were so many birds that I could pick the shots, and let the ones going with the wind alone, and blaze away at the brant that approached beating against the gale.
The water was about two feet deep when the birds began to fly, but the waves made the boat rock so that it was impossible to take certain aim. I had to make snap-shots, and scored many a miss; but when the water receded a foot, and the boat settled upon the sand, then it was that the shooting was simply perfect, and I would not have changed position with any man on earth, Czar, Sultan or King.
I did not stop to count the birds that fell; it was the living, not the dead, I was after.
It was warm work! I discarded my coat, then the woolen jacket, and worked in my vest. Oh! it was glorious while it lasted; it was the very sum-
mit of a sportsman's dream, and repaid me for the long weary days on the island, the fruitless waits at the blinds. It is the hope deferred that maketh the heart of the sportsman sick.
I had carried only one box containing one hundred shells, and I fired the last when the sun was low in the west, then I drew a long breath, took an equally long drink from my flask, and looked around. I saw Bill Johns picking up the dead and shooting the cripples -- a very easy task, for the brant never dives, but swims straight on.
Nobody but a born and bred waterman could have managed a sailboat in such a fierce breeze, and I sat there and watched Bill with the keenest interest. In about an hour he anchored his boat in deep water and waded out to where I sat.
"What's the matter?" he shouted.
"I have fired my last shell," I replied, "and I have had enough."
"All right, we will stow the decoys away."
On our way to the island I counted my game. Fifty-eight birds was the total; the finest day's work among the brant in all my thirty years' shooting.
"There were some cripples I could not reach," said Bill. "They were on the flats, and I hadn't any time to waste."
The next day I strolled over to Nathan Cobb's, and found him packing his game in barrels to send to New York.
"How many have you, Nathan?" I asked.
"I killed one hundred and eighteen," he replied, "and a good day's work, as I get forty cents apiece for them."
I asked him what was the greatest number he
ever killed in one day, and he replied, "One hundred and eighty-six."
Nathan was the best wild-fowl shot I ever met. He used a No. 8 Greener, very heavy, using brass shells which he loaded himself. But few men could stand the jar of continued shooting from such a gun.
In the summer of 1890 it looked as if Cobb's Island was destined to become one of the finest watering-places on the Atlantic Coast. A rich syndicate commenced negotiations for the property, intending to erect costly buildings and improvements strictly up to date. An engineer examined the island and found that the front was slowly crumbling into the sea; so he advised the prospective purchasers to wait another year. At the end of that time he made another examination, and found that ten feet of the entire beach had disappeared; this discovery stopped the deal.
The hotel as originally built was fully five hundred yards from the beach, but steadily and surely the ocean had encroached until, in 1896, it was within fifty feet of the hotel; then the end came.
On the evening of October 4, 1896, the sun set in a blaze of golden splendor. The sea was unruffled, the air balmy, and there was not a cloud in the sky. The islanders pursued their ordinary occupations; some were mending their nets, others were gathering their harvest of fish from the boats. The life-guardsmen were told off, and those on duty had started on their rounds along the beach. The housewives were busy getting supper, and from each chimney there arose a light cloud of smoke.
Sunday morning dawned clear, with a fitful
breeze from the northeast, which increased as the hours wore on, and the surf began rolling inward with increasing power, dashing beyond the high-water mark. Still no alarm was felt until the wind changed into a gale, which soon became a hurricane. Then the islanders were moved to sudden action. All the furniture was moved from the lower floors and crowded into the rooms above. The life-savers manned their boats and watched the beach.
The breakers were now driven by the wind with inconceivable force, and rolled up around the hotel, and as the wind increased in velocity some tremendous billows swept clear across the island. Then there was "hurrying to and fro," and most of the people sought the houses that were on the elevated ground, which was generally the crest of some sand dune, over which the coarse grass had grown.
Soon, instead of an occasional vagrant wave, the whole line of breakers were chasing each other like race horses on a steeplechase, and breaking with a roar against the different dwellings.
It was a scene of grandeur; even the stolid islanders were moved to admiration. The island was invisible, and immense waves came charging from the ocean at their homes, as if they were serried lines of cavalry. The sand dunes broke the force of the mighty surges, otherwise the houses would have disappeared in the clutch of the ravening waters.
Whilst the people were safely housed in their second stories, the stock and cattle were swimming around the houses, uttering cries of distress and fear; but no Noah's Ark was there to afford pro-
tection. Horses, cows, goats and dogs were all mingled together, and every now and then some wave, overtopping its fellow, would catch up some animal and bear it across the mainland and drown it in the deep channel at the rear of the island.
Soon even the highest points were under water. Then the life-guardsmen went from house to house and rescued the inmates one by one, and carried them to the life-saving station.
It was a heroic task these brave men had, for the wind had risen to a velocity of sixty miles an hour, and it required strength, courage and skill to face the dreadful storm.
There happened to be several large oyster sloops in the vicinity, and in these many of the islanders took refuge, where from the decks they watched the homes of their childhood being washed away; not the houses alone, but the very earth was swept away, and all their belongings were engulfed in the insatiable maw of the angry ocean. Where thousands once had walked was now a barren waste of foam. The island had for the most part disappeared like the fabled Atlantis; and instead of the sound of babbling children and voices of men, the notes of