SOMETHING ABOUT DIKES.

It was evident to those on board of the Josephine that there was some reason for the delay of the boat in not bringing off the survivors of the wreck.  The energetic motions of the men on the disabled vessel could be dimly seen through the mist and rain.

“Hoist the jib, Terrill,” said Captain Kendall.  “We will run up to the wreck, and ascertain what the trouble is.”

“Man the jib halyards!  Stand by the jib sheet!” added Terrill.

“All ready, sir!”

“Let go the downhaul!  Hoist away!” continued the first lieutenant.  “Port the helm!”

The mainsail was trimmed, the jib sheet hauled down, and the schooner filled away again.  She ran close under the lee of the galiot, just far enough off to clear her masts.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Pelham?” called Terrill through his trumpet.

“There’s a woman in the cabin,” replied Pelham.

“Clear away the gig!” said Captain Kendall, as the Josephine passed out of hailing distance of the wreck.  “Mr. Martyn will take charge of the boat.”

The gig’s crew were piped away, and the falls were manned.  The second lieutenant stood ready at the gangway to take his place in the boat.  The operation of hoisting out a boat was not so difficult and dangerous as it had been when the first cutter went off, for the sea was every moment abating its fury.

“Mr. Cleats and Mr. Gage will go in the boat with a couple of axes,” added the captain, who had been studying the position of the wreck.

The first lieutenant gave the order to the adult forward officers, who presented themselves at the gangway provided with their implements, ready to do the work assigned to them.  By this time the weather had begun to clear off, and a streak of blue sky appeared in the west.  The low land and the white cliffs and sand hills were seen again; but the coast was different from that which they had observed before the tempest burst upon them.

“Mr. Martyn, you will cut away the masts of the wreck; but first endeavor to save the woman in the cabin,” added the captain, when the crew of the boat had taken their places, and everything was in readiness to lower the boat.

“I will do the best I can,” replied Martyn, as he stepped into the gig.

“If the galiot does not right when the masts are cut away, report to me.”

The boat went off on her mission of mercy, and those left on board of the schooner watched her progress with the most intense interest.  All felt that they were not “playing sailor” then, but that the issues of life and death depended upon the exertions of the two boats’ crews.

“Have you any idea where we are, Captain Kendall?” asked Terrill, gazing earnestly at the distant shore, which was now revealing itself with greater clearness.

Paul took a spy-glass and carefully surveyed the shore.  Terrill took another glass, and both of them went up into the main rigging, so as to obtain a better view of the shore.

“There are some church steeples near the coast, and farther back there is a great number of them,” said Terrill.

“All right,” replied Paul, as he returned to the deck, followed by the first lieutenant.

“Do you make out the coast?” asked the latter.

“Yes; we are on Thornton’s Ridge.  Throw the lead!” replied Paul, with some anxiety, as he took the glass and pointed it in the direction opposite the shore.

“By the mark five!” reported the quartermaster, who was heaving the lead in the fore chains.

“That proves it,” exclaimed Paul.  “We are on Thornton’s.  The steeples on the shore are Blankenburg, and those farther off are the Bruges steeples.  We are about twelve miles to the eastward of the North Hinder, where there is a light-vessel.  We have been drifting to the southward.  We will tack now, and stand over to windward of the wreck.”

The Josephine went about again, and stood up to the point indicated by the captain.  The wind had now subsided to a gentle breeze, and the sea was abating its violence in a corresponding degree.  The lead was thrown continually, but not less than three fathoms was indicated at any time.  Cleats and Gage, with their sharp axes, were dealing heavy blows at the masts of the galiot, while the crew of the gig and first cutter were clearing away the standing rigging.  By the time the schooner reached the position to windward of the wreck, the work had been accomplished.  The two boats had backed away from the wreck, and suddenly the hull righted.  A few more strokes of the axes severed the shrouds, which could not be reached while the vessel lay upon her side.

Pelham, who was on the deck of the vessel when she righted, rushed to the companion-way, which had been submerged before.  He was closely followed by the two men.  The cabin was half full of water; but he found there a woman and a young girl of sixteen, who had been clinging for life to an upper berth.  The gallant lieutenant plunged up to his middle in the water, and bore the girl to the ladder.  At the same time, the older of the men performed a similar service for the woman.  He was evidently the husband of the woman and the father of the girl.  When he returned to the deck, he embraced the woman and the girl, and lavished upon them the most tender caresses.

“Mr. Pelham, you will convey these people to the Josephine, and report what has been done to the captain,” said Martyn, who was the superior officer.

The first cutter was hauled up to the gangway of the galiot, and Pelham by signs invited the family to embark.  They comprehended his meaning, and the females were assisted into the boat.  The older man, who was apparently the skipper of the vessel, exhibited some reluctance at leaving his craft.  His heart seemed to be broken by the calamity which had befallen him, and he wept bitterly, uttering piteous exclamations, which could not be understood by the Josephines, as Pelham hurried him into the cutter.

The party continued their sad wailings till the boat reached the schooner.  The women were assisted to the deck, where they stood staring with blank amazement at the vessel and her crew.  The skipper was bewildered by the misfortune that overshadowed him.

“I am glad to see you, sir,” said Paul, as the disconsolate captain came up the accommodation ladder.

“No use, Captain Kendall,” said Pelham, smiling.  “They can’t speak a word of English.”

“Do you know anything about the vessel?” asked Paul.

“I read her name on the stern, as we came back, and wrote it down; for a Yankee would choke to death in uttering it,” replied Pelham, as he produced a piece of wet paper.  “It is the ‘Wel tevreeden, Dordrecht.’”

“That’s Dutch.  She hails from Dort,” added Paul.

“Where are the professors?” asked Terrill.  “Can they speak Dutch?”

The professors, who had seen enough of rough weather for one day, had been making themselves as comfortable as possible in the cabin.  The Dutchman and his family were conducted below by the first lieutenant.

“What have you here?” demanded Mr. Stoute, who had just come from his berth, in which he had bolstered himself up, in order, as he expressed it, to know exactly where he was.

“We have just saved them from the wreck of a Dutch galiot.  They can’t speak a word of English, and we wish you to talk to them.”

“In Dutch?” laughed Mr. Stoute.  “I cannot do it.”

“What is the matter, Mr. Terrill?” inquired Professor Hamblin, who had also taken to his berth to save his limbs from being broken.

“A vessel has been wrecked, and we have saved two men and two women.  Can you talk Dutch?” asked the first lieutenant, going to the door of the professor’s state-room.

Mr. Hamblin proved to be no wiser than his associate, so far as the Dutch language was concerned; and it was found to be impossible to hold any communication with the wrecked persons except by signs.  They were committed to the care of the steward, by whom everything was done to render them comfortable.  The captain’s state-room was given to the women, and they were supplied with hot coffee and other refreshments.

“What is the condition of the wreck, Mr. Pelham?” asked Captain Kendall, as soon as the unfortunate persons had been provided for.

“She is half full of water,” replied the second master.  “The crew of the gig were pumping her out when we left.”

“Do you know anything about her cargo?”

“No, sir.  Her hatches were battened down, and we could not see what was in the hold.”

The first lieutenant was directed to detail a working party for the wreck, to assist in pumping her out, and the first cutter returned to the galiot with sixteen hands.  Orders were sent to Martyn to use every exertion to save the vessel and her cargo.  It was now nearly dark; but the weather was favorable, and Paul hoped to get the dismasted galiot into port on the following day.

The cutter reached the wreck, and the crew of the gig, who had been pumping and baling diligently, were relieved by fresh hands.  The work went on with renewed energy.  The hatches had been taken off, and the cargo was found to consist of butter, cheese, and manufactured goods.  The boatswain had explored the hold, and declared that the merchandise was not badly damaged.  The galiot had taken in less water than was supposed, from her position on the waves.  After four hours of severe toil by the young seamen, the pumps sucked.  The hull was tight, and the working party were greatly encouraged by the success of their efforts.

The boatswain and carpenter, assisted by the boys, rigged a jury-mast out of the foremast of the galiot, which had been saved for the purpose.  A jib and foresail were bent upon it, and the “Wel tevreeden” was in condition to make a harbor.  It was midnight when the work was completed, and the report sent to Captain Kendall.  Martyn, Pelham, and a crew of ten, to be assisted by Cleats and Gage, were detailed to take the galiot into the Scheldt.

During the first part of the night it had been a dead calm, which had greatly assisted the labors of the working party.  About four o’clock, on the morning of Sunday, a light breeze from the westward sprang up, and the order was given by signal for the galiot to make sail, and to follow the Josephine.  There was hardly a four-knot breeze, with the tide setting out; and the progress of the galiot, under her short sail, was very slow.

Nothing had been seen of the Young America since the storm shut down upon her and concealed her from the view of those on board of the Josephine.  Paul knew that Mr. Lowington would be exceedingly anxious about him and his vessel; but he was proud and happy in the reflection that he had carried the Josephine safely through the perils which had surrounded her.  He had not closed his eyes during the night, as indeed no one connected with the sailing department of the schooner had done.  The professors and the wrecked party had all turned in as usual, while Paul kept vigil on deck with the first lieutenant.

“Sail ho!” cried the lookout forward, about seven o’clock in the morning.

A small vessel was discovered approaching the Josephine from the direction of the shore, or rather of the mouth of the Scheldt, whose western estuary forms a broad bay about twelve miles in width.  As the small craft came near, it was evident that she was a pilot boat.  She carried a red flag at her mast-head, on which was a number in white figures.  On her principal sail there was a large letter “P,” and under it “ANTWERPEN.”  When she hove in sight, the jack was hoisted at the foremast-head of the Josephine, which is the signal for a pilot.  As the little cutter rounded to, the words “Bateau Pilote” with her number, were seen on the stern.

She was a Belgian pilot-boat.  The mouth of the Scheldt, and its course for forty miles, are in Holland, and off the mouth of the river both Dutch and Belgian pilots offer their services to inward-bound vessels; but the sea pilots take vessels only to Flushing, the river pilotage being a separate charge.  Mr. Lowington had instructed Paul, as the squadron was bound to Antwerp, to prefer a Belgian pilot, who would take the vessel up to that city, and charge the pilotage in one bill.

A canoe put off from the “Bateau Pilote,” and a weather-beaten Belgian sailor leaped upon the deck.  He opened his eyes very wide when he had taken a single glance at the vessel and her crew.  He seemed to be as much confounded as the Liverpool pilot had been on a similar occasion.  The professors were at breakfast in the cabin, and not a single man appeared on deck.

“L’Amerique?” said the pilot, glancing at the flag which floated at the peak.

“Oui,” replied Paul, laughing.

“Ou est lé capitaine, monsieur?” added the pilot, looking around him again.

“Je suis capitaine,” replied Paul.

“Est-il possible!”

“C’est possible. You speak English?-parlez-vous anglais?” added Paul.

“I speak un pere,” replied the pilot.  “What vessel that is?” he continued, pointing to the galiot, which was following in the wake of the Josephine.

“She is a Dutch vessel, that was upset yesterday.  We saved her.  The captain and his family are on board, but none of us have been able to speak a word to him.”

“Where bound are you?”

“To Antwerp.  We have a crew on board of the galiot.  We will not attempt to take her to Antwerp.”

“She have taken a pilot,” said the Belgian, as another man from the “Bateau Pilote” boarded her.  “She shall be taken to Flushing.”

“You will put into Flushing, then, so that I can obtain the men on board of her.”

“I will-yes.”

“Did a ship-the Young America-go up the river last night?” asked Paul.

“No; no ship.  We see a ship off the Rabs when the storm came.  She come about, and go to sea before the wind.”

This was what Paul supposed the Young America had done.  He had no fears in regard to the safety of the ship as long as she had plenty of sea room.  She would soon return, and the pilot-boat would be able to report the Josephine to the anxious people on board of her.  The Belgian pilot took charge of the vessel; and after he had headed her towards the channel by which he intended to enter the river, he began to ask questions in regard to the juvenile officers and crew.  He did not speak English any more fluently than Paul did French, and they did not get along very well.  Mr. Stoute, having finished his breakfast, came on deck.  He taught the French in the Josephine, and was very happy to find an opportunity to air his vocabulary.

The skipper of the galiot came up from the cabin soon after with his family.  As the pilot spoke Dutch, the story of the unfortunate captain was obtained at last.  The vessel had been caught in the squall, and knocked down.  Two men on deck had been washed away and drowned.  The companion-way being open, the water had rushed in and prevented the vessel from righting.  The women, who lived on board all the time, as is frequently the case with the families of Dutch skippers, had climbed up and obtained a hold upon the berths on the port side of the cabin.  By these means they were saved from drowning; but the cabin doors, being on the starboard side, were under water, so that they could not escape while the vessel lay on her beam-ends.

The Josephine, followed by the “Wel tevreeden,” entered the river.  It was a beautiful day, warm and pleasant; and the officers and crew, in spite of the hardships of the preceding night, were eager to obtain their first view of the new country whose waters they were now entering.  It was still over sixty miles, by the course of the Scheldt, to Antwerp; but the sights on the river and on the shore were novel and interesting.  The vessels which sailed up and down the river were essentially different from any they had ever seen, with the exception, perhaps, of the wrecked galiot.  They looked more like huge canal-boats than sea-going vessels.  Some of them had wings, or boards, at their sides, which were let down when the craft was going on the wind, thus serving the same purpose as a centreboard.  Others were rigged so that their masts could be lowered to the deck in passing bridges.

Maps, guide-books, and other volumes of reference were in great demand among the students, and Professor Stoute was continually questioned by all hands.  Mr. Hamblin was too grouty to permit any such familiarity, and doubtless he was saved from exposing his ignorance of the interesting country which the voyagers had now entered.

The West Scheldt, upon whose waters the Josephine was now sailing, is sometimes called the Hond.  On the left, and in plain sight from the deck, was Walcheren, the most extensive of the nine islands which constitute the province of Zealand, the most southern and western division of the kingdom of Holland.  Zeeland, or Zealand, means sea-land; and its territory seems to belong to the ocean, since it is only by the most persevering care that the sea is prevented from making a conquest of it.  These islands are for the most part surrounded and divided by the several mouths of the Scheldt, all of which are navigable.

Our readers who have been on the sea-shore where the coast is washed by the broad ocean, or any considerable bay, have observed a ridge of sand, gravel, or stones thrown up from ten to twenty feet higher than the land behind.  This was caused by the action of the sea.  The exterior shore of Holland, that is, the land bordering upon the open ocean, has generally a ridge of sand of this description.  The sand-hills or hummocks which are observed on the shores of Holland and Belgium are produced by the ceaseless beating of the stormy waves.

In Holland, these ridges, or chains of sand-hills, are called “dunes.”  They extend, with little interruption, from the Straits of Dover to the Zuyder Zee.  The ridge is from one to three miles wide, and rising from twenty to fifty feet in height.  The sand of which the “dunes” are composed is generally so fine that it is readily blown by a sharp wind; and they were as troublesome as the sands of Sahara in a simoom.  In a dry and windy day, the atmosphere would become dim from the sand smoke of the dunes, and the material was conveyed in this manner far into the interior of the country, covering up the rich soil, so that it became necessary to dig up the sand.  To overcome this evil, a kind of coarse reed grass is annually sown on the dunes, which forms a tough sod, and prevents the sand from being blown away.

The dunes form a natural barrier to the progress of the sea; but these, of themselves, are insufficient to accomplish the purpose; for in the highest tides the waters sweep through the openings or valleys between the sand-hills.  Immense dikes and sea-walls are erected to complete the security of the country from the invasions of the ocean.  The embankments which protect the islands of Zealand are over three hundred miles in length in the aggregate, and involve an annual expense of two millions of guilders-more than eight hundred thousand dollars-in repairs.

“The great dike of West Kappel is there,” said the pilot to Captain Kendall, as he pointed to the land on the northern shore of the estuary.

“I don’t see anything,” replied Paul.

“There is nothing particular to see on this side of the dike,” interposed Professor Stoute, laughing at the astonishment of the captain.  “What did you expect to see?”

“I hardly know.  I have heard so much about the dikes of Holland, that I expected to see a big thing when I came across one of them,” added Paul.

“They are a big thing; but really there is very little to see.”

“But what is a dike, sir?” asked Paul, curiously.  “I never supposed it was anything more than a mud wall.”

“It is nothing more than that, only it is on a very large scale, and it must be constructed with the nicest care; for the lives and property of the people depend upon its security.  When they are going to build a dike, the first consideration, as in putting up a heavy building, is the foundation.  I suppose you have seen a railroad built through a marsh, or other soft place.”

“Yes, sir; the railroad at Brockway went over the head of the bay, where the bottom was very soft.  As fast as they put in gravel for the road, the mud squashed up on each side, making a ridge almost as high as the road itself.  They built a heavy stone wharf at Brockway, the year before we sailed, and the weight of it lifted up the bottom of the shallow bay a hundred feet from it, so that boats get aground there now at half tide.”

“That is the idea exactly:  The foundation is not solid; and that is often the chief difficulty in building a dike.  The immense weight of the material of which it is constructed crowds the earth out from under it, and it sinks down faster than they can build it.  In such places as this they find it necessary to drive piles, to build the embankment on.”

“They must cost a heap of money, then.”

“The annual expense even for repairs of dikes in Holland is about three millions of dollars of our money.  Speaking of that very dike of West Kappel,” added the professor, pointing to its long, inclined escarpment, “it is said if it had been originally built of solid copper, the prime cost would have been less than the amount which has since been expended upon it in building, rebuilding, restoring, and repairing it.  But the money spent on dikes is the salvation of Holland.  The entire country would be washed away in a few years, if they were suffered to decay.”

“I see there are trees growing on the shore, farther up the river,” added Paul.

“Those trees are willows; and wherever it is possible for them to thrive, they encourage their growth for two reasons:  first, because the roots of the trees strengthen the dike; and, secondly, because the willow twigs are wanted in repairing and securing the embankment.  The foundations of sea-dikes vary from a hundred and twenty to one hundred and fifty feet in width.  The rampart is made of clay, which, as being impervious to water, forms the entire structure when the material is available in sufficient quantities.  The maximum height of the dikes is forty feet; but of course they vary in this respect with the elevation of the land to be protected by them.”

“But I should think the mud and clay would be washed away by the beating of the sea.”

“So they are sometimes; and to guard against such an event, which is a calamity in this country, the dike is covered with a kind of thatch-work of willow twigs, which has to be renewed every three or four years.  Occasionally the outer surface of the embankment is faced with masonry, the stone for which has to be brought from Norway.”

“A ship there is coming in,” interrupted the pilot, pointing to seaward.

She was several miles distant, standing in under all sail.  She was examined with the spy-glasses, and every one was rejoiced to learn that it was the Young America.