CHAPTER VII
The First Marathon
“By George!” exclaimed Dick, as he looked about him. “I wish we had a moving picture machine on board. This would make a dandy film.”
There was certainly motion enough to satisfy the most ardent advocate of the “strenuous life.” The deck was humming with life at its fullest. Two hundred young athletes in their picturesque costumes were working away as though their lives depended on it. Here a swimmer splashed in the tank and ran the gamut of all the strokes – the “side,” the “sneak,” the “crawl,” the “trudgeon.” From the fencers’ quarters came the clash of steel on steel, as they thrust and parried, now retreating, now advancing, seeking to touch with the buttoned point the spot that marked their opponent’s heart. The bark of the revolver and the more pronounced crack of the rifle bespoke the effort of the marksmen to round into form. Drake at the stern was striving to outdo his rivals in casting the discus far behind the ship. On the cork track the hundred-yard men were flashing like meteors from end to end, while the milers and long-distance men circled the ship at ten laps to the mile. The trainers snapped the watches on the trial heats and strove to correct defects of form or pace. Everywhere was speed and energy and abounding life. It was a fine example of the spirit that has made America great – the careful preparation, the unwearied application, the deadly determination that simply refuses to lose when it has once entered upon a struggle. And Bert’s heart bounded as he realized that he was one of this splendid band chosen to uphold the honor of the flag. The thought added wings to his feet as he flew again and again around the track, and he might have prolonged the trial far beyond the point of prudence had it not been for the restraining hand of Reddy. That foxy individual never let his sporting blood – and he had aplenty – run away with his common sense. He knew when to apply the brake as well as the spur, and on this first day under the novel conditions the brake was the more important. So, long before Bert would have stopped of his own accord and while he was reeling off the miles with no sense of exhaustion, Reddy called a halt.
“Enough is plenty,” said he, in answer to Bert’s protestations that he had just begun to run. “Even if the ship is steady, we’ve got to take account of the motion. You can’t do on sea what you can on land. Ye’ll get leg-sore if ye keep it up too long.” So Bert, although full of running, took his shower and called it a morning’s work.
A shorter run in the afternoon rounded out his first day’s practice, and after supper the boys sat around on deck, enjoying the cooling breeze. Professor Davis of their own college, who was one of the members of the Olympic Committee, had lighted his cigar and joined the group of Blues. Although a scholar of world-wide reputation, he was by no means of the “dry-as-dust” type. Alive to his finger tips, he was as much a boy as any of them. All ceremony had been put off with his scholastic cap and gown, and now, as he sat with them in easy good fellowship, he was for the moment not their teacher but their comrade.
“Yes,” said the Professor, as he looked musingly over the rail, while the Northland steadily ploughed her way through the waves; “what Waterloo was to modern Europe, what Gettysburg is to the United States, Marathon was to Greece. Perhaps a more important battle was never fought in the history of the world.”
A chance remark about the Marathon race had set the Professor going, and the boys eagerly drew their chairs nearer. They were always keenly interested in anything that savored of a fight, and the “Prof.” had a striking way of telling a story. He had the gift of making his hearers see the thing that he described. As Tom put it, “he didn’t give lectures, he drew pictures.” It was a picture that he drew now, and, as they listened, they were no longer young Americans of the twentieth century, but Greek youth of twenty-five hundred years earlier. They might have been shepherds or goatherds, tending their flocks on the mountain slopes above the Bay of Marathon, looking open-eyed at the great Persian fleet of six hundred ships, as it slowly sailed into the bay and prepared to disembark the troops.
The immediate object of the expedition was the capture and destruction of Athens, which had defied Darius, King of Persia, and added insult to injury by invading his territory and burning the city of Sardis.
To have his beard plucked in this insolent fashion was something new to the haughty king. He was the autocrat of all Asia. Courtiers fawned upon him; nations cringed before him. He styled himself “King of Kings and Lord of Lords,” and no one had the hardihood to dispute the title. He was the Cæsar of the Asiatic world, and Persia occupied the same position as that afterward held by Rome in Europe. It was not to be borne that this little state of Athens should dare to flout his authority. When he heard of the burning of Sardis, his rage was frightful. He shot an arrow into the air as a symbol of the war he prepared to wage. He commanded that every day a slave waiting at table should remind him: “Sire, remember the Athenians.” He sent heralds to all the Greek cities with terrible threats of reprisals, but they were sent back with mockery and ridicule. A mighty armament that he had marshaled was wrecked, but, nothing daunted, he organized another. And it was this vast army that now threatened sack and destruction to the cities of Greece.
It had already captured Eretria, and its surviving citizens were now held in chains, waiting for the Athenians to be joined with them and brought into the presence of King Darius, who was already taxing his ingenuity to devise unheard of tortures for them. And now the galleys had been beached on the shelving shores of the Bay of Marathon, on the edge of which the village stood in a plain that widened in the center, but drew together at the ends like the horns of a crescent. Here they leisurely came on shore, elated at their first victory on Grecian soil and looking confidently for a second.
Upon the outcome of that day hung the future of the world. If Persia won, the last barrier would have been demolished that shut out Asia from Europe, and there would have been no serious check to prevent the barbarian hordes from swarming over the entire continent. Greek art and culture and civilization would have been blotted out and the entire course of history would have been changed.
It seemed the fight of a pigmy against a giant. The odds in favor of the Persians were tremendous. Hundreds of galleys had been required to carry their forces to the Grecian coast. One hundred thousand men, trained and veteran warriors, accustomed to victory, were drawn up in battle array. Against this mighty host the Greeks had about ten thousand men. They had sent for help to Sparta, but, under the influence of a superstitious custom, the Spartans had refused to march until the moon was at the full. Only a thousand men from Plataea came to the assistance of the outnumbered Athenians.
For several days the armies faced each other, the Persians drawn up on the plain of Marathon and the Greeks encamped on a hillside a mile distant. There were ten commanders of the little force, and opinion was divided as to whether they should attack at once or wait for the help of Sparta. By a narrow margin the bolder policy prevailed, and it was decided to grapple with the enemy then and there.
The Persians were astounded when they saw the devoted little army rushing down the slope and making at double-quick across the plain, chanting their battle song. It seemed like madness or suicide. Half contemptuously, they formed ranks to receive them. The Greeks burst upon them with irresistible fury. The very fierceness and audacity of the attack confused and demoralized their opponents. The center stood its ground, but the wings gave way. Soon the battle became a rout; the rout a massacre. The Persians were beaten back to their galleys with terrible loss and hastily put out to sea. The Greeks lost only a hundred and ninety-two men, and over the bodies of these was erected a huge funeral mound that remains to the present day, as a memorial of that wonderful fight.
The battle had been begun in the late afternoon and dusk had fallen when the slaughter ceased. After the first wild jubilation the thought of the victors turned toward Athens, twenty-six miles away. The city was waiting with bated breath for news of the struggle, watching, praying, fearing, scarcely daring to hope. News must be gotten to them at once. Pheidippides, a noted runner, started off on foot. The roads were rough and hilly, but he ran through the night as one inspired. To all he met he shouted the news and kept on with unabated ardor. Hills rose and fell behind him. His breath came in gasps. On he went, the fire of patriotic passion burning in his veins. Now from the brow of a hill he saw the lights of Athens.
On, on he ran, but by this time his legs were wavering, his brain was reeling. He had not spared himself and now he was nearly spent. He gathered himself together for one last effort and staggered into the market place where all the city had gathered. They rushed forward to meet him. He gasped out: “Rejoice. We conquer,” and fell dead at their feet. His glorious exploit with its tragical ending made him a national hero, and his name was held in reverence as long as the city endured.
The speaker stopped, and for a few minutes no one spoke. The boys had been too deeply stirred. Their thoughts were still with that lonely runner rushing through the night. It was a shock to come from beneath the spell and get back to the present.
“I suppose, Professor,” said Tom, at last, “that you’ve seen the place where the battle was fought?”
“Yes,” was the reply, “I was there on the same trip when I visited Olympia.”
“What,” broke in Bert, “the identical place where the first Olympic games were held nearly three thousand years ago?”
“The identical spot,” smiled the professor. “You can still see the walls of the old Stadium where the games were held. Of course the greater part of it is in ruins after so long a time, but you can get a very good idea of the whole thing. It’s a beautiful spot and I don’t wonder the old Greeks went crazy over it.”
“Those fellows were ‘fresh-air fiends,’ all right,” said Tom. “You wouldn’t think they had any homes. Everything you read about seems to have happened in the streets or the market place or the gymnasium.”
“Yes,” returned the professor, “the Greeks were a nation of festivals. They lived out of doors, and their glorious climate made possible all sorts of open-air gatherings and recreations. Their love of beauty, as shown especially in the human form, found expression in the sports and exercises that developed the body to the fullest extent. They did not neglect the soul – Plato and Socrates and hosts of others bear testimony to that – but the body and its development were always uppermost in their thoughts. They honored their thinkers, but they worshipped their athletes. Physical exercises began almost in infancy and continued to extreme old age and the chief honors of the state were reserved for those who excelled in some form of bodily strength. Poets sang about them and statues were raised to them.”
“What games did they have?” asked Dick.
“Very much the same as ours,” was the answer. “There was a hippodrome for chariot racing, and if you boys remember the description in ‘Ben-Hur,’ you can imagine how exciting it was. Then there were foot races, at first a single lap around the course, but afterward developing into middle and long-distance running. Besides these were wrestling, leaping, discus-throwing, boxing and hurling the javelin.”
“There’s one thing I like about them,” said Bert. “They weren’t bloodthirsty, like the Romans.”
“No, we must give them credit for that. There were no better fighters in the world. But the infliction of wanton cruelty, the shedding of blood needlessly, the gloating over human suffering, was wholly repulsive to the Greeks. Perhaps they hated it, not because it was wicked, but because it was ugly. Rome wallowed in wounds and blood. It shouted with delight as gladiators hewed and hacked each other and wild beasts tore women and children to pieces. Its horrible thirst was never slaked and its appetite grew by what it fed upon. The Coliseum with its sickening sights could never have existed in Greece. The Romans developed the brute in man; the Greeks developed the god.”
“I suppose they had to train pretty hard for the games,” mused Bert, as he thought of the iron rule of Reddy.
“They certainly did,” laughed the professor. “You fellows think you have to work hard, but they worked harder. Why, they had to train steadily for ten months before they entered for any event. Then, too, they had to walk pretty straight. Before the games, a herald challenged all who might know of any wrong thing a competitor had done to stand forth and declare it openly. So that when a man came out winner, he had a certificate of character as well as skill.”
“No doubt the fellows that won were looked upon as the real thing,” suggested Dick.
“I should say so,” said the professor. “The value placed upon a victory was almost incredible. To our cooler Western natures it seems excessive. The fellow citizens of the victor carried him home in triumph. They supported him for the rest of his life. He became the first citizen in the state. The town walls were broken down so that he might enter by a path that had never before been trodden by human foot.”
“Well,” remarked Dick, “I don’t suppose Uncle Sam will go as crazy as all that when Bert comes home with the Marathon prize.”
“If he comes home with it, you mean,” corrected Bert. “‘There’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip,’ and I may be in for one of the slips.”
“Whether you are or not,” rejoined the professor, as they rose to retire, “rests ‘on the lap of the gods.’ But what we do know is that, win or lose, you’re going to do your best.
“‘’Tis not in mortals to achieve success,
They may do more – deserve it.’”
CHAPTER VIII
In the Liner’s Path
For several hours now the air had seemed very close and oppressive, and the experienced captain of the Northland felt, through some mysterious sixth sense born of long experience, that a storm was brewing. You may be sure that he gave the matter a good deal more thought than the reckless group of high-spirited boys on board, who would have been satisfied with any kind of weather that came along, provided it gave them a little diversion and excitement. Indeed, it may be that they would even have looked on a shipwreck as something rather pleasant than otherwise, and have regarded it as an ideal chance for adventure.
One reads much in books of the romantic side of shipwreck, but the horrors and privations of such an experience are glossed over. It is safe to say that anyone who has once gone through such a catastrophe will have no desire to repeat it.
Along toward dusk of their second day out, the sky became very overcast, and a gradual drop in the temperature occurred. Of course, the captain and officers were besieged with questions regarding the cause of this, and they had no difficulty in explaining.
“You see,” said Captain Everett, unconsciously assuming the pose of a lecturer, “we are now approaching the Grand Banks of Newfoundland, and getting near the ice regions further north. The comparatively near presence of these icebergs naturally cools the air somewhat, and that accounts for the lower temperature we all feel.”
“I’ve read somewhere,” remarked Tom, “that the ice is responsible for the frequent fogs found in this section of the map, but I must confess I could never quite figure out why.”
“Oh, that’s on account of the ice melting so fast in the warmer air,” explained the captain, “it gives off a thick mist, and when the air is so warm that the ice melts fast enough, it forms a very dense fog. I’ve read a lot about London fogs, and seen ’em, too, but they can’t hold a candle to the fogs you run into on the Banks. And from the way things look now, I rather think you’re going to have a chance to judge for yourselves.”
Indeed, it was as the captain said. In the distance was what looked to be a low-lying island, but they were assured that it was in reality a fog bank, lying close to the water. It drifted nearer and nearer, and before they knew it had begun to envelop the ship. First they were conscious of a damp, cold feeling in the air, and then gradually nearby objects grew less and less distinct.
“Say, fellows,” laughed Dick, “I think we’d better get some rope and tie ourselves together before it’s too late. We’re not going to be able to see each other very long, if this keeps up.”
“Righto!” responded Bert. “Why, I can hardly see my own hand now, and for all I know my feet may have walked off on their own hook and got lost in this infernal mist. I can’t see them, at any rate.”
“Gee, I hope they haven’t, old top,” said Tom. “I’m afraid it might be rather an inconvenience to you to lose them just now. It will be quite a handicap when you try to run a few days from now, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think I could run about as fast on my hands as you could on your feet,” retorted Bert, and turned the laugh against Tom.
But by now it was really impossible to see objects more than five feet away, and the boys had to grope their way about with outstretched hands, like so many blind persons. After a while somebody started a game of “blind-man’s tag,” as they christened it. The one who was “it” had to locate the others by sound, and when he thought he had done so would make a wild rush in the general direction of the noise. Then there would be a wild scramble to get out of his way, and more than one laughing athlete was sent sprawling in a head-on collision. They kept this up till they were tired, and then dropped down on the deck to rest and listen to the yarns of the sailors. Naturally these tales were all about troubles at sea due to fogs, and many a weird story was told that stamped the teller as an inventive genius. Each one tried to crowd more exciting events into his tale than the last narrator, and the result was lurid.
Of course, in most of the stories some part was based on an actual occurrence, but to sift out the truth was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. However, these old tars were past masters at the art, and there is no doubt that they made their stories interesting. The boys listened with great interest, now and then putting in a question when it seemed needed.
Mermaids and sea serpents abound in many of these yarns, and, as Bert afterward remarked, “seemed commoner than squirrels in a park.” But they passed the time away very pleasantly, and before the boys realized it, Reddy was among them, commanding, “Off with ye now, and get a good night’s rest. Ye should have all been in bed a good half-hour ago.”
Of course there was no resisting this mandate, even had they been so inclined, so off to bed they went, groping and stumbling through the fog, that by this time had grown dense almost beyond belief.
“Good-night!” exclaimed Tom, as he tripped over a coil of rope and then slipped on the slippery deck. “I only hope this old tub doesn’t go ramming any icebergs the way the old Titanic did a little while ago. Mermaids may be all right in stories, but I don’t care to make their acquaintance under water just yet a while.”
“No, I think I can pike along a little while longer without a closer acquaintance,” laughed Bert, “and also without seeing any hundred-foot sea serpents in their native element. Why, according to the stories we’ve just been swallowing, one of those fellows could twine himself around the Woolworth Building and wave his head over the roof without half trying.”
“Without a doubt,” said Dick, “and I imagine it would be rather embarrassing to look up and find one gazing at you through the skylight.”
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” said Bert. “However, I guess we won’t lie awake very long to-night worrying about it.”
“Righto!” acquiesced Dick, and with a few more remarks along the same line they descended the steep cabin companionway. It was a relief to get out of the dense, clammy fog, and you may be sure the dry, comfortable berths felt very grateful to the tired athletes. In less time than it takes to tell, they had all dropped off into deep slumber.
It seemed but a few moments later when Dick found himself sitting bolt upright in his berth, with a vague but none the less terrifying sensation that something terrible had happened. At first he thought he must have been dreaming, but a moment later shouts and cries on deck dispelled this idea. Dick hastily awakened Bert and Tom and all three bounded up on deck, where they found everything in confusion.
As they emerged from the companionway hatch they saw that the fog still held, thicker, if that were possible, than when they had gone below. The captain was shouting orders from the bridge, and members of the crew were scurrying wildly here and there across the slippery decks.
The ship’s engines had been stopped, as they could tell by the absence of vibration, but it was several minutes before they could get hold of anybody to tell them what was amiss. Finally, however, they managed to stop one of the crew long enough to be told that they had rammed what appeared to be a fishing schooner, and that the latter was sinking fast. Then the sailor hurried off on his interrupted errand, and the three boys dashed forward to the bows, where most of the excitement seemed to be.
As they drew nearer the forward part of the vessel they were able to see grotesque figures, distorted by the fog, hurrying to and fro. Soon, as their eyes became accustomed more and more to the dim light of lanterns, they could make out the outline of the mast and rigging of a sailing vessel close against the side of their own ship.
Up this rigging men were climbing swiftly, and jumping on to the deck of the Northland. Already there was a group of eight strange sailors standing there, with more coming all the time. Even as the boys watched, however, the mast of the sailing vessel gave a great lurch, and a cry went up from everybody watching.
“For the Lord’s sake, hurry!” went up a shout from those on the stricken vessel. “She’s sinking beneath our feet. Jump lively there!”
By the light of the binnacle lamp on the sinking vessel could be seen the sturdy figure of her captain, standing immovable and calm and giving orders as coolly as though he were not in the slightest danger. According to the unwritten law of the sea, a captain may not leave his ship until all his crew are off, and it was plain that this man would be staunch to the end.
It became evident that the doomed vessel was sinking fast, and there were still several men on her deck waiting their turn to climb the rigging to safety. Could they possibly get up before the ship foundered? – that was the question.
The mast sank lower and lower, until the last sailor up had to be grasped by friendly outstretched arms and dragged over the rail. There was now no reason for the captain to stay on deck, and seeing this, he made a dash for the mast. But he was a second too late. The waves for several minutes had been lapping at the decks of the doomed craft, which lay at a sharp angle to the water, and now with a sickening lurch it dived under the waves, taking its devoted captain with it.
“Lower a boat, there! Lower a boat,” vociferated the captain of the Northland, and the crew hastened to obey. In an incredibly short time two boats had been manned and lowered, and began cruising about over the spot where the vessel had sunk. In that dense fog, however, there seemed little hope of ever again seeing the heroic captain, and they were just on the point of giving up the search and returning to their ship when suddenly they heard what seemed to be a faint shout for help out of the fog about fifty yards from them. They rowed toward the sound, after shouting back encouragingly, and it was not long before they made out the figure of a man struggling stoutly in the icy water.
In less time than it takes to tell they had fished him out, and started rowing back to the steamer. Soon they were on board, and were accorded a royal reception by the assembled passengers and crew, all of whom were by this time on deck.
The man whom they had picked up proved to be the captain of the foundered vessel, and everybody crowded forward to shake his hand and congratulate him on his escape.
But now Captain Everett pressed through the crowd, and after greeting the unfortunate skipper and expressing his deep regret over the accident, hustled him off to his cabin. Here he was wrapped in blankets, and served with boiling hot coffee.
After he had recovered his strength somewhat, he proceeded to give his account of the accident.
“We had a lucky day yesterday,” he said, “and were anchored over the same spot, intending to start in again early the next morning. Most of the crew was asleep, and on account of this cursed fog our lookout was unable to see your vessel until it was too late to give warning. But fortunately, every body was saved, and as the ship was fully insured, matters might have been much worse, I suppose.”
“Yes,” said Captain Everett, “we were steaming only at quarter speed, or we would not have been able to get about in time to render you assistance. I am very thankful that no lives were lost, which is rare good fortune in an accident of this kind.”
“It is, for a fact,” responded the other, and sank into silence. He appeared to be troubled in mind, and little wonder. Even though he were not actually to blame for the disaster, as of course he was not, still he knew that his employers would hold him responsible. And there is probably no other profession in the world where a clear record is more highly prized than in seafaring.
However, under the cheerful influence of the cabin table his depression seemed to lighten somewhat, and he joined in the general conversation. He proved to be a man of some education and widely varied experience, and he recounted many tales of peril by sea.
It was late before the party broke up, and the unfortunate mariner was shown to his cabin. He and the members of his rescued crew stayed on the Northland several days, but then a homeward bound vessel was hailed and they were placed on board. There were hearty leave-takings on both sides, with mutual expressions of regret.
As the ships rapidly drew apart, the captain and crew of the sunken sailing vessel lined the rail, and waved to the athletes until their figures became indistinguishable.
“Well,” remarked Bert, as they turned away. “That was an occurrence that we won’t forget in quite some time, I guess.”
“Bet your life it was,” agreed Tom. “It isn’t every voyage that we get the chance to do the rescue stunt like that.”
“Which is a very fortunate thing,” remarked Dick. “It’s all right for us, and gives us a lot of excitement, but it’s not much fun for the poor fellows that get wrecked. Here’s their vessel, which they probably thought a lot of, as all sailors do, gone, and their employment with it, for the time at least. And that’s saying nothing of the close approach to death which they had. I think I’d rather pursue some other occupation than that of the sea. You have too many chances of making a personal visit to the well known Mr. Davy Jones.”
“Righto,” agreed Tom, with a twinkle in his eye. “I’d rather do something safe, like running a sixty-horsepower automobile at the rate of eighty miles an hour, or some other little amusement like that, wouldn’t you, Bert?”
“Oh, of course,” grinned Bert, “there’s no doubt that that’s the safest thing in the world to do. You never hear of anyone getting hurt doing that, do you?”
“Certainly not,” said Tom. “Why, I’ve even heard that doctors recommend it to patients suffering from nervous disorders, and requiring a little mild diversion. In fact, it’s the customary thing to do.”
“No doubt about it,” said Bert, and then they all joined in a hearty laugh.
After this they dispersed to their various training “stunts,” which must be gone through, wrecks or no wrecks.