Pilgrims of Promise(2)

The answer chilled Heinrich, but before he could reply, desperate cries from the water drew his attention. He craned his neck but saw little more than furious splashing and lurching bodies. “Trouble, Pieter!”

The old man nodded. “What I would give for the strength of my youth!”

The children standing on the jetty watched nervously as their fellows floundered in the deep waters. From their vantage point, the scene near Wil had become chaotic. Most of the swimmers had turned back and were now crawling against the current toward the safety of the black rocks. However, it seemed as though Wil had somehow been snatched from the water and laid atop a floating litter.

Finally, the first swimmers returned and were pulled from the sea by the hands of their fellows. Others came behind, most coughing, gasping for air, and some in tears. Frieda staggered onto the shore wailing in grief. Her hair hung in dripping strands across her heaving shoulders, and her eyes were wide with terror. Heinrich and Pieter ran to her as Heinz collapsed at her feet.

“Gertrude!” she shrieked. “My sister!”

Pieter placed his arm around her, and she fell into his embrace sobbing and trembling. Dripping wet and gasping for breath, Heinz turned a sad face to Heinrich. “Gertrude … drowned.”

Heinrich paled. “I remember her.”

The young boy nodded. “We got near … Wil … and she just… sank.”

Heinrich turned a quick, though compassionate, glance toward Frieda before hurrying back to the water’s edge. Coming toward him, ever so slowly, was Wil, guided by four rescuers. He had been balanced facedown along a plank. His limbs dangled limply over the sides, and he was close enough now for Heinrich to see swirls of blood around the satchel still slung across his shoulder. “Pieter! Come quickly!”

The man gave Frieda a tender squeeze and then made his way for the surf, where he waited alongside the anxious baker.

“See … there is blood in the water.”

Pieter nodded. “With that much, ‘tis a good chance he’s alive, though perhaps not for long. He must be badly cut. I‘ll need thread, wax, and a good needle.” He thought for a moment, then summoned little Heinz, Ava, and another strapping lad. “You three, hear me well. Run as fast as your legs will carry you to the sailmaker’s shop along that path, right over there. Tell him we need a roll of thin thread, a candle, some sailcloth, and a stitching needle. Tell him we‘ll pay later, but you must hurry! ‘Tis most urgent.”

Heinz narrowed his squinty eyes. “And if he won’t give ‘em up, or if he isn’t there?”

Without a blink the priest replied, “Then take what we need and run like the wind!”

The three sprinted away as Pieter splashed behind Heinrich into deeper water, where they awaited the four exhausted lads slowly lurching toward them. “Good men!” cried Heinrich. “A little farther now … just a bit more!”

Straining forward, Heinrich and Pieter stretched out their hands. At last, Heinrich laid his thick fingers on the arm of Otto and pulled him toward shore. Pieter grabbed hold of Rudolf and the group rolled forward in a gentle swell. Falling, stumbling, and tripping about the wet rocks, all hands seized Wil’s body and slid him off the board and into a cumbersome six-way embrace as they struggled to carry him to the flat boulder Pieter had so calmly sat upon that very morning. “Methinks he’s nearly dead!” cried Otto.

“Quickly, let me see him!” ordered Pieter impatiently. He and Heinrich rolled the motionless lad to his back and looked him over hopefully. But, alas, none saw any signs of life. His color was drained, his skin ghostly white, and his lips faded purple. His limbs and torso had been sliced into red ribbons; a long gash split his left cheek. Heinrich looked to Pieter with a forlorn, despairing face and silently implored the old priest to do something.

Pieter stared at the face of his beloved young friend and wanted to weep. A breeze tousled his hair and seemed to carry a message to him. He suddenly looked up, for he thought he could hear Karl’s voice whispering to him, “But there are miracles, Pieter.” The old man nodded to the unseen face and, to the astonishment of the others, answered out loud. “Aye, lad, there are miracles indeed!” He abruptly bent low to lay his head on Wil’s chest, then rolled the lad on his belly and pressed hard on his back.

“What—?”

“Not now, Heinrich!”

Water suddenly gushed from the boy’s lungs as Pieter pressed firmly. He quickly folded Wil’s hands under his face and alternated pulls on his bent elbows with pushes on his back. The children stared dumfounded as the man kept pressing and pulling, pulling and pressing, all the while pleading with heaven for mercy. Some thought he had surely gone mad.