It was over a foreground like this that I looked seawards that morning.
Under my bedroom window two men were talking. “Aye, she’s done for,” said one of them; “it won’t be more than half-an-hour before she strikes. With only a rag of canvas upon her, and one of her masts gone, he’d better give it up and put her on shore as soon as he can find a quiet place. Though, for the matter of that, one place is no better than another, so far as their chance of saving her goes.”
“That’s just what he’s doing,” his neighbour answered. “Don’t you see he’s trying to push her along just outside the breakers till he can bring her about opposite the coastguard station, and then he’ll shove her on shore. I can see them watching and waiting for her; and they’ve got the rockets ready on the beach.” And they moved off quickly in the direction of their gaze.
Long before our party, which included the Squire and Marion, had reached the scene of the disaster, the busiest part of the proceedings was over. When she first struck, a heavy sea had canted her round and laid her broadside to the shore, where she lay, heaving and groaning like some living creature, under the weight of the seas as they struck her and then flung themselves over her in sheets of foam.
A rocket had carried a guiding rope well across the wreck and into the hands of the crew. Having secured it to the one remaining mast, they had attached the travelling cradle, and, as we came upon the scene, were one by one escaping to the shore.
Not a minute too soon. For the seas were growing heavier with the rising of the tide, and as each one struck her, the ship shuddered through all her length, while jets of foam that burst up through her decks showed that her timbers were yielding to the strain. Even as we stood watching her she rose on the top of a huge breaker, and, as she settled down again upon the bottom, her sole remaining mast cracked and fell, and with it went the rope and cradle that had wrought the safety of the crew.
Another moment, and, above the rush of wind and water, the plaintive howl of a dog reached us from the deck. A large black retriever had been fastened to the mast, and in the hurry and confusion of their own escape the crew had forgotten to loose him. He had waited most patiently, poor beast, while the crew were saving themselves, waited in the belief that his own turn would come at last. And all the while he had never uttered a sound, though the seas that swept over the wreck must almost have drowned or strangled him.
But now that he felt he was abandoned by the crew, fear had fallen on him, which became panic when the mast to which he was tethered crashed down at his side, leaving only the stump standing to which he had been chained. We could see him struggling violently as the seas swept over him, while now and again he uttered a piteous howl, looking appealingly landwards as if to call attention to his despair. His terror wrought painfully on all our hearts. It was no sight for a woman to see, and I shuddered to think that Marion was there to see it.
“Oh! it’s too cruel,” she cried. “Will no one, no one save him? I would give anything to see him safe.”
“Anything? really anything?” I asked, bending my head to hers, for the roar of wind and water made speech and hearing difficult.