“Don’t you think the life-saving crew can do the work?” I asked.
“No,” he answered shortly, “there won’t be time for them to make enough trips. Come, boys, here she goes! Jump in, a half dozen of you that can pull oars.”
There were boats enough, and soon there were men enough, for the human heart is kind and brave, and under a good leader men will walk up to Death himself without flinching.
Randolph Chance was big and strong, alert, and self controlled—a good leader. I realized all this just now, as I had not before, and I thought how strange it was that so much goodness should be bound up with so much folly. It was the old story of the wheat and the tares; and I said: “An enemy hath done this,” and then I thought of Miss Sprig.
I don’t like to dwell on that morning; the experience was new to me, and I can’t forget it; I can’t rid myself of the sound of those shrieks when the ship went down. She struggled like a human creature under a sudden blow—rocked, tottered, quivered, and then collapsed.
The little boats made five trips and brought ashore almost all the passengers and crew—all but one woman, and a little child.
I was one of the many who received the chilled and frightened victims of the storm, and indeed, as soon as we were able to dispose of the more delicate and needy ones, we turned our thought to the brave crews of the little boats, for their exertions had been almost superhuman, and they were well-nigh exhausted.
I bent over Randolph Chance, and begged him to take a little brandy some one had brought.
“Give it to the women,” he said feebly.
“They are all cared for; I’m going to look out for you now, Mr. Chance.”