“Bring her round, Abdullah,” he ordered, at last. “We’ll see what kind of a mess they’re in, anyhow.”
The dhow went about, stood to the south, and came back on the other tack to the island. The steamer was lying with her bows much higher than her stern, but she did not seem to pound as she lay. Her steam was blowing off shriekingly in white clouds in the dark, and a dozen lanterns were flittering about her decks.
“Hello—the steamer!” hailed Henninger. “Do you want any help?”
The hurrying lanterns stood still for a moment, and presently Sevier’s voice replied, angrily, “No!”
But in a few seconds he cried again, “Stand by till daylight, will you? We don’t know how badly she’s smashed.”
“The worse the better,” Henninger commented. “We ought to run straight for Cape Town, and let them fry in their own fix.”
“Good gracious, you wouldn’t do that?” exclaimed Hawke, and Henninger rather grudgingly assented. The dhow stood off and on all night, while the sky cleared and the breeze died away toward the approach of dawn. Daylight revealed the steamer lying with her nose pushed several feet upon the rough barrier, and her stern afloat.
“She seems to lie easy enough,” said Henninger, examining her through the glasses. “I fancy she happened to hit a soft spot, and they’ll very likely be able to float her off at high tide. It was almost low water when she struck, wasn’t it?”
Men were hurrying about her decks, looking over the side, and they already had a boatswain’s chair slung almost to the surface of the water, from which a man was examining the position of the bow. As the dhow approached, a white signal was waved from the bridge, and the megaphone roared hoarsely again.
“We want to talk to you. Will you let me come aboard you?”