She suddenly threw her arms around his neck and her wet hair fluttered around his face. “Judson,” she pleaded. “You can’t do it. You know it can’t be done. Stay with us and we’ll die together!” Then she turned towards Ruth who was hidden from her by Walter’s body. “Ruthie!” she cried. “Judson can’t swim and he’s going to try and reach the shore on a plank with a line. He can’t do it! He can’t do it! Don’t let him go!”
Westhaver scrambled for’ard again. “I got a couple o’ fine two-inch plank all lashed up for ye, Jud. Well-seized an’ spiked they are so’s they’ll hang together,” he was meticulously exact in his description of the preparations for the desperate venture, “and I’ve got some stout line and a good paddle fur ye. We’re ready fur ye, Jud, old man, an’ by cripes, ef you make it....”
A sea burst over the house and caused the fabric to tremble ominously. When the tide rose, the waves would hurl themselves on the light superstructure and it wouldn’t last long. Judson knew that and he cried, “I’ll be right with ye, Eben!”
Helena screamed and clutched him tight around the neck. “No, no, no! It’s certain death!” she wailed. “You can’t swim and you’d never get through ... that!” She gave a frightened glance at the sea. Ruth, who had been standing apathetic hanging on to Moodey’s arm and the life-line, suddenly turned to her fiancee. He was shivering and silent and had hardly spoken a word. “You’re a good swimmer, Walter,” she cried. “Why don’t you try it? Don’t let Judson go. He can’t swim a stroke!” And she looked up into his face imploringly.
Walter seemed to be galvanized to life. He gave an apprehensive look at the sea roaring and crashing around them and at the white water racing and bursting over the rocks ahead. In the darkness it looked horrible. There were pieces of jagged timbers whirling and tossing around in this hell’s caldron and he thought of swimming among them. The roar and thunder of the water; the livid tossings in the blackness and the awfulness of demoniac power suggested in the staggering impacts of the waves against the steamer’s hull and the rending and grinding of timbers un-nerved him. “God ... Ruth, I—I couldn’t do it!” he burst out at last. “Nobody could swim in that. I’d—I’d be smashed to pieces in the breakers. Look at them! Look at them!” And he pointed with shaking fingers at the raging water.
“But to the beach below there,” cried Ruth appealingly. “You might manage that, Walter. Think of the women aboard. You might be able to reach the shore. I’ll pray for you, Walter dear. Try, Walter, my brave boy. You’re a good swimmer——”
He shook his head vehemently, angrily. “No, no, no! Ruth, darling. Don’t ask me! I couldn’t do it. Nobody could swim that. You’re trying to send me to certain death. No, no, no! We’ll hang on here until the men come from Eastville in the boats. They’ll be here soon now. The storm will soon be over. Just wait, dear. Just wait!” There was a whimpering note of protest in his voice, and in the semi-darkness, Ruth looked at him in amazement. She heard him mumbling again. “Why should I go? ... certain death ... just wait. Just wait.” She stared up at his face; noted the fear and horror expressed in it, and her lips curled contemptuously. “And you so often boasted of your swimming!” The scorn in her voice made Moodey writhe, but he hung on the life-line and mumbled. “I know. I know, Ruth ... but I couldn’t swim in that. You want to see me drowned ... just wait!” The girl savagely disengaged his arm from around her waist, and to her brother she said with a trembling in her words. “Go, dear Juddy, go! And God go with you! There are no cowards in the Nickerson family—men or women—and ... there never will be!” And she kissed him.
Nickerson swung around to Helena. “I’m agoin’, Helena,” he said calmly. “So long, little girl!” He bent down and kissed her on the spray-drenched lips. “Go, darling, and may God aid you!” she cried, and when he dragged himself away the two women, clinging together, watched him vanish in the darkness with pallid faces upon which spray and tears mingled.
On the after-deck, McKenzie, who had been busy on a raft, saw Judson whipping off his coat. “And what are you going to do, Jud?” he asked. “Try to git in with a line,” answered the other grimly. “I might manage to make the beach yonder, and if I can, I’ll come up araound to the point ahead there and git a hawser ashore. Breeches-buoy, y’know.”
“But—but you can’t swim, Jud,” exclaimed McKenzie protestingly, “You’ll never make it!”