All of a sudden the fog fell on the whole group of ships like a thick wet blanket, before they could make the harbor. There were many reefs between their position and the open sea: the only thing to do was to anchor then and there. When a rift came in the fog, Dr. Grenfell saw the riding-lights of eleven vessels round about him. A northeaster grew in violence as night came swiftly on, and a heavy sea arose. The ships tugged at their anchors. The great waves swept the decks from end to end.
In the hold of the Strathcona were patients lying in the cots, on their way to Battle Harbor Hospital. As the Doctor would say, there was less than an inch of iron between them and eternity.
They were dressed, and the boats were prepared to take them ashore.
One after another in the mad waters the neighbor lights went out. All night the Strathcona fought the sea. When day came, only one of the other boats was left—a ship much bigger than the Strathcona, named the Yosemite.
The Yosemite was drifting down upon the smaller vessel, and it seemed as if in a moment more there must be a collision.
But just then the Yosemite struck a reef. She turned over on her side. In that position the sea drove the vessel ashore, through the breakers, with the crew clinging to the bridge.
The fact that the Strathcona kept steam up and was "steaming to her anchors" all night long had saved her, the only survivor of the entire fleet. Every vessel that went ashore was smashed to kindling.
As they were about to weigh anchor, the main steam pipe began to leak. It was necessary to "blow down" the boilers.
For the whole of that short day the engineers tinkered at the damage, knowing that the lives of all on board might depend on their success ere nightfall.
Suddenly, to the inexpressible relief of everyone, the engineer shouted: