As the wind wafted the smoke on one side, Dutch waved his hand in token of encouragement to his wife, who stood with Bessy by the wheel, their task being to keep the ship’s head in one direction, so that the flames and heated vapour should not be driven astern. But all was done now in a hopeless duty-driven fashion, for those on board now realised the fact that it was only a matter of hours before the fire would eat its way through the side, and the work they tried so hard to do would be accomplished by the ship sinking beneath the waves.
“It’s of no use,” said Captain Studwick at last. “Dutch Pugh, Oakum, lower down that boat and come aft.”
This was done in a steady, deliberate manner, although at any moment a fresh explosion might have taken place, and the schooner gone down. And into the boat Oakum, Rasp, the sailor, and Dutch lowered themselves, paddled along the side, and joined their companions in misfortune aft.
As Oakum made fast the painter, and they all stood on the deck, Captain Studwick exclaimed:
“Where is Lauré? We must not leave him to perish.”
“Is he not with you?” said Dutch.
“No,” said the captain, bitterly.
“Has the poor wretch, then, been blown up in the explosion?”
“Heaven knows,” cried Mr Parkley, “but if he is missing, that explains all. It is his work.”
“It was those blowing-up cartridges o’ yourn,” growled Oakum.