These words greeted Mark Vandean as, after a few struggles, his head shot up from the black water into the bright moonlight, and, giving it a good shake, he struck out for the boat.
The cold plunge had braced him up, clearing away the brain mists caused by exhaustion in the fight; and now once more he was himself, ready to save his own life, and think, as an officer should, about his men. Of course his first thoughts ought to have been about saving his men, and self afterwards; but he followed the natural instinct, and strove to reach the boat.
“Here I am,” he shouted, as soon as he could get his breath; “shove out an oar.”
Tom Fillot had already caught sight of his wet face shining in the moonlight, and thrusting an oar over the stern, began to paddle to turn the boat, but was checked directly by the painter, which he had made fast to the chains when they boarded the schooner.
To have stopped to unfasten it would have meant too much loss of time, so throwing himself on his chest, he reached out as far as he could with the oar toward Mark, who had been borne down from where he was plunged in at the bows toward the boat.
“Lay hold, sir!” cried Tom, excitedly.
“Yah! Cowards! Look-out!” was yelled behind Tom; the boat received a violent jerk as Dick Bannock gave it a thrust right away from the schooner, and simultaneously the men were deluged with water by a tremendous splash close to their side. Then a big wave rose and lapped over into the boat, striking Mark just as his fingers touched the tip of the oar blade, and the next moment he was swept on by the tide up the river.
“All right, sir!” cried Tom Fillot, loudly; “swim steady. We’ll have you directly. You, Dick Bannock, cut that painter. Now, then: oars!”
He dropped down into a seat, and pulled a big stroke to send the boat’s head round.
“Here, help me aboard, mate,” cried a voice.