At length there was a shout from an Eskimo lookout in the bow.
“Nuna! (land)” he cried.
“Ninne? Ninne? (where? where?)” asked the other Eskimos in chorus.
“Na-nee! (there)” cried the bowsman, pointing almost straight ahead.
“Thank God!” exclaimed Mr. McLeod, with a long sigh of relief, while Hopkins’ face cleared, and the Eskimos lost their anxious looks, for right ahead of them was a small island of sand, over which the waves broke in rapid succession. It was the shoal of which Hopkins had spoken, and for which they had been so anxiously looking.
Their jubilation was shortlived, however, for they had scarcely got the anchor ready before the boat struck something under water with a terrible thud and remained fast. The jerk caused by the sudden stoppage threw the men off their feet, and snapped the mainmast short at the shaft, carrying the sail and gear overboard. The boat heeled over, great waves dashed into her and in an instant she was full of water.
Quick of action, the Chief Factor caught Lena about the waist and hoisted her to the top of the cabin, then, scrambling up himself, he signaled to the others to do likewise. The roaring of the surf, breaking over the small island, drowned all other noises.
Turning to Hopkins and forming a trumpet with his hands, the Factor endeavored to make himself heard. “Tide’s going out,” he shouted. “Shoal will dry . . . may walk ashore . . . if boat will only last till then.”
Hopkins’ lips moved in answer but his words were carried away by the wind.
For two hours the group crouched miserably upon the cabin, clutching at anything within reach to save being washed away by the great volumes of water that poured over them. Lashed by the wind, and drenched to the skin, they waited for the tide to ebb and leave the boat high and dry upon the shoal. The tempest continued with unabated fury, but the little island grew larger every minute.