Lewson and Charly melted away into the darkness. Wyllard and the Siwash walked quietly down to the water’s edge, a little up-stream of the schooner, as the stream was running strong. As they waited a few moments before plunging into the sea they stripped off nothing, for it was evident that none of the rags they left behind could be replaced, and they knew from experience that when the first shock is over a man swimming in icy water is kept a little warmer by his clothing. For all that, the cold struck through Wyllard when he flung himself forward and swung his left hand out. It was perhaps a minute before he was clearly conscious of anything beyond the physical agony and the mental effort to retain control of his faculties. Then he made out the schooner, a vague, blurred shape a little down-stream, and he swam furiously, his face dipping under each time his left hand came out.
He drew level with the vessel, clutched at her cable, a foot short, and was driven against her bows. The stream swept him onward, gasping, and clawing savagely at the slippery side of the schooner, until his fingers found a hold. It was merely the rounded top of a bolt that he touched, but with a desperate effort he clutched the bent iron that led up from it to one of the dead-eyes of the mainmast-shrouds. He could not, however, draw himself up any further, and he hung on, wondering when his strength would fail him. The Siwash, who had crawled up the cable, leaned down from above and seized his shoulder. In another moment he reached the rail, and went staggering across the deck, dripping and half-dazed.
Action was imperatively necessary, and he braced himself for the effort. The schooner was lying with her anchor up-stream, but he did not think it would be possible to heave her over it and break it out unless he waited until the others arrived, and it would then be a lengthy and, what was more to the purpose, a noisy operation. The anchor must be sacrificed, but there was the difficulty that in the dark he could hardly expect to find a shackle on the cable. Running forward with the Siwash, he pulled out a chain stopper, and then shipping the windlass levers found with vast relief that it would work. It would make a horribly distinct clanking, he knew, but that could not be helped, and the next thing was to discover whether the end of the chain was made fast below, for it is very seldom that a skipper finds it necessary to pay out all his cable.
Dropping into the darkness of the locker beneath the forecastle, he was more fortunate than he could reasonably have expected to be, for as he crawled over the rusty links he felt a shackle. It appeared to be of the usual harp-pattern with a cottered pin, and he called out sharply to the Siwash, who presently flung him an iron bar and a big spike. He struck one of the two or three sulphur matches he had carefully treasured, and when the sputtering blue flame went out set to work to back the pin out in the dark. He smashed his knuckles and badly bruised his hands, but he succeeded, and knew that he had shortened the chain by two-thirds now.
He scrambled up on deck again and hurried aft for the vessel’s kedge had been laid out astern to prevent her swinging. There was a heavy hemp warp attached to it, and it cost them some time to heave most of it over, after which they proceeded to get the mainsail on to her. It was covered with a coat, and Wyllard cut himself as he slashed through the tiers in savage impatience. Then he and the Siwash toiled at the halliards desperately, for the task of raising the heavy gaff was almost beyond their powers.
There was no grease on the mast-hoops; the blocks evidently had not been used for months. Several times they desisted a moment or two, gasping, breathless, and utterly exhausted. Still, foot by foot they got the black canvas up, and then, leaving the peak hanging, ran forward to the boom-foresail, which was smaller and lighter. They set that, cast two jibs and the staysail loose, and let them lie. Wyllard sat down feeling that the thing they had done would, if attempted in cold blood, have appeared almost impossible. It was done, however, and now he must wait until the boat appeared. There was no sign of her, and as he gazed up the inlet, seeing only the glimmer of the water and the sliding mist, the suspense became almost intolerable. Minute after minute slipped by, and still nothing loomed out of the haze. The canvas rustled and banged above him, there was a growing splashing beneath the bows, and the schooner strained more heavily at her cable. Everything was ready, only his comrades did not appear. He clenched his hands and set his lips as he waited. He wondered at the Siwash, who sat upon the rail, a dim, shapeless figure, impassively still.
At last his heart leaped, for a faint splash of oars came out of the darkness. Both men ran forward to the windlass. The sharp clanking it made drowned the splash of oars, but in another minute or two there was a crash as the boat drove alongside, and Charly scrambled up with a rope while Lewson hurled sundry bags and cases after him. Then he climbed on deck in turn, and Charly began a breathless explanation.
“It’s all we could get. There’s nobody on our trail,” he said.
The last fact was most important, and Wyllard cut him short. “Get the jibs and staysail on to her,” he commanded.
The new arrivals worked rapidly while the cable clanked and rattled as the schooner drove astern, but at the first heave the rotten staysail tore off the hanks, and one jib burst as they ran it up its stay. For an anxious moment or two the cable jammed, and the anchor brought the schooner up. All four flung themselves upon the windlass levers, and after a furious effort the chain came up again and ran out faster, fathom by fathom, rattling horribly, until the end of it shot suddenly over the windlass. Then there was another check as the schooner brought up by the kedge swung suddenly across the stream.