“You have a lot of small stuff among the gear upon your mizenmast,” I retorted; but although I pointed to the mast in question, and the man glanced aloft as I did so, I very much doubted whether he comprehended my meaning, for our lee drift was so rapid that we were by this time almost beyond hailing distance.
“Fill the main-topsail,” shouted the skipper. “What have you arranged?” he demanded, turning to me.
I told him. He stamped on the rail with impatience. “It is clear that it will not do to trust overmuch to them for help; we shall have to do everything ourselves. Mr Murgatroyd!” he shouted.
The mate came aft.
“Is that hawser nearly ready?” demanded the skipper.
“All but, sir,” answered the mate. “Another five minutes will do it.”
“Then,” said the skipper, “your next job, sir, will be to muster all the light line you can lay your hands upon, and range it along the larboard rail—which will be our weather rail, presently, when we have got the ship round—and station half a dozen men, or more, all along the weather rail, each with a coil, and let them stand by to heave as we cross the barque’s stern. My object is to get a line aboard her as quickly as possible, by means of which we may send the hawser to them. For they appear to be a pretty helpless lot aboard there, and, if they are to be saved, there is very little time to lose.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” responded Murgatroyd; and away he went to perform this additional duty.
Captain Dacre now showed the stuff of which he was made, handling his ship with the most consummate skill and judgment, wearing her round upon the port tack the moment that he could do so with the certainty of again fetching the barque, and ranging up under her stern as closely as he dared approach. Eight of the strongest and most skilful seamen in the ship were ranged along the weather rail, and as we drew up on the barque’s starboard quarter—with our main-topsail once more thrown aback—man after man hurled his coil of light, pliant line with all his strength, in the endeavour to get the end of it aboard the barque. But such was the strength of the gale that line after line fell short—checked as effectually in its career as though it had been dashed against a solid wall—and although, after his first failure, each man hauled in his line and, re-coiling it with the utmost rapidity, attempted another cast, all were unsuccessful, and we had the mortification of feeling that at least twenty minutes of priceless time had been expended to no purpose. And what made it all the worse was that during that twenty minutes absolutely nothing had been done by the Frenchmen toward the preparation of a line to veer down to us. Within three minutes of the moment when the first line had been hove we were once more out of hailing distance, and the main yards were again being swung.
“We will have another try,” said the skipper; “but if we fail again it will be all up with them—if, indeed, it is not already too late. That barque cannot possibly live another half-hour!”