"Clear away the longboat, Reeves—unship the compass in the binnacle," ordered Hartly; "Hans, get up a beaker of water, a bag of bread—in oars and blankets—we must quit instantly and shove off!"
"In such a sea as this?" asked Reeves, with wildness in his eye, as he clung to a belaying pin. "No boat can live——"
"Ay, Paul, even in such a sea as this; we must quit the ship, or sink with her. Stand by, my lads, and throw her head to the wind."
"The foremast will go like a reed—but see—the wind has already done what you wish."
The loss of her rudder had rendered the Leda (her chain plates were now in the water) unmanageable, but, with the promptitude and decision of brave and desperate hearts, some of our men hurried to the braces, to strive and keep the vessel's head to windward, while others got the longboat cleared of all that endless débris and rubbish which usually accumulate there during a voyage—launched it, and by fending, with no small exertion of skill and strength, prevented it from being dashed to pieces against the side of the foundering Leda. A cask of water was thrown in, also the binnacle compass, which, unfortunately, was broken during the confusion. The oars were luckily lashed to the thwarts; the mast, yard, sail, and rudder were also there, and we prepared at once to leave.
Wild though the wind, the atmosphere was dense and full of vapour and obscurity; the mingled rain and surf were so blinding, that one could scarcely see one's hand outstretched at arm's length. To keep our feet in such a howling tempest was almost impossible; thus in passing forward or aft, we were obliged to drag ourselves along by clutching belaying pins, cleats, and ring-bolts, while many of us were severely injured by pieces of broken wreck that floated about the deck, and were dashed to and fro by the waves.
Two or three of our men were stunned, and on falling overboard were seen no more; but in less than three minutes after the longboat was launched, we had all left the ship—Hartly being the last to do so—and to the number of fourteen in all (including Paul Reeves, Hans Peterkin, Cuffy Snowball, and me), committed ourselves to the mercy of the sea and storm, in that small craft, which was tossed like a cork upon the billows.
For a time the boat was rasped so furiously against the side of the brig, that all our united strength was requisite to get under her shattered stern, and fairly shove off. We worked in silence—the silence of black desperation!
But on falling astern of the sinking brig, the boat became exposed still more to the fury of the sea.
"Pull her round," cried Hartly; "keep her bow to the break of the sea, or we shall be swamped. Pull to windward of the Leda!"