All day long on Saturday they made signals of distress. But the hours wore on and there was no sign of help. They were out of the channel in which ships sailed for Cooktown.
The ship righted with the evening tide. Over went everything of iron and all heavy cargo into the sea. The men at the windlass worked till it seemed that the anchor-hawser would break. But the Harrier was too firmly fixed; she would not move.
The sea was still wild on Sunday morning. No one knew if the ship’s boat could live in it. Yet if the boat did not go to seek for help, no one might see them and then they would all be drowned. They could not tell whether it was more dangerous to go in the boat or to stay on the ship. The Harrier was over on her side again. Before the boat was sent off the sailors slid and scrambled along the sloping deck and cut the stays. Then the masts were sawn partly through on the side of the ship that was uppermost. Every one climbed to the high edge of the deck, away from all the ropes and rigging, and waited. A great wave came. Crack, crack, went the masts, and away into the sea went masts and rigging that the ship might have a better chance of holding together till help could come.
Then the boat was manned. It was not easy to get into her down the side of the Harrier, whilst the waves dashed her wildly hither and thither.
“What are you doing?” shouted Tamate, still on the deck of the Harrier, to a sailor who was diving down to the hold searching for something.
“Looking for the poor old cat, sir.”
He found him, too, and puss was dropped through the spray into the boat.
Then Tamate found another pet, a young cockatoo, half dead with fear, and screeching at the pitch of his voice.
“What about ‘cockie’?” he said.
“Oh, we save him. He go in boat!”