"Can't be done," says the coxswain; "she'll break up altogether long before daybreak, and then it's good-bye to those poor fellows in the foretop. No, we'll veer down to her, for we lie to windward."
So over goes the anchor of the lifeboat, and the strong cable of five-inch Manilla is made fast to it. Now, the coxswain is going to do this: The lifeboat will swing at anchor, and the wind will drive it towards the wreck. Little by little he will pay out the hawser, so that, yard by yard, the lifeboat will swing nearer and nearer to the perishing sailors, for perishing they are in the bitter cold of this awful night.
Down, down the lifeboatmen veer to the wreck, held safely by the mighty hawser, and light after light is burned. But they do not dare to approach the side of the wreck closely, lest the cable should strain under the power of the tremendous seas and the lifeboat be dashed against the sunken part of the wreck, when all might be lost together. So they bring-to some five or six fathoms from the wreck, and one of the lifeboat crew seizes a loaded cane, to which a light line is attached. A signal is burned, and by this light he makes his throw, and cleverly drops the cane into the foretop, where the benumbed men are unlashing themselves slowly and cautiously from the rigging. The light line is seized by the captain of the wrecked vessel, and by its means a stouter line is drawn aboard, and thus communication is established between ship and boat. Soon a couple of lines are rigged up, and along these lines the sailors crawl towards the friendly boat. Man after man comes in safety, and the lifeboat crew cheer at every rescue. But it is terribly dangerous work. The gale is rising, and the seas become more furious than ever. The lifeboat is tossed high in the air, then sinks deep in the trough of a huge wave. The only bridge to it is a couple of thin ropes hardly to be seen save when a signal light flares blue in the night, but along these ropes crawl the drenched seamen, their hearts filled with new hopes as their ears catch the deep encouraging roar of their rescuers. Last to come is the captain, who has rigged and handled the lines so that his men could pass in as great safety as possible.
"Come on, captain!—come on, in with you!" is the cry; and he comes and leaps into the boat. Hurrah! they have every man. Now how to get away? that is the question. They dare not haul up to their anchor lest the gale should carry them back on the wreck before they could get the boat under sail.
"The anchor must go, boys!" cries the coxswain. "Up with a corner of the foresail; that will throw her head off the wreck. We must run before the wind."
The manoeuvre is carried out with the utmost care, for the least mistake will be paid for with the life of every man on board.
When all is ready, the coxswain's voice rings out again: "Out axe, and cut the cable!"
Down comes the keen edge, the last strand is parted, and away leaps the boat into the darkness and the furious turmoil of the raging sea. Straight across the shoals the gallant boat drives through the boiling surf, in which no other craft could live. Staggering, reeling, plunging she goes, but with every wild plunge she nears deep water and comparative safety, and at last, with one wild, long heave, she beats off the shoals, and the crew feel the regular run of deep water under her keel, and shout joyously: "Hurrah! cheer O!"
For of the wildest storm on the open sea these dauntless British hearts care nothing. And now they bring the nose of their gallant boat round on the homeward tack, and run for the shore, where fire and light and a warm welcome await them. And what a shout will go up when the cry rings from the sea, "All saved! all saved!" for to raise that cry is ample reward for these heroes of the storm.
BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD