The deck-house has by this time been completely washed away, and no longer affords him any protection. The poor little fellow is clinging to the gunwale, holding on to the cleats; and he is calling out in good English, and in the most piteous tones, O save me! O save me! O do save me! He is only thirteen years old. The boatmen answer him back; and much as they have passed through, it affects them very deeply to see the poor child in his fear, and misery, and danger, to hear his cries and sobs, and not to know how to help him. Continually he is completely buried in the seas, and it seems wonderful that he can hold on; each time the waves rush over the wreck, the boatmen expect to find him washed away like a cork, but he still holds on, and again and again his piteous pleading voice is heard 'mid the roar of the storm—"O save me! O save me! O be quick and save me!"—"What can we do? What can we do?" the boatmen ask each other in tones of real sorrow and dismay; there is not a man among them who is not ready to risk his own life to save the boy, but nothing can be done. It is impossible for them to climb on board the wreck by the rope with which the life-boat is fastened to the vessel, for the wreck is now so overrun by the tide that the bend of the rope is continually under water, and the wreckage of the vessel's masts is washing over it; moreover, although it was possible for a man to come down the rope, the sea and tide making with him, it would be impossible for a man to work his way up the rope against such a tremendous rush of water and breaking surf as are continually sweeping over it. The steamer is not in sight, or they might be tempted to go to her, get towed to windward again, and try to run in upon the wreck and grapple her closer; but this would be almost impossible, so wild is the sea on the weather side, and on the lee side the wreck of one of the masts is flying about in the broken water in a way, which would at once prove fatal to the life-boat if she got entangled with it.
And so all they can do is to wait on, till the tide slackens, when perhaps they will be able to haul the life-boat up to the wreck, and save the boy. But while the tide runs so fiercely they can only wait, and watch the poor little lad. They do not forget the captain of the vessel, they will go in search of him by-and-by, but they conclude that all life must have been beaten out of him long since; and they must not leave the living to go and search for the body of one whom they think must very certainly be by this time dead.
A short time, and the tide rapidly slackens, an eddy comes rushing through some channel in the Sands, and the boat begins to sheer about wildly; and is soon in danger of being crushed against the wreckage of the masts, which is heaving and tossing about among the very heaviest of the seas.
"We must make an effort soon," the coxswain cries; "make ready, my men; try and keep the wreckage clear; haul the boat up to the ship sharp, when I tell you: we will soon have the poor little chap."
Scarcely are the words shouted out by the coxswain when some of the men give a cry—"What's that! look out! yes, he is overboard, washed over by that big sea. Where is he? where is he? There he is! No! only his cap, there he lifts on that sea—he is coming straight for the boat."—From the change and eddy of the tide, the rush of the sea past the boat is not nearly as rapid as it was, and the poor boy comes floating slowly from the ship; once or twice he has been rolled under by the waves, now he is on the surface again, and near the boat. "Here he comes! look! on that wave! Lost! no, he floats again; slacken the hawsers; now he is within reach, carefully, quick; now you have got him; he is making no effort, and floating with his head under water;" a boatman manages to hook his jacket with a long boat-hook, and pulls him towards the boat—gently the men lift him in, sorrowfully; and tears are in the eyes of more than one, as they look upon the small face. "Poor little chap! too late! too late! he is gone," they say—and think that the delicate little face and slender childlike form suggest that he is fitted rather for quiet home scenes, and home care, than for such scenes of hardship and peril as he has had to endure.
"Now, my men," shouts the coxswain; "stations all! put the poor boy down here in the stern-sheets. If we do not look sharp we shall be driven upon the wreck, and likely enough all lost."
"Ay! ay! all right. Get the foresail clear! All clear,—hoist as the boat sheers; stand by to cut the cable, and ship's ropes; hoist away! Now she pays round; cut the cable; all gone; round the boat flies; away she goes before the wind. Make all fast. Now come and look to the poor lad again;" and some of the boatmen with tender fatherly pity in their hearts, take up the little fellow. They chafe his hands and rub his back and limbs, and his chest over his heart, with strong rum, put a little rum to his lips, and persevering as well as they can, following the instructions given to all life-boat men, for recovering the apparently drowned, after about half an hour they have the joy of seeing him show signs of life; the men who can be spared from working the boat continue their care of him; his circulation returns, and he can drink a little water; some of the men take off their jackets which have been kept dry by their waterproof overalls, and wrap him up in them; they then spread the mizen sail above him, to prevent the seas breaking over him; and the poor lad lies quiet, gradually recovering his strength.
During this time, the coxswain and the men have been consulting about the poor captain, who floated away with the life-buoy round him some two hours before; and they determine to run down the Stream-reach in search of him, dead or alive. But alive scarcely for one moment can they hope to find him.
The Stream-reach or Stream-wreckage, as it is called, is where the currents setting down on either side of the Sands meet on the highest part.