Again the boat is alongside, and this time the peril is greater than ever. They must place the boat close to the vessel, for the men are too weak to make any spring to reach her; they must remain alongside for a longer time, for two life-boatmen must get on to the wreck and lift the men on board; but, as before, they go coolly, quietly, and determinedly to work; the cable is veered out, the sail manœuvred to make the boat sheer, and again she is alongside; the men are seized by their arms and clothing, and dragged into the boat.
The last one left is the cabin-boy; he seems entangled in the rigging. The poor little fellow had a canvas bag of trinkets and things, he was taking as presents to the loved ones at home, and all through the howling storm, the rush and beat of the waves, as he held on exhausted and half dead to the shrouds, he still thought of those loved friends, and clung to the canvas bag.
God only knows whether the loved ones at home were thinking of, and praying for him, and whether it was in answer to their prayers and those of many others that the life-boat then rode alongside that wreck, an ark of safety mid the raging seas.
They shout, the boy lingers still, his half-dead hands cannot free the bag from the entangled rigging. A moment and all are lost; a boatman makes a spring, seizes the lad with a strong grasp, and tears him down from the rigging into the boat—too late, too late; they cannot get away from the vessel; a tremendous wave rushes on: hold hard all, hold anchor! hold cable! give but a yard, and all are lost! The boat lifts, is washed into the fore-rigging, the sea passes, and she settles down again upon an even keel! Thank God! If one stray rope of all the torn and tangled rigging of the vessel had caught the boat's rigging, or one of her spars—if the boat's keel or cork fenders had caught in the shattered gunwale, she would have turned over, and every man in her been shaken into the sea to speedy and certain death. Thank God, it is not so, and once more they are safe.
The boat is very crowded; she has her own crew of thirteen on board, six of the Margate boatmen and two Whitstable fishermen, who were left on the vessel, the captain, mate, eight seamen and the boy; thus, thirty-two souls in all form her precious freight.
The life-boatmen at once, without a second's delay, haul in the cable as fast as possible, and draw up to the anchor to get clear of the wreck, for they must get some distance away before they dare let go their cable, or with the wind and seas setting directly towards the vessel they would be driven upon her, unless they had plenty of room to sail by her.
An anxious time it is, as they draw up to the anchor; at last they are pretty clear, and hoist the sail to draw still farther away before they let go.
There is no thought of getting the anchor up in such a gale and sea.
"She draws away," cries the captain of the boat, "pay out the cable; stand by to cut it; pass the hatchet forward; cut the cable, quick, my men, quick." There is a moment's delay, a delay by which indeed all their lives are saved; a few strong blows with the hatchet, and the cable would have been parted. A boatman takes out his knife, and begins gashing away at the hawser. Already one strand out of the three, which form the strong rope, is severed; when a fearful gust of wind sweeps by, the boat heels over almost on her side—a crash is heard, and the mast and sail are blown clean out of the boat.