The second officer was quick to note the sudden strain, and eased it—once, twice, three times. But it was now or never. The ship was swinging in the stream, and her stern-post would just clear the fringe of the reef if the anchor made good its grip.
The Southern Cross had gone round, with a heavy lurch to port, caused by the tremendous pressure of wind and wave, and was almost stationary when the cable parted. The thick chain flew back with all the impetus of six thousand tons in motion behind it.
Missing Maseden by a hair’s breadth, it struck the foretop, and the spar snapped like a carrot. It fell forward, and the identical block which had nearly brought about the death of the South American sailor now caught his rescuer on the side of the head.
In the same instant a heavy stay dragged Maseden bodily over the fore-rail and he pitched headlong to the deck, where, however, the actual fall was broken by the stout canvas of the sail.
A woman screamed, but he could not hear, being knocked insensible.
“All hands amidships!” shouted the captain, and there was a race for the ladders. One man, however, the Spaniard, stooped over the young American’s body. His eyes were streaming with tears.
“Good-by, friend!” he sobbed. “Maybe this is a better way than that opened by my bottle of brandy!”
He was sure that the vaquero who swore like an Americano had been killed, because blood was flowing freely from a scalp wound; but he lifted Maseden’s inert form, and, without any valid reason behind the action, placed him in his bunk, as the cabin door stood open.
Then he ran after the others.