“What ‘s the time, sir?” asked the lad next the second mate.
“About eleven.”
The boy drew a long sigh.
“Oh, Lordy! we can never hold on till morning, can we?”
“God knows.”
A light started out of the darkness against the cliff—a light that grew and grew till it was a great flame even from where they stood, and the men in the rigging raised a shout.
“They see us ashore! Hurrah! hurrah!”
“Mighty little good their seeing us ashore ‘ll do us,” said the bo’sun; “hell ‘s between!” And looking at the strip of seething boiling water that lay between them and the coast, Harper was obliged to acknowledge the man was right.
Still it lent them some comfort—that bright fire. They were a handful of men clinging there, drenched to the skin already, and every wave wetted them again with its salt spray, the wind whistled through the rigging bitter and cold, the icy rain like spear points cut their faces; there was no hope for them, no hope at all save in that blazing fire on shore.
Who shall describe the thoughts of men in extremity? Who shall say whether they thought at all—those men half dead with cold, clinging for dear life with numb hands to a slender rope that might give way at any moment? Would they see the morning light?