They heard the ship grinding on the rocks, they heard groans and shrieks, and in a few moments there came an awful stillness. Even the waves seemed awed by this terrible disaster, and there was a lull in the storm. The wind dropped quickly and moaned dismally.
Wal Jessop lay flat down, and, while a man held his legs, peered into the depths below, but he could see nothing but the white foam from the waves. There was not a trace of the vessel, so far as he could make out.
‘We must wait till morning, but it’s weary work,’ he said. ‘Would to God we could do something to help them! They’re beyond help now, I’m afraid. Poor Manton!’
‘Then, you feel sure it’s the Distant Shore?’
‘I have a presentiment it is. She’s due shortly, and Manton always liked to make a quick passage. If it is the Distant Shore, it will be the last trip he will ever make,’ said Jessop.
‘What shall we do as soon as it’s light?’
Wal Jessop was always the man addressed; the others recognised him as the guiding hand in this trouble.
‘We must have ropes ready,’ he said. ‘I’m going down the rocks as soon as it’s light.’
‘No, no,’ said his wife; ‘you must not, Wal. It will mean death to you, and then to me. If the rope broke you would be dashed to pieces. Wait until you can row round through the Heads.’
‘Nay, my lass,’ he said kindly; ‘even if the gale drops, the sea will be too rough for any boat to reach the rocks below. I must go down. There’ll be no danger, with a stout rope and sturdy arms to hold me. Think of it, lass—I might save a life. It’s worth the risk, if only for the chance.’