Tom pressed close to the rail and looked down through the blinding rain. He could see only dark figures and a lantern bobbing frantically.
"Pull her round crossways to the swell and get away from the side—quick!" the officer in charge called.
"She's half full of water," answered a voice amid the wind and storm.
Men came rushing from the starboard deck where they said the boats could not be launched because of the angle of the ship's side which prevented them from swinging free. They were obedient enough, but greatly alarmed when told that they must wait their turn.
The few army men on board were models of efficiency and quiet discipline, herding back the excited passengers and trying to keep them away from the rail, for the slant of the deck was now almost perpendicular.
"Help those people launch that hatch if they want to," said an officer to Tom.
Acting on the suggestion, a dozen or more men ranged themselves around the hatch and Tom helped to lift it, while others clustered about, ready to climb upon it.
"You'll have to clear away from here," said an officer; "sixteen is the limit for one of those hatches. There are seven more." Evidently the rescuing capacity of the hatches had already been ascertained.
The frightened people hurried along through the driving rain and the darkness, some of them slipping on the streaming deck and sliding pell-mell to the rail, which broke away with the impact in one place and precipitated several screaming persons into the ocean.
Hurriedly Tom counted those around the hatch and found that the officer had evidently included him among the sixteen who should man it.