Chapter Thirteen.
Saving the Passengers and Crew—Our Heroes Distinguish Themselves.
When Bax and his party arrived at Saint Margaret’s Bay, the scene of wreck and death had already begun.
The vessel was just discernible in the midst of the turmoil of warring elements that filled the dark air with misty spray. A boat had tried to reach the shore with a number of passengers—chiefly men—in her. Her fate was quickly sealed. A huge breaker upset her, and six of the dead bodies of her crew had already been plucked from the sea, and laid on the shingle. The rest were being hurled on the land and swept back by the force of the returning waves, until the people assembled there caught and dragged them also beyond their reach.
Messengers had already been sent to the nearest lifeboat stations, and the people who remained behind were either occupied in attempting to recover the bodies of the drowned, as above described, or in suggesting impossible plans for conveying a line on board the ill-fated vessel.
“Ha! here comes the man as’ll tell us wot’s to be done, and do it too!” cried one of the boatmen, “wot say, Bax, can we git a line off, think ’ee?”
Bax stood on the edge of the roaring sea, silent and motionless, with his arms crossed on his broad chest, and his bold gaze directed to the wreck.
“No,” said he, after standing a few moments thus, “it can’t be done. No mortal man could cross the surf on the inner rocks; but there’s a point o’ rocks not far to the nor’ard; does any one know how far the tide may cover ’em just now?”
“About half,” answered several voices eagerly.
“Ay, so’t does,” observed a coast-guard-man, “but with sich a surf beatin’ on ’em there ain’t a rock on the whole pint above water this minute.”