The voice of the fourth officer in charge of the boat bellowed:
"Yes, sir; but I think he's dead as a mackerel. He landed square on his head; and one of the men who's picking him up says his neck is broken. Shall we stand by?"
"Holy Schmokes, yes. Sving that lantern so you can see to caught the voman first."
It was not an easy task. Another uneasy roll of the deck told him that the Wasdale was in the death throes. The water lapped through the scuppers as she lurched back and down to port. There were only a few steps to the bridge, the room, and the old brown wallet. He worked with furious haste. The mother had sunk to the deck, fainting and inert. She had seen her husband desert her on a sinking ship; she had heard of his death below. Her arms had locked around the waist of the child, hardly more than a baby, whose wisp of a night-dress was tattered about its neck. The captain tugged at the mother's hands to free the child, for he dare not toss them over thus embraced.
Each second imperiled the lives of the three, and also the fate of the ten thousand dollars that "was safer in the old Wasdale than in the bank ashore." At length the captain wrapped the child in his reefer, and tossed her into the waiting boat with a warning shout. The mother was a wrenching weight to swing clear, but when she had followed, a cheer from the boat told him that she had been safely caught.
He wiped the sweat and mist from his purpling face, and muttered:
"I must safe life; I must safe life, my Flora, as long as she floats."
The Wasdale still floated, as if the old ship were prolonging the struggle in order that the master who loved her might yet save the fortune that meant so much to him. He picked up a life-preserver thrown aside on deck, slipped into it, and looked around him, now desperately bent on reaching the bridge, even though the ship should sink beneath him. Surely none else than he was left on board.
A blob of light flickered far aft on deck—a globe lamp such as the sailors had been working with. He saw it, and caught hold of an awning stanchion to steady himself. It must be only a sailor dutifully standing by, before getting away in the last boat. Surely he could take care of himself. Was it not enough that he, the captain, should have done all that could be expected of mortal man, more than almost any other commander had ever done, to save his passengers and crew, hundreds of them, from a ship run down and sunk in half an hour? Was he not justified, in sight of God and man, in saving his fortune, not for himself, but for the helpless wife at home? It was all they had, on it was builded all they hoped for. He swayed in his tracks, as the warring motives pulled him this way and that.