He knew then. His father’s half-felt fear had not been unwarranted, it seemed. Nelson’s fright gave way to a swift flood of anger, and as he hastened on deck, he trembled with the tempest of his wrath.
Even in the moonlit darkness the little schooner presented a pitiable sight. She was already far down at the head. Her foremast was broken short off and the great foresail shrouded the deck and dragged over the side. The first shell from the unseen enemy had entered the hull aft the galley and just above the water-line and the succeeding explosion had opened the seams wide and piled the fore part of the ship with destruction. The second shot had gone high and taken the foremast ten feet from deck. As he looked, spellbound at the head of the companion, the schooner’s bowsprit disappeared under the surface and the stern, with its idly swinging, deserted wheel, rose higher against the purple-black sky. Amidship on the starboard side there was confused shouting and the squeak of tackle where a boat was being lowered. Nelson hurried toward it just as with a whine, a third shell passed the stern.
There were but four men at the boat. One was Mr. Cupples, the mate, and one was Leo. The other two were sailors whom the boy didn’t identify until later. He caught Mr. Cupples’ arm.
“Where’s dad?” he cried anxiously.
“Lower away! What? Is that you, Nelson? Are you hurt?”
“No, sir. Where’s father, sir?”
“In with you, quick, lad! There’ll be another shell on us in a minute.”
“But I want to know where dad is! I don’t see him!”
“He’s coming,” said Mr. Cupples gruffly. “Skippers stand by to the last, lad. Over you go now.”