The wreckage now hung by the lee rigging, and drifted farther aft. The wheel was lashed hard down, and a bit of spanker raised again upon the mainmast, the halyards still being intact, although the boom had been broken by the shock. We soon had canvas on her aft, and she headed the sea, dropping back from the wreckage to a mooring hawser bent to the standing rigging of the foremast. We got a lashing to the foot of the mast, and she dragged the mass broadside, making a lee of it, and riding easily to the heavy seas, which now took her almost dead on her bows.
When I had a chance to look about me again, the light of the morning had grown to its full height, and we were able to see around us.
The gray light made things look almost hopeless for us. The pumps worked full stroke, and the water gained rapidly on us. There had been three feet made during the first half hour. We were settling, and the brig was riding more heavily, taking the seas over her head with a smothered feeling that told of what was coming.
I had a chance to breathe again, and I looked out over the gray ocean, where the white combers rolled and the heavy clouds swept along close to their tops. A large, black object showed to the westward of us, and we recognized her as a steamer. She was very low in the water, and upon her rigging floated the signal, "We are sinking." She was the one we had run down.
The old man stood gazing at her as I came on the poop. He was trying to make her out; and this he did finally, when the wind stretched her flag in a direction so that we could see it plainly. She was one of the Havana steamers bound up from Cuba, and was about five thousand tons. Her number was that of the William Rathbone.
"No better fix than we are," snarled the skipper. "What was the matter? Didn't you see him? He's big enough."
"Too dark," I said. "You know what kind of a night it was—look at it now. We might do something if we were sure of floating ourselves—no boat would live in this sea five minutes; but it'll smooth out, maybe——"
"Maybe blow a hurricane!" howled the old man, his voice rising above the gale. "Get the boats ready, anyhow—get the steward to put all the grub he can get in them—too bad, too bad," he went on.
While Slade helped to get the boats ready for leaving the brig, I went to the bow and tried to see just what damage we had done ourselves. It was dangerous work, as the seas came over in solid masses, and more than once I came near getting washed overboard. Splintered plank ends, a crushed stem showed through the wreck of the bowsprit, which still hung by the bobstays and shrouds, jammed foul of the catheads, so that only the end swung, and struck us a blow now and then. It was a hopeless mess.
A great sea rose ahead, with its crest lifting for a break, and I ducked behind the windlass, holding on with both hands. The solid water swept over the bows, and I was almost drowned; but I held on. There was nothing I could do forward, and no men could work there. The steady grind of the pumps took the place of desperate rushing about the decks. The men stood in water to their knees as the seas swept her, but they still kept it up. As fast as one man gave out another took his place, regardless of watch; and the waiting ones chafed under the shelter of the mainmast.