The boats were on booms over the forward house, where the seas could not wash them away; and Slade had them all ready to leave, although it was a study how to get them overboard in that sea with nothing forward to raise them with. The mainstay still held, and the mainmast was strong enough; but there was nothing forward at all above them. I went aft and waited.
Old Captain Gantline was still standing at the poop rail watching the steamer. Our drift was about equal to hers, and we sagged off to leeward together, keeping about a mile apart. The steamer was settling.
"Of course, he ought to have gone clear of us!" howled the old man as I came up. "I don't blame you, Mr. Garnett; I don't blame you—but you certainly swung us off at the last minute when you knew the law was to hold your course, and let him get out of our way."
"But he was dead ahead, sir. I saw his lights right aboard. To luff meant to come to in that sea, and that would have been just as bad, for he'd have struck us aft—probably cut us in two."
I really had done nothing out of the way. The steamer had not seen us, that was certain. I was supposed, under the law, to hold on until the last moment, and I had done so. I had only swung her off a little; tried to clear when I saw he would not. I knew the law well enough, and had followed it up to the moment of striking. Our swing off had made our bows fetch up against the steamer, and had probably caused him serious damage. But it had saved us from being cut down by her sharp steel stem, which would have gone through our wooden side as if through butter.
No, I did not feel guilty; although there were evidently some hundred passengers and crew of that ship in dire peril and sore put to it. The old man knew I had done the best thing I could for us, and there was no possible way of avoiding a collision in a wild, thick night like the last when the ships were invisible but a few fathoms distant.
We waited, and the brig settled slowly, while the wind still held from the northeast, and the sea still ran strong and high. There was apparently no chance for launching a small boat. The scud flew fast and the gray wind-swept ocean looked ugly enough, the surface covered with white. The steamer was slowly sinking, like ourselves, and it was only a question whether either would go through the day or not. I hoped that it would not come in the night. There's something peculiarly nerve-racking in wild night work in a sinking ship. The very absence of light lends terror to the already awful situation, and the wild rush of the wind and seas makes chaos of the blackness about.
The day dragged slowly. It was like waiting for the end of the world. The vessels drifted apart but another mile or two, and we were still close enough to exchange signals. We had long ago run ours up, telling that the same state of affairs existed aboard the brig. If some passing coasting steamer came along, all might still be well with the passengers and crews of both of us. But not a sign of anything showed above the horizon.
At five o'clock—two bells—that evening, the brig was well down in the water; and she was taking the seas nastily over her. The main deck was all but impossible to remain upon, and the men at the pumps had to lash themselves to keep there. It would be only a question of a few hours now. The drawn faces told of the strain. Slade, the second mate, came to me.
"All over but the shouting," he said. "How'll we ever get them boats clear in this sea?"