There was one other thing which in the wild confusion of that moment Clif managed to remember needed to be attended to. There was Ignacio!
The treacherous Spaniard had nearly been swept off, and he was half drowned by the floods of water that poured over the deck. But his hatred of the Americans was too great for him to shout to them for aid.
What to do with that murderous villain was a problem that worried Clif. Undoubtedly the wisest thing would be to kill him, then and there; death was the fate he certainly deserved.
And Clif half drew his sword; but it was no use. He could not bring himself to do such an act. And he flung the weapon back into the scabbard.
To attempt to carry him away was equally useless; the Americans did not expect to reach the shore themselves.
"I'll leave him to his fate," Clif muttered. "The Spaniards may help him if they choose."
And with that he turned toward the sailors again; the men had by that time nearly succeeded in getting the boat away. They were working like Trojans.
Every wave that struck the ship helped to fill the boat, even before it touched the water; the spray poured down over the slanting deck upon it and the sailors had to empty it several times.
While they were wrestling thus the wind and water and rocks had been getting in their work upon the doomed vessel. Lower and lower she sank, harder and harder she pounded.
And then suddenly a great billow heaved itself with a thud against the bow and fairly hammered it around. One of the sailors gave a yell.