Scarcely had they regained their feet, when, as if in very answer to their prayer, a sail was seen; just a speck, ’tis true, but enough to assure them a vessel was in sight. Great was their joy; and then all was anxiety, for fear the distant ship might not come near. Now, for a moment, they lost sight of her, and their hearts were like lead in their bosoms; but again they made her out—she was nearer, and watched intently. On she came, until they made her out to be a large top-sail schooner.
Nearer she came, but gave no evidence of having seen the wreck. The sufferers tried to hail, and though together they all raised their voices to the utmost pitch, the roaring, dashing billows drowned all sound ere it had gone twenty fathom. But they had been observed by the crew of the schooner, who, rounding-to, proceeded to get out a boat. After some labor she succeeded; for it was a work of toil and danger to launch a boat on that rough ocean. The boat was lowered with her gallant crew in her, who, unhooking the davit-tackles as she touched the water, were afloat, and the small boat looked like an egg-shell as she rose and fell with the angry waves. Powerfully her crew tugged at the oars, and, watched by all eyes, she approached the hull.
Go alongside she could not; but getting under the brig’s stern, they hove a rope to the boat, and it being fastened in her bow, De Vere took Clara in one arm, and with his other hand and feet climbed down, and placing his wife in the boat turned to ascend again to the brig; she clung to him, and begged him to stay, but he would not. “The last man that leaves the Scorpion must be I, my love,” he said, and returning as he came, he was again on the tafferel of the wreck. Clara would have followed him, but she could not.
One by one five more of the Scorpion’s crew descended into the schooner’s boat, which, unable to carry more at once, put off with these to the schooner.
Well the oarsmen bent to their task, and in a time that seemed nearly impossible, they had again returned. After all else had left the wreck, De Vere abandoned his lost brig, and was pulled to the schooner.
Long and eager was the embrace that passed between him and his wife, when they met in safety on the deck of the schooner. After thanking the boat’s crew, who had so nobly exerted themselves, and promising them large rewards, he turned to make acknowledgments to the captain of the vessel for his prompt assistance.
Walking further aft to where the captain was standing with his arms folded, he was surprised to find in him Charles Willis, the slaver. De Vere’s feelings underwent a sudden revulsion. “Have I,” he thought, “escaped a watery-grave, only to fall, with my wife, into the power of my most inveterate enemy—a man without principle, honor, or law, and whom I once brought nearly to the gallows? Would to heaven the salt waters had closed over us!”
Willis remarked the change that came over De Vere’s countenance, and correctly defining the cause, extended his hand toward him, and said, —
“Keep your mind perfectly easy, Captain De Vere, and believe that you will be treated with all honor and kindness; and that I am too proud to take advantage even of those who have always proved themselves causelessly my enemies, when they are in distress and suffering; and also give me credit for having sufficient humanity to make me thankful for this opportunity of saving the lives of twelve fellow-mortals.”
De Vere, mortified at the injustice he had done the slaver captain in his thoughts, warmly grasped his hand, and thanked him; saying he felt as secure as if he were on shore.