Away went the tug at full speed. The yellow mast-head light kept growing higher, like a meteor going backward. Soon we could distinguish the dim white shape of a giant steamship. As she came nearer we saw that she was ice-coated from the water-line to one hundred feet above the deck. The lights glowed and twinkled out of the cabin ports like the candles shining out of the white churches we used to have when we were little boys. The big ship anchored not far from the Sandy Hook Lightship (six miles out on the Atlantic). Our Captain knew her for the Teutonic as readily as you would know your father in the street. On account of the high waves we dared not go within one hundred feet, for fear of being dashed against the steamship's side. Our tug's bow swung up in the wind, and we began a conversation with the officer on the Teutonic's bridge, our words shooting back and forth across fifty yards of icy wind that sped between us at the rate of fifty-six miles an hour. The Teutonic had no news of La Gascogne.
On that Monday afternoon when the telegraph-operator in Fire Island tower reported the missing Gascogne approaching his station, our tug started out again. The many weary and fruitless nights of watching and cruising were all forgotten. The searchers hurried through dinner in the galley, and drank big mugs of coffee in gulps. Every one was too happy to stay long at anything. I never knew the distance between the Battery and the outer light-ship to be so long. From here, at last, we spied a glimmer of red on the sky-line. If enthusiasm burned, there wouldn't have been a lens left in one of those glasses. Men perched on the top of the pilot-house to see better.
"That's the Gascogne—three red lights at the mast-head—going under repairs," cried the mate, from the loftiest perch.
ONE OF THE NERVE-TICKLING DETAILS OF THE HUNT.
Every minute dragged outrageously until we got alongside of the steamship. Nothing in her appearance except the three red lights indicated that anything was wrong. She was moving slowly—only eight miles an hour. We ran under her stern, and got alongside her lee bow. Groups of passengers gathered along the rails, although it was now very near midnight. They cheered the men who came so far to welcome them. An officer on the bridge told of the accident in a dozen words. Through one of the ports we could see a blue-jacketed steward polishing a plate.
"Has Faure formed a cabinet yet?" shouted one passenger.
The answer we gave him was lost in the chorus of cheers. Some one weighted a copy of the ship's log, and threw it aboard our tug.
But while all this was very pleasant, it was not enough. The ship's officers promised to lower a companion-ladder for our men to go aboard.
A long wait. No ladder. Our own skipper solved the problem by ordering his men to throw up a twenty-foot wooden ladder—a fragile thing. Such roars in English and counter-roars in French as there were while that ladder was being arranged!