“We’re St Ebba, whaler, motor ship, two hundred horse-power, and tons of cable, come to tow you off into harbour—half-an-hour will do it—there’s an hour of flood yet and you can float that distance.”
A long silence.... Then: “We don’t want help—you’ve come along for salvage.” I was dumbfounded.
I need not prolong the interview; the crew said they’d like to be taken off, they’d got their bags ready, but their skipper wouldn’t let them.
The lamp showed her name on the stern in fresh gold letters—the B—enido, London—we knew a little about her, for a neighbouring steamer’s engineer had been asked on board for engine trouble; and only a few hours before the rockets went up he’d been speaking to us about her. He said she was a new ship (two thousand tons?), Spanish-owned with British captain, on her first voyage, engines made on Continent, hull in England, and she was all wrong.
She had left the harbour only a few hours before she was wrecked. The skipper set the course S.W., and a one-eyed nigger at the wheel steered N.E.
So we pulled back to the ship and told Henriksen of our abortive interview and he went off again with me and two men.
It would be pretty hard to put into words our very natural keenness and the wrath at the unaccountable apathy of the British captain of the Spanish-owned ship. But the result of the second interview was the same as first. They were going to cling to the rocks—we were to mind our own business.
We thought we ought to stand by all night for the sake of the crew on board her, for I’ve seen a vessel go on to rocks in a similar position and lie comfortably till the tide turned, and when the water receded heel right over and go straight down in a second.
When daylight came her stern had sunk till the deck was level with the water and lighters were coming off to take some of her cargo. We could have towed her off at first without much trouble and long before her plates were seriously damaged by the continuous rolling that followed and the falling of the tide.