Ten minutes went by, and then suddenly there arose a shout from one of the men stationed at the port bulwarks.
“Here’s a man swimming here!” and in a breath there was a rush to the side.
“Get another light over!”
“Fling him this life-buoy!”
“Pitch a coil of rope to him, but mind you don’t hit his head, or you’ll sink him!”
Half a dozen splashes told that these various orders had been executed. “He’s got hold of my line!” sang out a voice, and as the rope was gently hauled in, a seaman, jumping into the bight of a rope, sprang overboard, and in a few moments both men were dragged over the side.
The half-drowned French smacksman fell down in a heap the instant he touched the deck. He was dressed in heavy sea-boots and oilskin leggings, and how he had managed to swim the distance from where his vessel had foundered to the steamer was a miracle not to be explained by any known law of specific gravity. He was carried into the forecastle, unable to articulate; but another quarter of an hour went by before the boats returned.
“How many have you?” shouted the captain, as they approached.
“We have four, and the other boat has five. There are women among ’em,” was the answer.
They came alongside, and one by one the poor creatures were handed up. There were three women, dressed in the picturesque costume of the Boulogne fishwife, but draggled, streaming, with closed eyes, and a quick, suffocating breathing, half dead. Most of the others were in the last stage of exhaustion; but one was able to speak, and as he stood a moment in the lantern-light answering the captain’s questions, a more moving object could not be imagined. The water drained from his fingers, his hat was gone, and his iron-grey hair—for he was an old man—lay in a tangled mass over his eyes; and there was a most heartrending expression of horror and despair in his face.