“Some people have been picked up out there, sir, I think,” observed the coxswain to the officer, pointing as he spoke to several boats surrounding the one I had before remarked with the injured men in her. “Maybe the old man the lad speaks of is among them.”
“Make the wherry fast astern, and we’ll pull on and ascertain,” said the officer.
“If he is not found, or if found is badly hurt, I’ll get leave for a couple of hands to help you back with your boat to Portsmouth.”
“I can take her back easily enough by myself if the wind holds as it does now; thank you all the same, sir,” I answered.
I felt, indeed, that if my faithful friend really was lost, which I could scarcely yet believe, I would rather be alone; and I had no fear about managing the wherry single-handed.
As may be supposed, my anxiety became intense as we approached the boat. “Is old Tom Swatridge saved?” I shouted out.
No answer came.
“Tom! Tell me, Tom, if you are there!” I again shouted.
“Step aboard the boat and see if your friend is among the injured men,” said the good-natured officer, assisting me to get alongside.
I eagerly scanned the blackened faces of the men sitting up, all of whom had been more or less scorched or burnt. A surgeon who had come off from one of the ships was attending to them. They were strangers to me. Two others lay dead in the bottom of the boat, but neither of them was old Tom. He was gone, of that I could no longer have a doubt.