The wind continued for some time blowing from the same direction as before, enabling the frigate to thread her way between the rocks on either hand. A blast at length reached her. Over she heeled. There was no time for shortening sail; onward she flew at a rapid rate through the water.
“She will get through, after all,” observed the commander.
The various spectators almost held their breath, for, though the ship they were watching was an enemy, no one wished her to meet that fate which it seemed probable would overtake her. Now again she rose almost to an even keel, but not a brace or a sheet was slackened. Already the sea was breaking with fearful violence over a dark reef under her lee, while she was sailing as close as possible to the wind.
“She will not weather it,” cried the master. “They are attempting to go about. It’s too late, though. She’s lost—she’s lost!”
At that instant the gale with fresh force struck the devoted ship. Down she heeled, and a sea striking her before she had come round, drove her bodily on the reef. The following seas dashed wildly over her, almost concealing her dark hull from view. For a few moments her masts again came into view, but directly afterwards they fell over one after the other, and the vessel herself appeared to be melting away before the reiterated blows of the fierce waves, which seemed suddenly to rise for the purpose of effecting her destruction.
“We must be ready to offer help to any of the poor fellows who may be washed ashore,” exclaimed the commander; “though I fear that few will reach it alive.”
Both officers and men were eager to carry out his suggestion. A number of long spars and coils of rope were got ready, and the greater number of the Champion’s officers and crew set off towards the northern end of the island, the only point where it was at all probable that any of the Spaniards would be able to land. On reaching it, however, the desperate condition of the unfortunate crew was still more clearly seen. To send them help was beyond the power of the English. No boat could possibly live in the sea already running round the reef on which the ship had struck.
Already a large portion of the hull had been knocked to pieces, while the greater number of her crew had been washed into the raging surf and drowned. A few wretches alone clung desperately to the forepart of the ship and the stump of the bowsprit. No assistance could be sent to them. Every instant the wind increased; the seas rolled up more wildly against the wreck, as if eager for their destruction. Still the commander and most of the officers and crew stood watching, on the bare possibility of the wind again shifting and driving some of the hapless Spaniards on the beach.
They waited in vain. The hurricane had only as yet been gathering strength. Suddenly it burst with terrific violence, which even the seamen on the firm ground could with difficulty face, as it drove masses of spray and sand against them, the roar of the seas almost drowning the commander’s voice as he ordered them to retire to the shelter of some rocks a short distance from the shore. On getting under their lee, as they again looked towards where the wreck had been, scarcely a vestige of her remained, nor was one of her hapless crew seen alive. Still, while a hope remained that some poor fellow clinging to a piece of the wreck might be thrown on the beach, a look-out was kept to render him assistance; but some hours passed by, and not a single human being of those who had lately formed the crew of the Spanish frigate could by any possibility have remained alive. The commander ordered the men to return to the fort. The hurricane continued raging with unabated violence for the greater part of the flight.
“I say, Nat, it is as well we had not started with Mr Foley,” observed Gerald to his brother midshipman. “What would have become of us, I wonder?”