“Here, Tom, make this rope fast round me; I think that I can reach that poor fellow. The next send of the sea will bring him close alongside.”
Though True Blue was a first-rate swimmer for his age, Marline demurred and appealed to Pringle.
“He is only a Frenchman and an enemy, after all,” argued Marline.
“He’s a fellow-creature, Tom,” answered True Blue. “Here, make fast the rope. I am sure I can save him.”
“Will you let him go, Paul?” asked Tom as a last resource.
Paul raised himself on his arm.
“If the lad thinks it’s his duty to try and save the man, yes,” he answered firmly. “If he loses his life, it will be just as a true British sailor should wish to lose it. Go, boy; Heaven preserve you.”
There was an unusual tone of solemnity and dignity in the way Paul spoke as he grasped his godson’s hand. The rope had by this time been properly adjusted. The piece of wreck with the man on it was drifting nearer and nearer. The man on it again waved his hand. True Blue waved his in return. “He is alive!—he is alive!” he shouted.
“If go you must, now is your time,” shouted Tom.
True Blue leaped off the deck into the raging sea. Boldly he struck out. Down came a sea thundering towards him, hurling the spar with it. There was a shriek of horror: all on board thought he was lost. He had only dived to avoid the sea. Then up again he was on the other side, clinging on to the spar, with his knife in his mouth, ready to cut the lashings which secured the stranger to it. It was done in a moment. He had him tight round the waist.