“She will go down ultimately,” I answered; “but there is plenty of time for all hands to escape. Do not be alarmed.”
“I am not frightened,” she said bravely. “I know that I am safe with you.”
There was a tenderness in her voice that tempted me to some mad reply, but I checked the impulse. I bade her stay where she was while I went to my cabin for some articles of value. I was quickly back, and as soon as the companion was clear—the skipper and some of the crew were swarming down—I helped Flora up. We went forward to the bulwark, Captain Rudstone joining us, and there we waited for a quarter of an hour of suspense and anxiety.
In spite of the sucking of the pumps, the ship settled steadily, bows first, and rolled less and less to the waves. It was very dark, and the wind shrieked and whistled dismally; the rain fell unceasingly, soon drenching us from head to foot. The worst of it was that we had shortly to face a deadly peril. The boats were frail, the sea rough, and the storm-beaten coast of the bay was no great distance off. I had not the heart to tell Flora how slight was our chance of life, and I do not know if she suspected it. At all events, she was perfectly calm and collected.
The men were under control now, and there was little confusion. They promptly obeyed orders, and Hiram Bunker seemed to be everywhere at once. We could do nothing but look on, with a growing uneasiness, for which there was good cause. But at last all was in readiness, and none too soon, for the bows of the sinking ship were close to the water. It was from this quarter that the two boats—the longboat and the jolly-boat—were lowered.
The latter was the smaller, and it was quickly filled by Miss Hatherton, Captain Rudstone, Baptiste, and I, and four seamen. The first mate, who had a lantern lashed to his waist, let down some food and then followed us. The skipper and the rest of the crew occupied the long boat, which was lowered at the same time from the opposite side. Both craft were hurriedly thrust off by the aid of boathooks, and there we were on the open surface of Hudson Bay, exposed to the fury of the storm, and drifting away into the black maw of the night.
How narrow an escape we had made of it we were quickly to learn, for we had gone no more than a hundred yards when I heard a bitter cry from Hiram Bunker, followed by shouts of “Look! Look!” I glanced back from the stern seat, and at that moment the Speedwell went to her doom. There was a sound of creaking planks, her bow dipped under and her stern rose high the air, and then the waves closed over the poop-deck and blotted out the swinging lantern.
We were beyond the reach of the vortex, and our men pulled hard away from the fatal spot. The sea grew rougher, and the rain poured in torrents; we were compelled to keep bailing the water out. The wind-lashed gap between the two boats widened swiftly, and in a short time the long boat was lost to sight in the darkness. Again and again we shouted at the top of our voices, but no reply came back. The wind shrieked, the billows roared and crashed, and the shadow of death seemed to be lowering on us from the black sky overhead.
“How are we going?” Captain Rudstone asked of the first mate, who was at one of the oars.
“Badly enough, sir,” the man replied. “It’s no use trying to keep off the shore, pull as hard as we may.”