“Steady, men! Give way together. This is for your lives,” he shouted, as a white wall of water reared itself close aboard out of the blackness to windward.
The boat seemed to fairly crawl over the angry bosom of foam.
“Stand by to peak your oars,” he shouted hoarsely. “Peak!” as the monster wave curled over, ready to engulf them, and struck the bow of the life-boat. She shivered to her keel and half filled with water, then lay dead on the surface of the sea.
Wave after wave swept over the half-submerged boat, almost drowning the exhausted crew. Phil attempted frantically to head the boat up to the battering seas.
Casting a despairing look at his men, whose efforts were becoming ever weaker, he read on their faces a look of hope. Throwing a swift glance over his shoulder, he saw the misty form of the “Connecticut” loom up out of the darkness, scarce a boat’s length away. He heard the whir of her backing propellers; the dull boom of the sea spending its fury against her sides; the rapidly given orders, and the scurry of shod feet on her decks.
A line whistled overhead and fell in the midst of the exhausted crew.
“Take a turn with that line,” Phil shouted.
O’Neil grasped the line and secured it to the bow-thwart of the boat.
Phil braced himself against the jar of the tautening line.
The boat rose and fell on the angry sea, in momentary danger of splitting herself asunder on the sides of the battle-ship. The waves, but half broken by the armored bow, swept over the struggling men.