Part 5 (2/2)

”Can't we help?” persisted Tommy.

But there was no answer. Captain Barton had clapped on the hatch.

”Poor little la.s.sies!” he said to himself.

The girls drank some coffee, and ate some biscuits, waiting impatiently for their release. It was no longer difficult to keep their seats; the howling of the wind had ceased, and the noise above gradually diminished, and the vessel steadied. But now they were conscious of a sound that they had not heard before. It was like the clanking of a steam-engine.

”I wonder what it is!” cried Tommy, springing up. ”Oh, I do so wish Uncle would let us go up. There's no danger now, surely.”

But the Captain still remained above. The clanking sound continued, and slight noises were heard occasionally. The weather became still calmer, and the girls, when they had finished their simple breakfast, began to doze. Never since they left Southampton had their sleep been broken, and they would have returned to their bunks had it not been so near morning. So they cuddled up together on the sofa, Elizabeth in the middle and the other girls with their arms about her.

All at once there was a sudden jolt that set the tin cups flying from the table, and made the girls spring up in alarm. They were aware of a strange, rasping, sc.r.a.ping sound. Clutching one another, their startled faces asked a mute question, to which, inexperienced as they were, their instinct supplied a clear answer. The s.h.i.+p had struck.

There were loud shouts from above, a renewal of the scurrying on deck, then silence. A minute or two after the girls heard the hatch removed, and their uncle hurried down. Even in the dim light of the smoky oil lamp they saw how pale and haggard he looked. They were too much frightened to speak.

”Girls,” he said quietly, ”put on your macintoshes and anything warm you have, and come on deck at once. Don't wait for anything else.”

He was gone. The very calmness of his tone, the absence of his wonted jocularity, struck them with a chill feeling of dread. Silently, with pale faces, the girls fetched wraps and macintoshes from their cabin and hurriedly mounted the companion. When they reached the wet and slippery deck a terrible spectacle lay before them in the light of the crescent moon, s.h.i.+ning fitfully out through the scudding clouds. The foremast had snapped off at the height of a man. The deck was strewn with broken spars and a litter of torn sails and shattered rigging. On the lee side the davits were twisted and bent, and the boats had disappeared. On the weather side, the boats still swung on the ropes, but were so battered that it was impossible to hope that they were seaworthy. Three or four men were loosing the las.h.i.+ngs that secured the little dinghy, others were bringing up provisions from the cook's galley. The monotonous _clank, clank_ of the pumps told how the rest were engaged.

Close to the dinghy stood little Dan Whiddon, the cabin-boy, s.h.i.+vering with cold and fear.

”Show a leg, now!” cried the Captain to the men who were busy with the dinghy. He turned to the girls, who stood near the companion, huddled in speechless terror. ”You must get into the dinghy, my dears,” he said gravely; ”we have struck a reef. You can scull her, keep her going gently and look out for a pa.s.sing s.h.i.+p. Don't be alarmed. The sea is smooth, you see. We will make a raft and come after you as soon as we can. My poor old s.h.i.+p is done for.”

”Oh! we can't leave you, Uncle,” said Elizabeth, with quivering lips.

”No, we won't,” cried Tommy, springing forward and clasping his arm.

”Now, my dears,” replied the Captain with forced cheerfulness, ”you promised to obey orders, you know. We can't save the s.h.i.+p. Water is pouring into her; the one chance is to get you safely afloat while we make a raft. You must go for my sake. There must be land hereabouts; you'll see it when the sun gets up, and I lay you won't be ash.o.r.e an hour before we join you. Come along now, all's ready.”

The Captain's firmness showed that further remonstrance was vain. He led them to the side where the dinghy had been lowered. Elizabeth was helped into it, and as she turned away, after embracing her uncle, she heard the first mate say--

”D'ye think there's room for young Dan, sir? He's no use to us.”

The Captain hesitated for a moment. Three was a full complement for the little boat, and even the boy's light extra weight might be a source of danger. Mary, as she kissed her uncle, heard the boatswain growl--

”You may as well drown the lot; the dinghy can't take more than three nohow.”

Then Tommy flung herself into her uncle's arms, and sobbed a good-bye.

”Now, my little la.s.s,” said he, ”bear up. Brave's the word. There's One above will look after you. Good-bye? Nonsense! I'll see you soon, never fear. Now, steady--there you go--now, where's that boy?”

But Dan Whiddon, hearing the pessimistic boatswain's words, had slipped away in the darkness.

The Captain called him, but he did not reappear.

”Well, perhaps it's as well,” said the Captain. ”Now, girls, don't tire yourselves out; lay by till daylight. G.o.d bless you!”

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