She was only fifty feet off the reef now—one wave length separated her from eternity. The angry water swirled about her. Great clots of spume were hurled at her by the lashing wind, and white water washed her deck from end to end.
“Oh, it’s terrible, terrible!” sobbed Ray. “If we could only help ’em. If—look, look! They’ll strike. That big wave was too much for ’em! The next wave will do it! There they go—they’re on the reef—no, no, they sheered off—they didn’t strike—but—but—Oh! Great goodness, look—look—it’s horrible!”
Crash!
A great wave had seized the helpless vessel, lifted it high aloft and hurled it down across the jagged rocks. The sound of rending timbers could be heard even above the roar of the storm. The Fish Hawk had been cut completely in half by the granite ridge and in a fraction of a second the hull of the yawl had been shattered to kindlings. Only a mass of wave-tossed wreckage marked the place where it had foundered.
For a moment the men on the promontory seemed stunned by the hideous sight they had witnessed. Then as they realized that the vessel and the men had been blotted from existence entirely, several of them groaned aloud and turned away. But the next instant they were startled by a cry.
“Look! Look! Jack, O’Brien, look, there’s a head, there’s a man, two of ’em, three of ’em inside the reef; struggling; swimming. They are trying for the beach. Come on, we’ll save ’em. Come!” Ray bounded down the crooked path that led to the narrow strip of beach and Jack and Big O’Brien followed him, with the rest of the men trailing out behind. Even Old Mitchell stumped down the path, although he could not keep pace with the rest of the party.
Ray reached the sandy strip first and began tugging at one of the two whaleboats which had been tossed high and dry on the beach by the storm. Others rushed to help him, some manning the boat while others tried to launch it. And meanwhile off toward the reef the three men struggled desperately. On they swam, battling with the stubborn, though not so violent, waves inside. Sometimes their heads were above the water and sometimes great curling white caps dashed over them and forced them under, but they were fighting for their lives and they meant to keep afloat until aid arrived.
Slowly but surely the horde of lighthouse builders forced the heavy whaleboat, loaded with the rescue party, toward the water. Inch by inch, foot by foot until at last one of the curling waves reached under its bow and gave them assistance. Another wave and it was launched. Then in a twinkle a dozen oars were shipped and the boat was under way. Ray was in the bow, looking anxiously out toward the struggling swimmers, and Jack was in the stern beside Big O’Brien, who clutched the tiller.
Under the strokes of the brawny laborers the heavy boat shot forward, bow on, into the angry seas that curled shoreward. But for all the strength behind those hickory timbers and all the sturdiness of the vessel’s oaken sides, it was a question whether it could live in even the seas behind the reef. It tossed about like an eggshell and the angry waves clutched at either side and pulled it here and there in spite of the efforts of the rowers.
But slowly they urged her forward toward the swimmers. On and on it forged, each stroke cutting down the distance between the fighting fishermen and their rescuers. They were fifty feet away, now forty, now thirty! Only a little way farther. Only a few strokes more!