h
lies at that pier with her fires lighted and banked up, and her water
hot, all the year round, sounded her shrill whistle and cast loose. Her
master and mate were old hands at the perilous work, and lost no time,
for wreck, like fire, is fatally rapid. There was no confusion, but
there was great haste. The lifeboat was quickly manned. Those who were
most active got on the cork lifebelts and leaped in; those who were less
active, or at a greater distance when the signal sounded, had to remain
behind. Eleven stalwart men, with frames inured to fatigue and cold,
clad in oiled suits, and with lifebelts on, sat on the thwarts of the
lifeboat, and the coxswain stood on a raised platform in her stern, with
the tiller-ropes in his hands. The masts were up, and the sails ready
to hoist. Pike made fast the huge hawser that was passed to them over
the stern of the steam-tug, and away they went, rushing out right in the
teeth of the gale.

No cheer was given,--they had no breath to spare for sentimental service
just then. There was no one, save the harbour-master and his assistant
with a few men on duty, to see them start, for few could have ventured
to brave the fury of the elements that night on the spray-lashed pier.
In darkness they left; into darkness most appalling they plunged, with
nothing save a stern sense of duty and the strong hope of saving human
life to cheer them on their way.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE BATTLE.

At first the men of the lifeboat had nothing to do but hold on to the
thwarts, with the exception, of course, of the coxswain, whose energies
were taxed from the commencement in the matter of steering the boat,
which was dragged through the waves at such a rate by the powerful tug
that merely to hold on was a work of some difficulty. Their course
might much more truly be said to have been under than over the waves, so
constantly did these break into and fill the boat. But no sooner was
she full than the discharging tubes freed her, and she rose again and
again, buoyant as a cork.

Those who have not seen this desperate work can form but a faint
conception of its true character. Written or spoken words may conjure
up a pretty vivid picture of the scene, the blackness of the night, and
the heaving and lashing of the waves, but words cannot adequately
describe the shriek of the blast, the hiss and roar of breakers, and
they cannot convey the feeling of the weight of tons of falling water,
w