"Aye, aye, sir," answered the sailor in charge of the light.

"Throw a light off the port quarter and see if you can pick up that ship."

"Aye, aye, sir."

An instant later a broad shaft of light pierced the blackness of the night. The beam of light traveled slowly about, finally coming to rest on an object in the sea some distance ahead. On this object the officers focused their night gla.s.ses.

"Four-masted schooner, sir," called Sam Hickey from his elevated position beside the searchlight.

"All sticks standing?"

"No, sir."

"No, she has only two poles standing now, sir," spoke up the executive officer. "She seems to be in a bad way."

"Steady her," commanded the captain.

"She's steady," answered the quartermaster at the wheel of the battleship.

"Slow both engines ahead."

The "Long Island" was rolling more heavily than before, now and then giving a violent lurch, forcing every person on deck to cling to whatever support was nearest to him. Otherwise men might have been hurled overboard and lost in the tumbling sea.

By this time the schooner was fairly well outlined by the battleship's searchlight, but the lookouts were unable to make out any signs of life on board the distressed ship. They felt sure, however, that the schooner was on its last legs, and that it was a question of moments, perhaps, before she would take her final plunge.

"All depends upon what she is loaded with, as to how long she lasts,"

decided the captain of the battleship.

"She is flush with the water," answered the executive officer. "I should say she must be loaded with lumber. She would have been down long ago, otherwise."

"I think you are right, Mr. Coates. Hail them with the megaphone as soon as you think you can make them hear. We are to the windward and your voice should carry."

"Schooner ahoy!" shouted the executive officer.

There was no answering word from the disabled schooner. The distance at which the battleship was compelled to keep for its own safety, to say nothing of the roar of the gale, made communication by word of mouth impossible. At this moment another rocket from the schooner seemed to emphasize the necessity for immediate help.

Turning toward the men a.s.sembled on the gun deck, the captain addressed them:

"Battleship crew there! A ship is sinking hard by.

"Volunteers are wanted to man the whaleboats. It is a dangerous mission. All who are willing to volunteer, step forward."

Every man within hearing distance stepped forward, and a crew was quickly chosen. Sam Hickey and Dan Davis were among the twenty-four men who scrambled into the two boats.

Other sailors took their places by the ropes that controlled the raising and lowering of the life boats. The executive officer, now standing on the superstructure, watching the sea and his own ship, was awaiting the moment when, in his judgment, it would be most safe to launch the whaleboats. Not a man in the two boats spoke even in a whisper. They had cast aside their storm clothes, being clad only in trousers and jumpers.

"Get ready."

"Toss oars," commanded the c.o.xswain of each boat.

Every man raised his oar upright.

"Let go the falls," commanded the executive officer.

The two whaleboats struck the sea with a mighty splash.

"Cast off! Go!" shouted the two c.o.xswains, at which the men fell to their oars with a will. But those in the number two whaleboat either had not been quick enough, or else a wave had caught them unawares.

Their frail craft was picked up on the crest of a wave and hurled with mighty force against the side of the ship, the smaller boat instantly going to pieces. In a second, thirteen men were struggling in the boiling sea, fighting desperately for their lives.

CHAPTER II

WHALEBOATS TO THE RESCUE

"Number one whaleboat, there! Go on! You'll be dashed to pieces if you try to rescue them," shouted the executive officer, as the boat holding Dan Davis turned about, bent on rescuing the drowning sailors.

"Cast the life buoys!"

Life lings shot over the side of the battleship, grasped by eager hands, and one by one the unfortunate sailors were pulled on board, some with arms or legs broken from being dashed against the iron sides of the battleship. A quick roll call showed that every one of the boat's crew was accounted for.

Sam Hickey had not been injured.

"Man the cutter with a fresh crew," commanded the captain from the bridge, where he was directing operations.

Sam was the first man to run up the ladder and take his place in the boat. No effort was made to turn him out. Three others, who had been in the unfortunate boat, were close at his heels, while the rest of the crew was made up of fresh volunteers.

"Man the oars more quickly this time," shouted the captain from the bridge.

The cutter was swung out and slowly lowered by the falls. At command the boat was let go, striking the sloping side of a wave which carried the boat some distance from the ship, so sure had been the judgment of the executive officer, who had given the command to let go.

At the command "oars out," the oars were quickly slipped into place.

There was no loss of time now in obeying orders.

"Give way!" commanded the c.o.xswain, at which the heavy cutter's bow raised clear of the sea and the boat began plunging toward the disabled schooner. The latter lay a long distance from the ship, the battleship's commander not daring to draw closer for fear of smashing into the sinking vessel, so strong was the sea.

In the meantime the sailors in whaleboat number one were bending to their task, their boat drawing slowly toward the distressed ship. It required heroic effort to drive the boat through that sea. A greater part of the time the craft was hidden between the great swells, the powerful searchlight from the battleship being unable to locate them.

Then slowly the boat would rise, dripping, from the sea. It seemed almost as if the whaleboat were shaking the brine from her shining sides as she righted herself on the crest of some great wave, poising there for a few brief seconds, then plunging out of sight.

The whaleboat was the first to reach the lee side of the disabled schooner. The windward side of a ship is the side on which the wind is blowing; the lee side, is the opposite side, and is therefore the more quiet. In a storm a ship is always approached, if possible, on the lee side.

"What ship is that?" called the officer in charge of the small boats.

"The 'Oriole.'"

"Where from?"

"Rio de Janeiro. Cargo of mahogany."