Just how badly she needed help we of course could not tell.  If she were sinking fast, then she would have to depend upon her own boats, for the sea was too heavy until late in the afternoon to venture out in our only one left.  We could no longer see her signals, but carried all the sail possible, without danger of carrying away our spars, in the effort to get close to her again.

After standing along for an hour or more we wore ship, and found that we could just about get within hailing distance to leeward.

Trunnell had the reef tackles rigged from the main yard, and the life-boat was slung clear of the lee rail.  Then, watching a chance, she was let go with Hans and Johnson in her to keep her clear and dropped back to the mizzen channels, where the volunteers were ready to get aboard her.

Four men besides myself manned her, and she was instantly let go to keep her clear of the sea, which hove her first high on the Pirate’s quarter, and then down until our faces were below the copper on her bends.  By dint of quick work we shoved her clear, and started on the pull, dead to windward.

How small the Pirate looked when we were but a few fathoms distant in that sea!  Our boat rode the waves nicely without shipping much water, and several times I turned to look back at the ship, where Trunnell stood beside the skipper, watching us through the glasses, and waiting to pick us up on our return.  I could see the “doctor’s” face above the topgallant rail forward and that of Chips in the waist.

It was a long pull.  The sea was running high and the wind was still blowing a half gale, breaking up the heavy oily clouds into long banks between which the sun shone at intervals.  It was a good half hour’s work before we could cover the short distance between the ships.

We came slowly up under her lee quarter, and when we were quite close I could see that she was indeed very deep, if not actually sinking.  The words “Royal Sovereign, Liverpool,” were painted in gold letters on her stern, and on the circular buoys hanging upon her quarter-rail was the same name in black.  A group of men stood near the mizzen rigging, and one short man with a black sou’wester and blue pilot coat hailed us through a large-mouthed trumpet, which almost hid his bearded face.

“Boat ahoy! can you come aboard?” he roared.

“We’ll try to come alongside,” I bawled.  “Stand by to heave a line.”

A man had one ready and hove it well out with a yell to catch.  Long Tom, our lean Yankee sailor, who was pulling bow oar, seized it as it fell across and took a turn around a thwart.  The oars were shipped and we fell under the vessel’s stern, riding the seas without mishap.

“We’re sinking,” cried the short man, who was the captain.  “Can you take some of us with you?”

“Aye, aye; get them aboard here as quick as you can,” came the answer.

There was no time lost now.  Men swarmed toward the taffrail, and for an instant it looked as if there would be something of a panic.  The short skipper, however, flung them aside without ceremony, and the next instant a female figure appeared at the rail.