"All hands wear ship!" comes sharply from Anderson.
"--you and your orders!" cries some one. "To the boats, to the
boats!"
Although the Chrysolite carried five boats, no less than four of them
were unseaworthy. In those days the examination of an outward-bound
ship was slurred over, with the natural consequence that the
marine law was more frequently broken than observed. The only boat
on board the Chrysolite worth launching was the life-boat, which
stood bottom upward between the main and mizzen masts. At the cry
"To the boats!" there was a rush for her. But Anderson is first.
He carries in his hand a small axe, meant for clearing away light
wreckage. With a vigorous blow the life-boat is stove in. The men
stop short, daunted. He turns about and faces them, looking like
an angry Titan.
"Now then, you hell-hounds, wear the ship or sink!" They see he
means to be master to the end.
It is too late even for imprecation. The men literally spring to
their work, with an alacrity begot of desperation. Every moment is
of the utmost value, for the reef is very close and the horrible
breakers are in all ears.
Anderson himself holds the wheel.
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