“Can you see the buoy, sir?” shouted O’Neil. “It’s broad off the starboard bow.” “I see it,” shouted back Phil, as he threw the stern to port and bore down on the two flames still burning brightly amid the tempest. “Stand by to ‘peak your oars.’ Peak!” he shouted to the crew as the boat with a rush was brought around and headed up to the buoy. “He’s there, boys,” cried O’Neil, joyously, as he leaned far out and grasped a limp, bedraggled figure clinging to the life-buoy. The men dropped the handles of their oars between their feet, raising the blades clear of the passing waves. “In you come, my hearty,” cried the coxswain, as his arms encircled the half-drowned man, and he lifted him from the hungry sea to safety in the life-boat. Searchlights were now playing from the battle-ship. One beam of light held steadily on the struggling boat, while the others swept fretfully about as if they sought to pierce the dark water. As the midshipman struggled manfully at the steering oar, holding the bow of the boat up against the impact of the powerful seas, Lazar’s words seemed to ring in his ears like a knell. Fear clutched at his heart that he might by his disobedience send these brave men to a watery grave. As long as the oarsmen could give the boat headway, he felt confident all would go well, but some of the men were exhausted, and the sea was ever increasing. “Steady, men! Give way together. This is for your lives,” he shouted, as a white wall of water reared itself close aboard out of the blackness to windward. The boat seemed to fairly crawl over the angry bosom of foam. “Stand by to peak your oars,” he shouted hoarsely. “Peak!” as the monster wave curled over, ready to engulf them, and struck the bow of the life-boat. She shivered to her keel and half filled with water, then lay dead on the surface of the sea. Wave after wave swept over the half-submerged boat, almost drowning the exhausted crew. Phil attempted frantically to head the boat up to the battering seas. Casting a despairing look at his men, whose efforts were becoming ever weaker, he read on their faces a look of hope. Throwing a swift glance over his shoulder, he saw the misty form of the “Connecticut” loom up out of the darkness, scarce a boat’s length away. He heard the whir of her backing propellers; the dull boom of the sea spending its fury against her sides; the rapidly given orders, and the scurry of shod feet on her decks. A line whistled overhead and fell in the midst of the exhausted crew. “Take a turn with that line,” Phil shouted. O’Neil grasped the line and secured it to the bow-thwart of the boat. Phil braced himself against the jar of the tautening line. The boat rose and fell on the angry sea, in momentary danger of splitting herself asunder on the sides of the battle-ship. The waves, but half broken by the armored bow, swept over the struggling men.