“Sorry I can’t make the passage with you. We’ll have lots of time to talk flowers and hens on that patch of sand, but it looks like mighty poor soil for gardenin’ ma’am.” Guided by the pulley-blocks that creaked along the hawser, the raft made the tempestuous passage through the surf. The shipwrecked ladies set themselves down on a sandy hummock in the hot sunshine. They were waterlogged and appeared quite calm and collected because they lacked strength for anything else. The raft plied to and fro in a race against time. Such stores as would be damaged by wetting were wrapped in tarpaulins. The precious water-barrels were filled from the ship’s tank, and the wise Johnny Kent packed spare copper piping, a gasolene torch, empty tin cases, and tools for making a condenser to distil salt water. Captain O’Shea took care to send all the arms which had been served out to the crew, besides several boxes of rifles and ammunition that had been overlooked in dumping the cargo. Also he saved a number of shovels and picks designed for use as intrenching tools. Before the last load of stuff had been hauled to the beach, the _Fearless_ was driven so far on the shoal that she began to break amidships. O’Shea ordered Colonel Calvo and his Cubans off the vessel, and then sent his crew ashore. He was left on board with Johnny Kent, Jack Gorham, and the men needed to help manage the life-raft. The little group stood in the lee of the deck-house. The tragedy of the ship oppressed them. They were mourners at the funeral of a faithful friend. Sentimental Johnny Kent exclaimed with a husky note in his voice: “The _Fearless_ did her best for us, Cap’n Mike. It’s a rotten finish for a respectable, God-fearin’ tow-boat.” “She was a good little vessel, Johnny,” softly quoth O’Shea. “But those guns we dumped in the bay will come in mighty useful to old Maximo Gomez, and maybe the voyage is worth while after all.” “I seem to be sort of side-tracked, but I ain’t complainin’,” murmured Jack Gorham. “I hope the Cubans will keep the rebellion moving along until I can get to ’em and help mix it up.” One by one they jumped to the raft and Captain O’Shea was the last man to leave. With a shake of the head he turned to gaze no more at the _Fearless_, but at the disconsolate cluster of men on the key, who were waiting for him to take command. IV With ready resource and dynamic energy, O’Shea proceeded to organize the refugees. The dreary little sand-bank was no longer populated by discouraged loafers, but by busy, shouting toilers who made a camp with the cheerful zest of children at play. There were tarpaulins, storm-sails, and awnings to fashion shelters from the sun and rain. The beach was strewn with an accumulation of drift-wood which served to cut into uprights and cross-pieces that were lashed together with bits of line. In this wise a tent was built for the two women. It was set apart from the other camps with an ingenious amount of comfort and privacy.