The struggle ceased instantly. The captain’s order seemed to imply some new scheme. Men who, a moment ago, would have killed any one who sought to restrain them from clearing the boat’s falls, now raced pell-mell after their officers. No heed was paid to those who lay on the deck, wounded or insensible. Herein alone did these Chilean sailors differ from wolves, and wolves have the excuse of fierce hunger when they devour their disabled fellows. Still carrying Boyle, Courtenay led the confused horde through a gangway to the higher side of the deck. “Swing those boats back to the spar deck!” he said. “Get falls and tackle ready to lift them to port. Don’t lose your heads, men. You will all be clear of the ship in ten minutes if you do as you are told.” Two officers and a quarter-master sprang forward. In an incredibly short space of time the crew were working with redoubled frenzy, but under control, and with a common object. For an instant, Courtenay was free to attend to his chief officer. He bore him to the lighted saloon companion. Boyle was deathly pale under the tan of his skin. The captain saw that his own left hand, where it clasped the other round the waist, was covered with blood. “Below there!” he cried. “Bring two men here, Mr. Malcolm.” When the chief steward came he gave directions that Mr. Boyle should be taken to the saloon and Dr. Christobal summoned. “Send some one you can trust to return,” he continued. “Go then to the lee of the promenade deck. You will find others there.” He did not stop to ask himself if solicitude for the unfortunates wounded in the fight were of any avail. His mind was clear, the habit of command strong in him. Not until the sea claimed him would he cease to rule. The clank of pulleys, the cries of the sailors heaving at the ropes, told him that the crew were at work. At last he was free to go to the bridge. He found the quarter-master in the chart-house, on his knees. When the ship struck, the officer of the watch had been thrown headlong to port. Recovering his feet before a tumbling sea could fling him overboard, he hauled himself out of danger just in time to take part in the fray on deck. He came back now, hurrying to join the captain. Courtenay, standing in the shelter of the chart-house, was peering through the flying scud to leeward. The sea was darker there than it had been for hours. Around the ship the surface was milk-like with foam, but beyond the area of the shoal there seemed to be a remote chance for a boat to live. “We’re on a sort of breakwater, sir,” said the second officer. “Seems like it. Is the ship hard and fast?” “I am afraid so.” “I think the weather is moderating. Go and see how the barometer stands.” “Steady improvement, sir,” came the report. “Any water coming in?” “Mr. Walker said he thought not.”