For a moment or two they hung on, not daring to move and waiting until they gathered strength. Then they carefully worked their way to the inner end of the spar and dropped, exhausted, on the deck. There was however, no rest for them. The massive boom must be dragged back and dropped into its crutch. It could not be left to lurch about and smash all it struck. Marston was vaguely conscious that a gang of Krooboys ran to the mainsheet and Wyndham directed their efforts. He, himself, could do no more, and he leaned against the rail, breathing hard. As his exhaustion vanished he began to note things. The men had secured the boom; but the schooner's bows looked bare and he remembered the jibs had blown away. The foresail was torn and half-lowered, and the gaff at its head was jambed. The torn canvas kept the vessel from falling off the wind, but would not bring her up enough for her to lie to. Masts and deck were horribly slanted, the windward bulwark was hove high up, and luminous spray drove across its top. It looked as if she were going over and there was an appalling din, for the scream of the tornado pierced the thunder. Then lightning enveloped the yacht and ran along the water. For an instant Marston saw Wyndham's white figure at the wheel, and then he groped his way towards him in the puzzling dark. Harry would need help, for Marston knew what he meant to do. Since _Columbine_ would not come up, he was going to run her off before the wind in order to ease the horrible pressure that bore her down. The trouble was, the tornado blew from sea, and land was near. Marston seized the wheel, and using all his strength, helped Wyndham to pull it round. She felt her rudder and began to swing, lifting her lee rail out of the water. Then she came nearly upright with a jerk, and although the tornado was deafening, Marston thought he heard the water roar as it leaped against her bows. The speed she made lifted her forward and a white wave curled abreast of the rigging. She was going like a train and Marston sweated and gasped as he helped at the wheel. There was nothing to do but let her run, although it was obvious she could not run long. A glance at the lighted compass indicated that she was heading for the land, where angry surf beat upon an inhospitable beach. If they tried to bring her round, the masts would go and she might capsize. She drove on and presently the thunder stopped. Rain that fell in sheets swept the deck and beat their clothes against their skin. One heard nothing but the roar of the deluge and the darkness could not be pierced. After a few minutes Marston felt the strain on the wheel get easier and lost the sense of speed. The deck did not seem to be lifted forward and he thought the bows had resumed their proper level. When he turned his head the rain no longer lashed his face, the foresail flapped, and the straining, rattling noises began again. It looked as if the wind had suddenly got light.