The men lay on the oars. Silently, slowly, the boat slid toward the Santa Anna; the wind blew the smoke away, and David reached out to touch the ladder. He drew his hand away again quickly. He had forgotten the iron would be too hot to touch. He swore silently. But he had been glad the ladder was iron. He steeled himself for the pain.
"Now," he said to himself, and he grasped the hot rungs with his left hand. He stepped onto the ladder, his hand reaching out for the third rung.
He almost let go. When he moved up, the skin tore away from his hand. Below him the boat rocked gently; now he could grasp the bulwark, and he pulled himself aboard the Santa Anna.
Ten feet from him the fires smouldered fiercely. The flames
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darted along the wooden planking. He edged forward, along the bulwark.
"Lay out!" he called back.
"Si, si, señor," came the singing answer. It sounded good in David's ears. He felt like Tom, yet he felt different; he knew, because he and Tom were different. Ahead of him was an open hatch. From it, smoke billowed, curling upward. He set his boot on the hot planking, gently. It was firm. His heavy boots protected his legs. He walked forward to the hatch.
The smoke obscured the interior. He drew a deep breath. He started down the hatch. Its ladder was still intact, and it was wooden. Foot by foot David descended.
At the bottom of the ladder he leaned down and felt the flooring with his hand. It was cool. He swore aloud. He climbed back up the ladder, made his way along the deck.
"I'm going fore!" he called to Sebastian.
He could walk only along the bulwarks. He noted that they were still high and strong enough. The masts were gone entirely, the upper decks were gone; nothing but a shell remained above the gundecks, but a shell would be enough, if they could save it. Excitement poured through him.
He had been walking fore, but the fires loomed up ahead of him. They were burning, almost merrily, and even while David walked, he saw a tongue of flame lick from the hawsepipe and go running down the anchor cable. He ran forward, heedless of the fires; he leaped a seven-foot section of ten-inch flames. Then, even as he watched, the anchor cable parted; the rope smouldered a little and the Santa Anna moved. She had been freed of one anchor; she had three left.
She moved a little, and David remembered the tide. It had turned, then; it was beginning to come in. He looked toward the larboard anchor cable. He called to Sebastian: "Bring her here!"
He ran to the ship's side and looked down. Sebastian was pulling at the first oar; the other men were pulling as hard. David jumped down into the boat.
"I'm going to cut that anchor cable," he said.
Sebastian didn't question him. The boat slid under the cable. David grasped it, sawed at it with his knife; the cable parted.
"Look out!" David shouted. "She's coming about!"
She was. She had been freed of both fore anchors; her bow was drifting around.
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"She's pointing toward the beach," David said. "You see!"
Sebastian nodded. David, standing in the bow, looked down at the faces of the ten men with him.
"We can save her," he said bluntly.
The boat danced on a wave thrown up by the movement of the huge Santa Anna.
"We must beach her," he continued quickly, "else she'll sink. As soon as the bulwarks go, the water will pour in and she'll sink. Here. And we can never raise her. But if we can beach her—"
He looked at the Santa Anna. Her bow was pointing toward the beach; the tide was coming in.
"We can go aboard at the stern," David said. "We shall have to pay out the anchor cables. I don't want to cut her free of them. We'll need them, later."
"Si, si, señor!" Sebastian cried.
"We can douse the fires when we beach her."
The boat once again slid under the ladder David had climbed before.
"Si, si, señor!" Sebastian said again—loud to the men: "You hear? You hear the señor?"
David, in the bow, hitched the painter around the rung of the ladder. He sprang aboard, and the ten men followed him.
"Now," said David, "get below and get those bilge pumps working!"
Sebastian said, "Si, si, señor.'"
"You stay with me—I need you." He swung around and scowled at the ten Spaniards. "Get below!"
"Si, si, señor," Sebastian said—and: "You hear? You hear the señor?"
David was already at the capstan. Sebastian seized the bar. "Heave!" he cried.
The anchor cable payed out slowly. The Santa Anna moved, sluggishly. David and Sebastian worked steadily. Below, water began to pour from the pumps.
The Santa Anna had moved. Minutes had passed. David lifted his head. "We'll rest a second," he said.
There was not much time. He looked aft; the bulwarks were almost gone, and the sea was lapping the edge of the charred wood. The wind blew gustily, from the land, still from the northwest. But the current of the incoming tide was a trifle stronger.
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"Heave," cried David, heaving on the heavy bar with all his strength.
The precious minutes fled. The anchor rope was slack, yet the Santa Anna hesitated between the current and the land wind; then she moved toward the beach and the slack disappeared. Again she strained on the anchor ropes.
"We may have to cut them," David said. "But not yet."
Sebastian dripped with sweat. The water lapped at the sides of the ship, eagerly, ready for its prey. The anchor ropes hung slack again, and David straightened up for a minute.
The Santa Anna moved. She moved a little faster. Again David measured the distance to the beach. He wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. And suddenly he saw why they had moved farther.
"Oh, lord," he cried, "the wind is shifting!"
The wind was changing. The air was very still. A last furtive gust blew from the land, and then off the sea, like a miracle, came the south wind, lazy, fresh, ruffling the surface of the bay with its first draft of salt air. The wind was with them, and the Santa Anna heaved toward the beach. In ten minutes, her bows felt the sand; she trembled a little, and was quiet, like a wounded animal that had found safe harbor.
David straightened up. "So!" he said. "Now we'll pray these anchors hold."
David ran to the hatch. Suddenly he stopped. He bowed. A man had climbed up over the side and was running toward them.
David said, "Captain Flores, we've beached the Santa Anna, and I believe we can save her!"
Flores said, "I see you have, sir. I see you have!" There were tears in his eyes. David saw he was trembling. Then he went back to what was left of the rail. David heard Flores' voice raised in thunderous orders; David saw there were boats hovering all about the newly beached ship. He could reach out and touch them; he could lean over and touch water.
A bucket was thrust into his hand. He dipped it into the sea and brought it up; the water hissed as it hit the deck, but David didn't stop to watch. He dipped the bucket into the water again and heaved it across the planking.
All pumps were manned, in shifts. Water. It ran over the planks, and smoke so dense no man could see through it poured from the
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stricken ship. Into that smoke more water poured. There was no thought to this; it was labor, and long labor, and hour after hour passed by. One hundred and thirty-five men labored together. No order was needed. Only water, precious, lifted from the sea, to save a ship.