Fully half the crew of the Halfmoon either went down with
the falling rigging or were crushed by the crashing weight of
the mast as it hurtled against the deck. Skipper Simms rushed
back and forth screaming out curses that no one heeded, and
orders that there was none to fill.
Theriere, on his own responsibility, looked to the hatches.
Ward with a handful of men armed with axes attempted to
chop away the wreckage, for the jagged butt of the fallen
mast was dashing against the ship's side with such vicious
blows that it seemed but a matter of seconds ere it would
stave a hole in her.
With the utmost difficulty a sea anchor was rigged and
tumbled over the Halfmoon's pitching bow into the angry sea,
that was rising to more gigantic proportions with each succeeding
minute. This frail makeshift which at best could but
keep the vessel's bow into the wind, saving her from instant
engulfment in the sea's trough, seemed to Theriere but a sorry
means of prolonging the agony of suspense preceding the
inevitable end. That nothing could save them was the second
officer's firm belief, nor was he alone in his conviction. Not
only Simms and Ward, but every experienced sailor on the
ship felt that the life of the Halfmoon was now but a matter
of hours, possibly minutes, while those of lesser experience
were equally positive that each succeeding wave must mark
the termination of the lives of the vessel and her company.
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