"We can't all get in that," said Jean Lafitte.
"No," said I: and I did not like to look at the tiny dingey which lay
on the cabin-top, squat and tub-like, or the small ducking skiff that
here on deck was half full of water from the breaking seas.
"Peterson," said I, "take charge of the big boat here. Take Williams
to run her motor for you. And the ladies will go with you."
I turned to the two boys, and my heart leaped in pride for them both;
for when I motioned to Jimmy to make ready for the large boat, with
the ladies, he stepped back, pale as he was. "Not unless John goes,
too," said he. And they stood side by side, simply and with no outcry,
their young faces grave.
"He must go with us--Jimmy," broke out Helena yearningly: "and so must
you."
"Shut up, Auntie," exclaimed Jimmy most irreverently. "Who's a-runnin'
this boat, like to know?" Which abashed his auntie very much.
"We'll take this one," said Jean Lafitte, and already was tipping the
duck boat. "It'll carry us three if it has to." And I allowed him and
his mate to stand by, not daring to look at its inadequate shell and
again at the breaking seas.
That left the dingey for Willy and the cook. I glanced at Willy.
"Which would you rather chance?" I asked him, "the dingey or the duck
boat?"
"The dingey," said he quickly,--and we both knew the cork-like quality
of this stubby craft.
"Very well," said I. "Call John, when the word comes to go."
"Aren't you going with us?" asked Helena now, suddenly, approaching
me. I took one long look into her eyes, then, "Obey orders," was all I
said, and pointed to the larger boat. I said good-by to her then. And,
in the swift intuitive justice that comes to us in moments of
extremity, I passed sentence upon these young boys and myself. Though
they had sinned in innocence, though I had sinned in love, it had been
our folly that had brought these others into this peril, and our
chance must be the least. Peterson and Williams would be a better team
in the big boat than any other we could afford. I saw Peterson step
toward us, and divined what was in his mind. "I'm owner of this boat,
my man," said I. "Go to your duty. You're needed in the big boat."
"I'm last to leave her," whispered the old man. "She's my boat, and
I've run her."
"Peterson," said I, taking him aside, "I'll buy us another boat. But
there is no woman on earth, nor ever will be, like that one yonder.
Save her. It is your first duty. I wanted that for myself, but she
thinks I'm a coward, and I would be, if I arranged our crews any other
way than just as we are. Take your boat through. We others will do the
best we can. And give the word for the boats when you're sure we can't
ride it out."