In Which We Take to the Boats

Silently, I stepped on deck once more, and motioned to Willy, the
deck-hand, to bring me the life preservers. "Put them on," I said to
Helena.

"Oh, I can't. I can't!" moaned the older woman. "I'm dying--let me
alone."

"Stop this nonsense, madam," said I sternly--knowing that was the only
way--"put it on at once. You too, Miss Emory, and you, my boys. Quick.
Then throw on loose wraps--all you can. It will be cold."

In spite of all my efforts to seem calm, the air of panic ran swiftly.
Mrs. Daniver awoke to swift action as she tremblingly fastened the
belt about her. Pushing past me, she reached the deck, and so mad was
she that in all likelihood she would have sprung overboard. I caught
at her, and though my clutch brought away little more than a handful
of false hair, it seemed to restore her reason though it destroyed her
coiffure. "Enough of this!" I cried to her. "Take your place by the
boat, and do as you are told." And I saw Helena pass forward, also, as
we all reached the deck, herself pale as a wraith, but with no outcry
and no spoken word. So, at last, I ranged them all near the boat that
swung ready at the davits.

"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.