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Prisoner of Morro, A

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<h2>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> <h3>A DASH FOR THE SHORE.</h3> Strange to say, Clif was not much excited at the terrific moment. The peril was so great that he was quite gay as he faced it. He had risen to the occasion. He picked himself up and stepped out to the deck. There he found a scene of confusion indescribable. Above the noise of the breakers on the shore and the waves that were flinging themselves against the exposed side of the ship rang the wild shrieks and cries of the terrified Spanish prisoners. The vessel after she had struck had been flung around and was being turned farther over every minute. The violence of the storm that was struggling with her was quite inconceivable. The waves were pouring over her in great masses, sweeping everything before them; and the spray was leaping so high and the flying storm clouds driving past so low that there was no telling where the surface of the sea ended and the air began. The big ship had landed among rocks, and every wave was lifting her up and flinging her down upon them with dull, grinding crashes that could be both heard and felt. A moment after she struck a man came dashing up the ladder to the deck; it was one of the sailors, and behind were the terrified firemen. "She's leaking in a dozen places!" the man shouted. He clung to railing as he spoke, and a great wave half drowned him; but he managed to salute, and Clif saw a look of wild delight on his face, one that just corresponded with his own eager mood. "She'll split in about half a minute, I fancy," the cadet answered, "and the Spaniards are welcome to what's left. We've done our duty." And with that he turned to the pilot house, where the rest of the men were grouped. They were gazing at him eagerly. "Are you ready, boys?" Clif shouted. Every one knew what he meant by "ready"—ready to make the wild attempt to land and reach the shore through all those wildly surging breakers. The very thought of it was enough to stir one's blood. And the answer came with a vengeance. "Ay, ay, sir!" "Then get out one of the boats," shouted Clif. As he saw the men struggling forward to reach the nearest rowboat he turned suddenly on his heel. He had something else to attend to for a moment. It was an errand of mercy. Those shrieking wretches were all bound to the railing of the doomed ship, and Clif would never have forgiven himself if he had left them there. Their faces would have haunted him. And he drew his sword and set swiftly to work. He cut the captain loose and put a knife into his hand. "Get to work!" he cried. "Get to work!" Clif took the risk of trusting the man, and went on, leaving him with the weapon. The cadet believed that he would be grateful for his release. And besides they were fellow sufferers then, threatened with the same peril. And Clif was not mistaken. The man set hastily to work releasing his comrades, and in less time than it takes to tell it the terrified men were huddled together on the deck. The cadet wasted no more time upon them. "There are three boats left for you," he cried. "Save yourselves." And with that he turned and made his way down to where his own men were struggling with one of the small boats. There was one other thing which in the wild confusion of that moment Clif managed to remember needed to be attended to. There was Ignacio! The treacherous Spaniard had nearly been swept off, and he was half drowned by the floods of water that poured over the deck. But his hatred of the Americans was too great for him to shout to them for aid. What to do with that murderous villain was a problem that worried Clif. Undoubtedly the wisest thing would be to kill him, then and there; death was the fate he certainly deserved. And Clif half drew his sword; but it was no use. He could not bring himself to do such an act. And he flung the weapon back into the scabbard. To attempt to carry him away was equally useless; the Americans did not expect to reach the shore themselves. "I'll leave him to his fate," Clif muttered. "The Spaniards may help him if they choose." And with that he turned toward the sailors again; the men had by that time nearly succeeded in getting the boat away. They were working like Trojans. Every wave that struck the ship helped to fill the boat, even before it touched the water; the spray poured down over the slanting deck upon it and the sailors had to empty it several times. While they were wrestling thus the wind and water and rocks had been getting in their work upon the doomed vessel. Lower and lower she sank, harder and harder she pounded. And then suddenly a great billow heaved itself with a thud against the bow and fairly hammered it around. One of the sailors gave a yell. "She's split!" And sure enough, a great seam had opened amidships and the water surged in with a roar. The vessel seemed fairly falling to pieces. And such being the case the sailors had no time to delay. The frail boat was lowered into the seething waters; the men tumbled in and seized the oars. Clif made a wild leap and caught the stern just as one mighty wave raced by and whirled the boat away from the vessel. And in one instant it was lost to sight and sound. What was done by the Spaniards no one could see a thing. The Americans were fighting for their own lives. There was but one thing for them to do—— "Pull for the shore, sailors, pull for the shore." And the great sweeping breakers to aid them. In fact they were flung in so fast that they could hardly row. It was a thrilling struggle, that race with the giant waves. The sailors struggled with all their might, keeping the frail craft straight. And Clif, with a bucket he had thought to bring, was bailing frantically, and shouting to encourage the men. In, in they swept, nearer, with the speed of a whirlwind, toward the shore. "If it's rocks, Heaven help us!" Clif gasped. It seemed an age to him, that brief struggle. Breathless and eager, he watched the great white caps breaking, smiting against the stern, struggling to turn that boat but a few inches so that they might catch it on the side and fling it over. And meanwhile the wind and waves and oars all helping, on swept the boat—bounding over the foamy crests, sinking into the great hollows, leaping and straining, but still shooting on in the darkness. And every second was precious, for the shore was not far away; the roar of the surf grew louder—louder almost upon them. And then suddenly one great seething billow came rushing up behind. Clif saw it, and shouted to the men. In a second more its white crest towered over them. It was just on the point of breaking in a giant cataract of foam; it would have buried the little boat and its occupants beneath tons of foaming water. But it was just a second too late. The little boat's stern shot up; for a moment it was almost on end, and then it rose to the top of the wave and a moment later as the crash came and the sweep in toward shore began the frail craft was flung forward as if from a catapult. And in it shot with speed that simply dazed the Americans; but it was toward shore—toward shore! They had passed the breakers! And Clif gave a gasp of delight as he felt the wild leap forward. It seemed but a second more before the rush ended. The bow of the rowboat struck and the frail object was whirled round and flung over, its occupants being fairly hurled into the air. When they struck the water it was to find themselves within a few feet of dry land. They staggered to a standing position to find that they were in water only up to their waists. And the great wave was tugging them out to sea again. They struggled forward wildly, clutching at each other. A minute later, breathless, exhausted and half drowned, but wild with joy, they staggered out upon a sandy beach and sank down to gasp for breath. "We're safe!" panted Clif. "Safe!" Safe! And on the island of Cuba, the stronghold of their deadly enemies! <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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