And now a new horror presented itself.  The wreck took fire from the dismantled furnaces!  Never did men work with a heartier will than did those stalwart braves with the axes.  But it was of no use.  The fire ate its way steadily, despising the bucket brigade that fought it.  It scorched the clothes, it singed the hair of the axemen—­it drove them back, foot by foot-inch by inch—­they wavered, struck a final blow in the teeth of the enemy, and surrendered.  And as they fell back they heard prisoned voices saying: 

“Don’t leave us!  Don’t desert us!  Don’t, don’t do it!”

And one poor fellow said: 

“I am Henry Worley, striker of the Amaranth!  My mother lives in St. Louis.  Tell her a lie for a poor devil’s sake, please.  Say I was killed in an instant and never knew what hurt me—­though God knows I’ve neither scratch nor bruise this moment!  It’s hard to burn up in a coop like this with the whole wide world so near.  Good-bye boys—­we’ve all got to come to it at last, anyway!”

The Boreas stood away out of danger, and the ruined steamer went drifting down the stream an island of wreathing and climbing flame that vomited clouds of smoke from time to time, and glared more fiercely and sent its luminous tongues higher and higher after each emission.  A shriek at intervals told of a captive that had met his doom.  The wreck lodged upon a sandbar, and when the Boreas turned the next point on her upward journey it was still burning with scarcely abated fury.

When the boys came down into the main saloon of the Boreas, they saw a pitiful sight and heard a world of pitiful sounds.  Eleven poor creatures lay dead and forty more lay moaning, or pleading or screaming, while a score of Good Samaritans moved among them doing what they could to relieve their sufferings; bathing their chinless faces and bodies with linseed oil and lime water and covering the places with bulging masses of raw cotton that gave to every face and form a dreadful and unhuman aspect.

A little wee French midshipman of fourteen lay fearfully injured, but never uttered a sound till a physician of Memphis was about to dress his hurts.  Then he said: 

“Can I get well?  You need not be afraid to tell me.”

“No—­I—­I am afraid you can not.”

“Then do not waste your time with me—­help those that can get well.”

“But——­”

“Help those that can get well!  It is, not for me to be a girl.  I carry the blood of eleven generations of soldiers in my veins!”

The physician—­himself a man who had seen service in the navy in his time—­touched his hat to this little hero, and passed on.

The head engineer of the Amaranth, a grand specimen of physical manhood, struggled to his feet a ghastly spectacle and strode toward his brother, the second engineer, who was unhurt.  He said: 

“You were on watch.  You were boss.  You would not listen to me when I begged you to reduce your steam.  Take that!—­take it to my wife and tell her it comes from me by the hand of my murderer!  Take it—­and take my curse with it to blister your heart a hundred years—­and may you live so long!”