Quickly she ran to the wheelhouse.  Theriere saw her and smiled.

“There’s no hope, I’m afraid,” he said; “but, by George, I intend to go down fighting, and not like those miserable yellow curs.”

Barbara did not reply, but she grasped the spokes of the heavy wheel and tugged as he tugged.  Theriere made no effort to dissuade her from the strenuous labor—­every ounce of weight would help so much, and the man had a wild, mad idea that he was attempting to put into effect.

“What do you hope to do?” asked the girl.  “Make that opening in the cliffs?”

Theriere nodded.

“Do you think me crazy?” he asked.

“It is such a chance as only a brave man would dare to take,” she replied.  “Do you think that we can get her to take it?”

“I doubt it,” he answered.  “With another man at the wheel we might, though.”

Below them the crew of the Halfmoon ran hither and thither along the deck on the side away from the breakers.  They fought with one another for useless bits of planking and cordage.  The giant figure of the black cook, Blanco, rose above the others.  In his hand was a huge butcher knife.  When he saw a piece of wood he coveted in the hands of another he rushed upon his helpless victim with wild, bestial howls, menacing him with his gleaming weapon.  Thus he was rapidly accumulating the material for a life raft.

But there was a single figure upon the deck that did not seem mad with terror.  A huge fellow he was who stood leaning against the capstan watching the wild antics of his fellows with a certain wondering expression of incredulity, the while a contemptuous smile curled his lips.  As Barbara Harding chanced to look in his direction he also chanced to turn his eyes toward the wheelhouse.  It was the mucker.

The girl was surprised that he, the greatest coward of them all, should be showing no signs of cowardice now—­probably he was paralyzed with fright.  The moment that the man saw the two who were in the wheelhouse and the work that they were doing he sprang quickly toward them.  At his approach the girl shrank closer to Theriere.

What new outrage did the fellow contemplate?  Now he was beside her.  The habitual dark scowl blackened his expression.  He laid a heavy hand on Barbara Harding’s arm.

“Come out o’ dat,” he bellowed.  “Dat’s no kind o’ job fer a broiler.”

And before either she or Theriere could guess his intention the mucker had pushed Barbara aside and taken her place at the wheel.

“Good for you, Byrne!” cried Theriere.  “I needed you badly.”

“Why didn’t yeh say so den?” growled the man.

With the aid of Byrne’s Herculean muscles and great weight the bow of the Halfmoon commenced to come slowly around so that presently she almost paralleled the cliffs again, but now she was much closer in than when Skipper Simms had deserted her to her fate—­so close that Theriere had little hope of being able to carry out his plan of taking her opposite the opening and then turning and running her before the wind straight into the swirling waters of the inlet.