The
mainsail came down with a run, and the boat kept on with the jib only,
though of course at a slower rate. They were still two or three miles
from shore, and the storm increased momently. They saw Lynn Beach
without hope of gaining it, the wind driving them northward. Neither
could Greenleaf run into the little bay of Swampscot. In spite of his
efforts the boat shot by Phillips's Point, and he must therefore run
upon the rocks beyond the Point or make for Marblehead harbor. But the
latter was an untried and dangerous course for an inexperienced boatman,
and, grim as the coast looked, he was obliged to trust to its tender
mercies for the chance of getting ashore. The rain now fell in blinding
torrents and a blackness as of night brooded over the sea. Greenleaf
was utterly bewildered, but held on to the tiller with his aching,
stiffening hand, and strove to inspire his companion with courage. The
boat was "down by the head," on account of the wind's drawing the jib,
and rolled and plunged furiously. Behind were threatening billows, and
before were ragged, precipitous rocks, around which the surges boiled
and eddied. Greenleaf quailed as he neared the awful coast; his heart
stood still as he thought of the peril to a helpless woman in clambering
up those cliffs, even if she were not drowned before reaching them.
Every flash of lightning seemed to disclose some new horror. If life is
measured by sensations, he lived years of torture in the few minutes
during which he waited for the shock of the bows against the granite
wall.
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