noon
The seas beat so furiously upon her that every seventh comer washed her clean and sent the spray smoking over her splintered spars . She showed no sign of life . She lay in so desperate a place that even Black Dennis Nolan , with all his gear and wits , could do nothing but wait until the full fury of the gale should diminish . It was close upon noon when the first line was made fast between the cliff and the broken foremast of the wreck . The wind had slackened and the seas fallen in a marked degree by this time . Looking down from the cliff the men of Chance Along could see the slanted deck , cleared of all superstructures and bulwarks , the stumps of spars with only the foremast intact to the cross-trees and a tangle of rigging , yards , canvas and tackle awash against the face of the cliff . Something -- a swathed human figure , perhaps -- was lashed in the fore-top .