Instantly the fire-doors of the Boreas were thrown open and the men began

dashing buckets of water into the furnaces--for it would have been death

and destruction to stop the engines with such a head of steam on.

As soon as possible the Boreas dropped down to the floating wreck and

took off the dead, the wounded and the unhurt--at least all that could be

got at, for the whole forward half of the boat was a shapeless ruin, with

the great chimneys lying crossed on top of it, and underneath were a

dozen victims imprisoned alive and wailing for help. While men with axes

worked with might and main to free these poor fellows, the Boreas's boats

went about, picking up stragglers from the river.

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:

The Gilded Age