sand yards away. The winds were lashing the sea with fury. The tumult of the waters was terrifying to hear. Henry was frightened as he had never been before, but he did not lose his head. “I will go when you go,” he said.
In his hand Mr. Harris held a long-barreled flash-light for signaling, with a patent contact strip about the handle. Now through the blackness of the night he was sending flashes of light, to direct the oncoming cutter. Astonished, Henry saw that his commander was sending a message just as he himself had learned to do through the cutter’s blinkers, with dots and dashes of light. He stood motionless and read the message, “Please hurry. My men are in the water.”
A feeling of inexpressible admiration came over Henry. Here was a man voluntarily risking his life to save his men. As calmly as though he were safe ashore, instead of standing on the threshold of death, the executive officer continued to flash his directing signals. Then another thought came to Henry. “He’s a Coast Guard officer. So am I. I’ll try to act like one.” He became calm. And as he watched his big superior, so quiet and unafraid, fearful only lest the Iroquois should be too late to save his men, something of the same feeling of strength and courage came to Henry.
