“In the name of God, what hath happened?” asked that person, with terrible calmness.
“We are safe yet, Senhor,” answered Hildebrand. “Be of good heart, and go below again.”
“I had rather die here,” rejoined Don Rafaele.
“An’ thou wilt not go below, sit thee down on the deck,” said Hildebrand. “A short space more will discover our fate.”
The Spaniard, without a word more—for he saw that Hildebrand was not inclined for further discourse—disposed himself in the manner recommended, on the further side of the binnacle. As he did so, the ship entered the narrow channel of the harbour, and the crisis which Hildebrand had mentioned approached.
On one side of the channel stood the principal puntal, or fort, called St. Lorenzo, which guarded the harbour’s mouth, and the garrison of which had evidently been alarmed by the explosion of the gun-boat, and were now on the alert. The other side was the mainland, and presented a lee shore, lined with breakers, which the sea, in its progress to the strand, covered with boiling surf, whiter than snow. In order to avoid the cannon of the fort, Hildebrand was obliged to steer straight for the breakers, and (to use a nautical phrase) “hug” a shore that threatened destruction. After a hasty survey of his position, he resolved on this course without a moment’s hesitation. The breeze, though fresh, was not violent, and he thought that, if the ship were tacked on the instant he directed, they might weather the breakers successfully. In this belief, he ordered every man to his post, and directed that all things should be arranged, as they progressed onward, to tack with promptitude.
All eyes were turned towards the fort as the ship entered the narrow channel. The moon was now up, and the tall masts of the cruizer, with every stitch of canvas expanded, and puffed out with the wind, seemed to offer a good mark to the puntal’s guns. The crew were not left long to conjecture whether those guns would be brought to bear upon them. Directly they got fairly into the channel, a bright flash, like a tongue of fire, shot out from the nearest battery, and the ear shook under the boom of cannon. The shot fell short of the ship, on its larboard bow; but on the starboard, the lee shore, at less than a gun-shot distance, seemed to menace her with instant destruction. Though cannon after cannon was now discharged from the fort, every eye turned involuntarily to the opposite shore, where the roar of the breakers, and the thundering din of the surf, which shot into the air in a thousand fountains, almost silenced the report of the artillery. The stoutest heart quailed as the milky foam drew nearer and nearer: lips that had never uttered the name of God, from their childhood upward, except to profane it, convulsively gasped to Him in prayer: eyes that had often looked down steadily from the trembling topmast, through the rage and conflict of a tempest, turned giddy before the prospect; and the most stubborn bosoms were sensible of a thrill of dismay. They approached closer and closer to the shore: it seemed impossible, when one ventured to glance to leeward, that they could ever weather it, even if they did not strike immediately. The stillness of death was over the crew, when, just as destruction appeared inevitable, the voice of Hildebrand rang through the ship.
“All hands, jibe ship!” he cried.
The wind thundered through the canvas; the “hoy, hoy” of the sailors, pulling the halyards, pierced the ear like a fife; the tall masts groaned again; and the rush of feet over the deck, the hauling of ropes, the shrill whistle of the pulleys, the boom of the cannon, and the hoarse roar of the breakers, all mingled together, constituted a din too terrible to dwell upon.
For a brief space the fate of the anxious crew was uncertain. It was an awful interval, though so brief, and the most resolute hearts felt a thousand fears. The sails, right through the ship, fore and aft, had been veered instantaneously; but for a moment they backed to the wind. In this fearful juncture, all eyes were turned towards the ship’s stern. The tall figure of Hildebrand, towering over that of Tarpaulin, who was standing before him, was there distinguished at the helm, and the hopes of the crew revived as they saw their destiny in the hands of their commander.