“We'd never get outside the breakers yonder,” said another.
“I think we've had enough of it for one night,” muttered a third, with a side-long glance towards the recent grave.
“And you,” said Mark, turning fixedly round to Tom M'Carthy, “what words of comfort have you for me?”
“Faix, that I'm ready and willin' to go with you, divil may care who the other is,” said the stout-hearted fellow. “I seen the day you jumped into a boat yourself to take the crew off a wreck below the point there, and I took an oath that night I'd never see you wanting for two hands at an oar as long as I could pull one. The waves that isn't too high for you is not a bit too big for me either.”
“Well done, Tom,” said a powerful looking young fellow beside him, “and I'll be the bow oar for you, an' you'll take me.”
“And here's two more of us,” said another, as he held a comrade by the hand, “that will never see his honour at a loss, no matter how it blows.”
The doubt and hesitation which prevailed but a moment before, were at once changed for confidence and resolution, and eight men now hurried to the beach to launch the boat, and make ready for the enterprize.
“If we could only see a flash, or hear a shot now, we'd know which way to bear down,” said Tom, as he stood on the shore, with his eyes turned seaward.
“There—there goes one!” cried Mark, as a red flame shot forth and glittered for a second over the dark water.
“That's the frigate; she's holding on still by her anchors.”