Sulkily we hauled the yards forward and trimmed sail, leaving the rocks to fade under curtain of advancing night, our high hopes of making port dismissed. The 'navigators' among us were loud of their growling, as the ship lurched and wallowed in the trough of the sea, the decks waist-high with a wash of icy water—a change from the steadiness and comfort of a running ship.
Night fell black dark. The moon not risen to set a boundary to sea and sky; no play of high light on the waste of heaving water; naught but the long inky ridges, rolling out of the west, that, lifting giddily to crest, sent us reeling into the windless trough. On the poop the Old Man and Pilot tramped fore and aft, talking together of landfalls and coasting affairs. As they came and went, snatches of their talk were borne to us, the watch on deck—sheltering from the weather at the break. The Old Man's "Aye, ayes," and "Goad, man's," and the voluble Welshman's "iss, indeed, Capt'in," and "I tell 'oo's." The Pilot was laying off a former course of action. "... Mister Williams, he said, I can see that 'oo knows th' coast, he said, an' ... I 'oodn't go in myself, he said; but if 'oo are sure——"
"Brea—kers a-head!"—a stunning period to his tale, came in a long shout, a scream almost, from the look-out!
Both sprang to the lee rigging, handing their eyes to shield the wind and spray. Faint as yet against the sombre monotone of sea and sky, a long line of breaking water leapt to their gaze, then vanished, as the staggering barque drove to the trough; again—again; there could be no doubt. Breakers! On a lee shore!!
"Mawdredd an'l! O Christ! The Stags, Capt'in.... My God! My God!" Wholly unmanned, muttering in Welsh and English, Mr. Williams ran to the compass to take bearings.
Old Jock came out of the rigging. Then, in a steady voice, more ominous than a string of oaths, "Luff! Down helm, m' lad, an' keep her close!" And to the pilot, "Well? What d'ye mak' of it, Mister?"
"Stags, Capt'in! Diwedd i! That I should be mistake.... The others ... God knows! ... If it iss th' Stags, Capt'in ... the passage t' th' suth'ard.... I know it ... we can run ... if it iss th' Stags, Capt'in!"
"An' if it's no' th' Stags! M' Goad! Hoo many Stags d'ye know, Mister? No! No! We'll keep th' sea, if she can weather thae rocks ... an' if she canna!!" A mute gesture—then, passionately, "T' hell wi' you an' yer b——y Stags: I back ma ship against a worthless pilot! All hands, there, Mister—mains'l an' to'galn's'l oan her! Up, ye hounds; up, if ye look fur dry berryin'!"
All hands! No need for a call! "Breakers ahead"—the words that sent us racing to the yards, to out knife and whip at the gaskets that held our saving power in leash. Quickly done, the great mainsail blew out, thrashing furiously till steadied by tack and sheet. Then topgal'n' sail, the spars buckling to overstrain; staysail, spanker—never was canvas crowded on a ship at such a pace; a mighty fear at our hearts that only frenzied action could allay.
Shuddering, she lay down to it, the lee rail entirely awash, the decks canted at a fearsome angle; then righted—a swift, vicious lurch, and her head sweeping wildly to windward till checked by the heaving helmsman. The wind that we had thought moderate when running before it now held at half a gale. To that she might have stood weatherly, but the great western swell—spawn of uncounted gales—was matched against her, rolling up to check the windward snatches and sending her reeling to leeward in a smother of foam and broken water.