"How now, M'Kellar?"
"Nae change, Sir! ... 'bout east, nor'-east ... deefecult ... th' caird swingin'...."
The Old Man left his post and struggled to the binnacle. "East, nor'-east ... east o' that, mebbe," he muttered. Then, to 'Dutchy,' at the weather helm, "Full, m' lad! Keep 'er full an' nae mair! Goad, man! Steer as ye never steered ... th' wind's yer mairk.... Goad! D'na shake her!"
Grasping the binnacle to steady himself against the wild lurches of the staggering hull, the Old Man stared steadily aloft, unheeding the roar and crash of the breakers, now loud over all—eyes only for the straining canvas and standing spars above him.
"She's drawin' ahead, Sir," shouted M'Kellar, tense, excited. "East, b' nor' ... an' fast!"
The Old Man raised a warning hand to the steersman. "Nae higher! Nae higher! Goad, man! Dinna let 'r gripe!"
Dread suspense! Would she clear? A narrow lane of open water lay clear of the bow—broadening as we sped on.
"Nae higher! Nae higher! Aff! Aff! Up hellum, up!" His voice a scream, the Old Man turned to bear a frantic heave on the spokes.
Obedient to the helm and the Mate's ready hand at the driver sheets, she flew off, free of the wind and sea—tearing past the towering rocks, a cable's length to leeward. Shock upon shock, the great Atlantic sea broke and shattered and fell back from the scarred granite face of the outmost Stag; a seething maelstrom of tortured waters, roaring, crashing, shrilling into the deep, jagged fissures—a shriek of Furies bereft. And, high above the tumult of the waters and the loud, glad cries of us, the hoarse, choking voice of the man who had backed his ship.
"Done it, ye bitch!"—a now trembling hand at his old grey head. "Done it! Weathered—by Goad!"