Sliding down the trunk of the tree, they found one of the lashings dangling. Catching hold of it, aided by Jacques, who had now arrived, they pulled down the shrouds, and relieved the captain.
There was not a hat on the head of any one save the pilot, and their hair was plastered with snow, and faces cut by the hail.
"Where were the blockaders when you left, Jacques?" asked the captain the moment he could get breath.
"Some of them were cruising, some at anchor."
"Two frigates went by here with a cutter yesterday. Where was Nelson?"
"Yesterday he chased a French ship, cut her off from Marseilles, and she ran under the guns of a very heavy battery, an earth-work, half way between here and Marseilles; and he is watching her."
"Can they hold on?"
"No, except the Agamemnon. She is more under the lee. Nothing can hold against this except they are under a lee, and strongly-moored with anchors well bedded. They generally lie at a single anchor, and the topsail yards swayed up, so as to be ready to get under way in a moment."
"We will hold on a while, to let the 'fiery edge' get off the wind, and give them a chance to get out of the way."
In the mean time the mainsail was balance-reefed, the scope hove in, the fore topmast and main staysails loosed, ready to set, which was all the sail the brigantine would bear, so great was the violence of the wind.