Just then, dimly-seen by its white crest, a huge billow rose up before them, as if to crush the little vessel into matchwood, but she lifted and passed right over it, and then over another and another, for there was a brisk breeze from off the shore; and after a few minutes of terrible peril the beautifully built vessel glided into smooth water, rapidly leaving the roaring surf behind, though the rollers extended far enough out, and the schooner rose and fell as she sailed away north-west at a rapid rate.
Not another word had been spoken, though all the men were on deck clinging to the bulwarks, and in the full expectation that the vessel would go to pieces next time she struck; but, now that the peril was past, Dick Bannock was sent below to report on the water, while the rest rapidly rigged the pump ready for use.
To their great relief, though, the young sailor came on deck to declare the schooner dry as a bone; and now to hide his own self-reproach, Mark turned to the men for an explanation.
“I had no business to go below,” he said to himself; land then aloud, “How was this, Fillot? Who was at the wheel?”
“Me, sir,” said the cutter’s coxswain. “Me it were, and I don’t want no one else to be blamed. Tom Fillot was forrard seeing to the watch, and that them blacks was—them blacks was—them blacks was—”
“Well, what?” cried Mark, angrily. “What do you mean, man?”
“Dunno, sir—dunno, I’m sure,” said the coxswain, humbly. “It’s my head won’t go proper, sir. I was standing there by the wheel one minute, sending her along right enough, and the next minute was—was—was—was ashore with the breakers all around.”
“Why, you went to sleep!” roared Mark. “You! in charge of the wheel, went to sleep!”
“Nay, sir. I never went to sleep. I was steering, and them blacks was—them blacks was—them blacks was—say, Tom Fillot, what was that along o’ them blacks?”
“Oh, they’re all right, messmate,” growled Tom Fillot. “Fact is, sir, he ain’t quite right about his main truck yet, and I oughtn’t to ha’ let him take his trick at the wheel.”