“Oh yes,” He grunted; “she’s right enough.”
“You are not disappointed, then?”
“No. Bit too lively. Wants some more cargo or ballast to give her steadiness; but she’ll be all right.” All the same this was an experience very different from anything that Rodd had had before, and it was not without a severe buffeting that in the early dawn of the morning Captain Chubb had succeeded in laying the little vessel’s head off Havre, so that, taking advantage of a temporary sinking of the wind, he was able to run her safely into the French port, and this at a time when it was a friendly harbour, the British arms having triumphed everywhere, the French king being once more upon the throne, and he who had been spoken of for so long as the Ogre of Elba now lying duly watched and guarded far away to the south, within the rockbound coast of Saint Helena.
Chapter Twelve.
Private Ears.
The schooner was run safely into port, but just before she cleared the harbour mouth, down came a tremendous squall of wind as if from round the corner of some impossible solid cloud behind which an ambush of the storm had been lying in wait for the brave little vessel.
Down it came all at once, just when least expected, and in a few seconds as it struck the little vessel, rushing, in spite of the small amount of canvas spread, rapidly for the shelter, every one on deck snatched at the nearest object to which he could cling. The schooner bravely resisted for a while, careening over and then rising again, and then down she went with her masts almost flat upon the foam, and then lying over more and more as Rodd clung hard with one hand and involuntarily stretched out the other to his uncle as if to say good-bye. For he felt certain as the water came surging over the leeward rail that the next minute their voyage would be ended, and the Maid of Salcombe be going down.
It was one horror of breathlessness in the shrieking wind, while the storm-driven spray cut and lashed and flogged at the crew.