It was a busy and an anxious day. The brig’s guns had been carefully ran to starboard and firmly lashed, and the yards lowered down, her topmasts struck, and all made ready for laying her right over in the mud at low water, so that her spars should be upon the shore.
“It wouldn’t do to lay her over like this,” said the skipper gruffly, “if she were full of cargo. It would mean a bad shifting. But I think we can manage, and I’ll risk it. We can easily start her water casks.”
There was no question of shooting that day, Rodd preferring to stay with his French friend; and the doctor seemed to quite share the Count’s anxiety as they watched the proceedings of the sailors while the tide went down.
But everything went on admirably. As the water sank a steady strain was kept upon the cables, and by slow degrees the brig careened over towards the land till the newly-repaired side sank lower and lower, and she lay more and more over, till at last the water that had flooded the hold began to flow out with the tide till the beautiful vessel lay perfectly helpless upon her side, with the whole of her keel visible upon the long stretch of mud. Then Captain Chubb, taking hold of a rope which he had made fast to the larboard rail, climbed over on to the brig’s side, and steadying himself by the cord, walked right down and stood shaking his head at the ghastly wound which the vessel had received.
For after passing right through the hold, the cannon ball had struck upon and shattered one of what are technically called the ship’s knees, ripping off a great patch of the planking and tearing through the copper sheathing, which was turned back upon the keel, making a ragged hole several times the size of the fairly clean-cut orifice by which the shot had entered.
“You had better come and have a look here, Count,” cried the captain—an invitation which was accepted by several of those interested, and in a very short time an anxious group was gathered round the vessel’s injury.
“Well, sir,” said the skipper, in his rough, brusque way; “what do you say to that?”
“Horrible!” groaned the Count. “My poor vessel!” And he looked at the captain in despair.
“Well, sir,” said the latter, “if anybody had told me that I could make a patch with sails over the bottom of your brig so as to keep her afloat as I have, I should have felt ready to call him a fool. It’s a wonder to me that you kept her afloat as you did, before you came to us for help.”
“But now, captain,” cried the Count, as his son looked anxiously on, “is it possible, away from a shipyard, to mend this as well as you have done the other injury?”