The ship now seemed unable to rise. She seemed to have sunk into some vortex, and being without anything like buoyancy, the waters held her fast. Wave after wave rolled in, and poured over the quarter-deck. The whole ship, from stem to stern, seemed to be one mass of foam. The hull was lost to sight. They seemed supported by masts that rose out of the sea. Destruction appeared close at hand. Clinging to the rigging with death-like tenacity, they could only murmur their prayers of despair to that mighty unseen Being who holds the waters in the hollow of his hand.
At length, shuddering, and groaning, and trembling in every fibre, like some living thing, the ship struggled up out of the mass of waters, and freed herself for a time. The boys could see the quarter-deck. They could see the barrels lashed to the mizzen-mast still secure. They breathed more freely. It seemed as though they had received a reprieve,—as though their despairing cries had been heard and answered.
“Boys,” said Bruce, “we can’t hang here all night. We’ll fall off. Lets go up higher. There’s room for all of us, I think, in the mizzen-top. Come.”
With these words he started upward. The rest followed. Solomon went up last. They all reached the mizzen-top in safety, and, on reaching it, found that it was spacious enough to afford room for them all.
Here Pat proceeded to possess himself of a line which ran through a block close by, after which he began to tie himself to the mast.
“What are you up to, Pat?” asked Bart, in some wonder.
“Sure it’s tying meself to the mast, I am, so it is.”
“Tying yourself to the mast?” repeated Bart, in amazement. “What in the world is that for?”
“What is it for?” said Pat. “Sure and what else is it that people always do in shipwrecks? It’s the reg’lar thing, so it is.”
“Well, for my part,” said Bart, “I’d rather have my hands free. If this mast should go over, I’d rather not be fastened to it as tight as that. You’d better not.”