Paul stood at the captain's side, the crew being ordered to keep themselves as much covered as possible, on account of the bullets of the Arabs, which were at this time pattering against the vessel, like hail at the close of a storm.
"We shall not weather that point of ragged rock," exclaimed the young man, quickly; "and if we touch it the ship will be lost."
"Let her claw off," returned the old man sternly. "Her cutwater is up with it already. Let her claw off."
The bows of the ship were certainly up with the danger, and the vessel was slowly drawing ahead; but every moment its broadside was set nearer to the rock, which was now within fifty feet of them. The fore-chains were past the point, though little hope remained of clearing it abaft. A ship turns on her centre of gravity as on a pivot, the two ends inclining in opposite directions; and Captain Truck hoped that as the bows were past the danger, it might be possible to throw the after-part of the vessel up to the wind, by keeping away, and thus clear the spot entirely.
"Hard up with your helm!" he shouted, "hard up!--Haul down the mizzen-stay-sail, and give her sheet!"
The sails were attended to, but no answer came from the wheel, nor did the vessel change her course.
"Hard up, I tell you, sir--hard up--hard up, and be d---d to you!"
The usual reply was not made. Paul sprang through the narrow gangway that led to the wheel. All that passed took but a minute, and yet it was the most critical minute that had yet befallen the Montauk; for had she touched that rock but for an instant, human art could hardly have kept her above water an hour.
"Hard up, and be d---d to you!" repeated Captain Truck, in a voice of thunder, as Paul darted round the corner of the hurricane-house.
The seaman stood at the wheel, grasping its spokes firmly, his eyes aloft as usual, but the turns of the tiller rope showed that the order was not obeyed.