“Only cannibals,” replied the skipper, placidly.
“Cannibals on Herschel Island, and we going there!” I exclaimed, half astonished, half frightened.
“Aye, they are there or thereabouts; but, at all events, we’re going to land on Herschel Island, as it’s a case with us of any port in a storm! Look out there, forwards!” he called out a moment or two after to the men. “Be ready to down the mainsail when I give the word. Steady with the sheets. Now!”
And, with a grating noise, the boat’s keel struck the shore, carried forwards on the top of a huge wave, whose backwash, however, dragged us back into the deep the next second, slewing the head of the boat round at the same time, so that she hung broadside on.
“Out oars, men—out oars for your life!” shouted the skipper, seeing the terrible danger that now threatened us in the very moment of safety; but, before the order could be executed, the long-boat was upset, and we were all tumbling about in the surf!
Chapter Twenty Two.
An Austral Aurora.
A wild cry went up to Heaven as we struggled for dear life in the water, battling with the under-tow of the in-rolling waves, which tried to drag us down in their angry clutches; but first one and then another emerged dripping on the sands, even Mr Ohlsen having saved himself without help, although he had been snugly tucked up in his hammock a moment before, and was lying down in the stern-sheets when the boat capsized.