‘Almighty Powers!—surely we are not in such danger?’ exclaimed the terrified merchant.
‘Hold your tongue,’ again cried the boy.
Mr. Walkinshaw heard him, and for a moment was petrified, for the command was not given with insolence, but solemnity.
A cry of ‘Hold fast’, in the same instant, came from the forecastle, and, after a momentary pause, a dreadful sea broke aboard, and swept the deck. The master, who had himself taken the helm, was washed overboard, and the tiller was broken.
‘We are gone!’ said the little boy, as he shook the water from his jacket, and crawled on towards the mast, at the foot of which he seated himself, for the loss of the tiller, and the damage the rudder had sustained, rendered the vessel unmanageable, and she drifted to her fate before the wind.
‘Is there indeed no hope?’ cried Mr. Walkinshaw to one of the sailors, who was holding by the shrouds.
‘If we get into Sinclair’s Bay, there is a sandy beach,’ replied the sailor.
‘And if we do not?’ exclaimed the passenger in the accent of despair.
‘We’ll a’ be drowned,’ replied the boy with a scowling glance, as he sat cowering with his head between his knees, at the foot of the mast.
‘We shall not get into Sinclair’s Bay,’ said the sailor, firmly; ‘but we may pass Noss-head.’