I saw that she carried on the side away from the enemy’s view, the little wicker basket filled with the pretty orange-hued bombs!
Was she determined upon self-destruction?
I sprang forward in the hope of stopping her, as I expected to see her blown to atoms. Without looking in my direction, however, she bounded toward the ladder, and quicker than I can say it her little bare feet were climbing the worn and broken rattlings.
Then I understood the meaning of her actions! She was about to ascend to the masthead, whence she evidently intended to hurl the bombs upon the enemy below.
I watched her with bated breath, fearing that she might fall to the deck. I knew how rotten and treacherous was the disused rigging. Clearly, nobody besides myself comprehended her purpose. Twice she nearly fell. Again and again the tarred ropes broke beneath her feet. But she was firm of purpose and rapidly neared the top.
How can I pay tribute to her conduct? How can I cause the reader to feel the boundless emotions of pride that stirred my bosom at such a moment?
I forgave her everything—even the trombone man, even her lack of sympathy and the frivolity of her character.
A moment! Now she was at the masthead! The crisis was at hand! The men who formed the hollow square on the deck below had not taken their eyes from the climbing figure. It is doubtful if they had not mistaken the little wicker basket on her arm for a hat.
I enjoyed her triumph. I knew she was mistress of the situation. She held the power of life and death over all of us.
She waved her hand to the men about to die. She gave a jaunty toss of her head in my direction.