"All right, sir," Medbury replied; "I'll get her."
"Well, don't get stove. Just as soon as you come aboard, we'll make sail. There's a little air stirring."
As the boat swung away behind them, the captain told the second mate to rig and sound the pumps. The brig was unusually tight, and it was with no uneasiness that he gave the order, which he considered merely perfunctory.
The first half-dozen strokes told a different tale. He was stooping to grip the spokes of the wheel when the first rush of water sounded on the deck, and its fullness stopped him like a blow in the face. Instantly he blew his whistle over the stern, and called to Medbury to come aboard at once. He heard Medbury's "Aye, aye, sir," and called to the second mate for a lantern. It was already on the quarter-deck when the boat swung out of the darkness in under the stern.
"We got her," Medbury called out, but Captain March made no reply. He swung the lantern down toward the boat by a lanyard.
"Find where we struck," he said, and, giving the wheel to the second mate, hurried forward.
He was standing on the fore-channel when Medbury brought the boat up, and, going as near as he dared, held the lantern over the side.
"There!" cried Medbury as the light of the lantern flashed over the scarred and abraded spots that they had already noted; but Captain March shook his head impatiently.
"No," he said curtly; "lower down. Watch when she rises."
The lantern shed a wan light upon the oily sea and the glistening black hull. Five times the brig rose and fell on the easy rollers; then she leaped to a great height, and for an instant, below the bilge, they caught sight of a jagged stretch of copper, torn, and shrunken like a withered apple. One glance showed that nothing could be done.