“Close the hatch,” said he.
“No chance, sir?” Archie asked.
“No, b’y.”
The forecastle was already closed. There was no gleam of fire anywhere to be seen. The bitter wind savoured of smoke; nothing else betrayed the schooner’s peril.
“Now, get you all back aft!” was the skipper’s command. “Keep her head as it points.”
When the crew had crept away to the place remotest from the danger point, Bill o’ Burnt Bay went forward to keep a lookout for the rocks and breakers. The burning forecastle was beneath his feet; he could hear the crackling of the fire; and the smoke, rising now more voluminously, troubled his nostrils and throat. It was pitch dark ahead. There was no blacker shadow of land, no white flash of water, to give him hope. It seemed as though an unbroken expanse of sea lay before the labouring First Venture. But the skipper knew to the contrary; 107 somewhere in the night into which he stared––somewhere near, and, momentarily, drawing nearer––lay the Chunks. He wondered if the First Venture would strike before the explosion occurred. It must be soon, he knew. The possibility of being off the course did not trouble him.
Soon the seams of the deck began to open. Smoke poured out in thickening clouds. Points of light, fast changing to lines of flame, warned the skipper that he must retreat. It was not, however, until heat and smoke and the certain prospect of collapse compelled him, that he joined the crew. He was not a spectacular hero; when common sense dictated return, he obeyed without delay, and without maudlin complaint. Without a word he took the wheel from Billy Topsail’s hands, and without a word he kept the schooner on her course. There was no need of command or advice; men and boys knew their situation and their duty.
“It can’t be long,” said the cook.
There was now a glow of red light above the forecastle. The fire was about to break through. It was not hard to surmise that the collapse of the bulkhead was imminent. 108
“No, sir!” the fidgety cook repeated. “It can’t be long, now.”