It seemed long. Minute after minute passed, each of incredible length, while the First Venture staggered forward, wildly pitching through the seas. At last, the flames broke out of the forecastle and illuminated the deck.
“Not long, now!” the cook whimpered. “It can’t be!”
Nor was it. The First Venture struck. She was upon the rocks before the skipper was well aware that breakers lay ahead. Her bow fell, struck, was lifted, fell again, and fastened itself. The next wave flung the schooner broadside. The third completed the turn. She lay with her head pointing into the wind. Her stern, where the crew stood waiting for the end, rose and fell on the verge of a great breaker. Beyond was a broken cliff, rising to unwashed heights, which the snow had begun to whiten. The bow was lifted clear of the waves; the stern was awash. A space of white water lay between the schooner and the shore.
Bill o’ Burnt Bay let go his grip on the wheel. There was but one thing to do. Many a skipper had done it before; but never before had there 109 been such desperate need of haste. The fire still burned lustily; and the forecastle was high out of the water.
“If I can’t do it,” the skipper shouted, “it’s the first hand’s turn next.”
He had fastened the end of a coil of rope about his waist. Now he stood swaying on the taffrail. By the light of the fire––uncertain and dull––he must act. He leaped a moment after the next wave had slipped under the stern––when, in the current, he should reach the rocks just after the wave had broken. The crew waited a long time. Many a glance was cast forward; it seemed to them all, such headway had the fire made, that the six kegs of powder must explode the very next instant. No sign came from the skipper; and no sight of him could be caught. They paid out the rope––and waited. The rope was for a long time loose in their hands.
“He’s landed!” cried Jimmie Grimm.
The rope was hauled taut. Upon the rocks, out of reach of the sea, the figure of the skipper could be seen.
“One at a time!” Skipper Bill shouted.
And one at a time they went––decently and in order, like true Newfoundland sailors, Tom 110 Rook, the first hand, the last of all. When they were all ashore, they scrambled like mad up the cliff; and they were no more than out of danger when the First Venture was blown to atoms. There was a flash, a deafening roar––and darkness; broken only by the spluttering splinters of the little craft.