Such was the case. In spite of the mountainous seas, some of the hardy Shetlanders had put off in two of the typically seaworthy craft for which Lerwick and the fishing harbours of these islands are justly celebrated.
Tack after tack they made. At times only the peaks of the closely reefed dipping lugsails were visible. The rest of the boats were lost to sight between the crests of the waves.
It was soon evident to the Shetland fishermen that they could do nothing in the way of salvage, and having been able to ascertain that the distressed vessel was not under control and incapable of answering to her helm, they contented themselves by tacking to and fro to wind'ard, waiting for the "Roldal" to make her final plunge.
Yet the Norwegian vessel showed no undue haste. She had reached a certain stage when she retained just sufficient buoyancy to keep her afloat. After all, it seemed as if she would ground rather than founder.
"We can't fetch the creek, sir," declared the seaman. "We're setting too much to the nor'ard. It's only a question of time, sir."
Almost as he spoke the "Roldal's" hull shuddered under a terrific blow. Heeling to port, she swung almost broadside on to the waves; with a crash her masts went by the board, the foremast buckling close to the deck, and about ten feet of the main-mast remaining.
Two more heavy bumps she gave, then, settling on hard rock, merely quivered as the seas broke over her.
"Hold on, men, for your lives!" shouted Terence. "The tide's ebbing. We may be all right even yet."
The crew needed no caution in this respect. Hanging on desperately to whatever came to hand they resisted the efforts of the breakers to sweep them overboard and into the chaos of broken water between them and the low cliffs.
The fishing-boats had gone. Brave as were their crews the hardy Shetlanders knew that to venture anywhere in the vicinity of the stranded vessel meant almost certain death without the slightest chance to render any assistance.