“It’s all over with us,” exclaimed the mate, in a sort of reckless despair. But he was wrong. The great billow, which he expected would dash the vessel in pieces—and which, in nine cases out of ten, would have done so—lifted the wreck so high as to carry it almost completely over the ledge, on which it had struck, leaving the stern high on the rocks, while the bow was plunged into the partly-protected water on the other side.
The sudden descent of the forecastle induced the belief an many of the emigrants’ minds that they were about to go headlong to the bottom, and another cry of terror arose; but when they found that their place of refuge sank no further than to a level with the water, most of them took heart again, and began to scramble up to the quarter-deck as hastily as they had before scrambled to the forecastle.
“Something like land ahead,” observed Hugh Morris, who stood close to the mate.
“I don’t see it,” returned the latter, gruffly, for he was jealous of the influence that Morris had over the crew, and, during the whole voyage, had treated him harshly.
“It may be there, although you don’t see it,” retorted Hugh, with a feeling of scorn, which he made no attempt to conceal.
“Sure I sees somethin’ movin’ on the wather,” exclaimed Mrs Lynch, who, during the occurrences just described, had held on to a belaying pin with the tenacity and strength of an octopus.
“It’s the wather movin’ in yer own eyes, mother,” said Malone, who stood beside his Amazonian countrywoman.
At that moment a halloo was heard faintly in the distance, and, soon after, a raft was seen approaching, guided, apparently, by two men.
“Raft a-hoy! Where d’ee hail from?” shouted the mate.
“From nowhere!” came back promptly in a boy’s ringing voice.