Little did these bold mariners, however, regard such signs—not that they were reckless, but years of experience had accustomed them to think lightly of danger—to face and overcome it with equanimity. In addition to his native coolness, David Bright had now the mighty power of humble trust in God to sustain him.
It still blew hard when they drew near to land, but the wind had changed its direction, blowing more on the shore, and increasing at last to a gale which lined the whole coast with breakers. Before the Evening Star could find refuge in port, night had again descended. Unfortunately it was one of the darkest nights of the season, accompanied with such blinding sleet that it became a difficult matter to distinguish the guiding lights.
“A dirty night, Billy,” said David Bright, who himself held the tiller.
“Ay, father, it’ll be all the pleasanter when we get home.”
“True, lad; the same may be said of the heavenly home when the gales of life are over. D’ee see the light, boy?”
“No, father, not quite sure. Either it’s not very clear, or the sleet an’ spray blinds me.”
“‘Let the lower lights be burning,’” murmured the skipper, as a tremendous wave, which seemed about to burst over them, rushed beneath the stern, raising it high in the air. “You see the meanin’ o’ that line o’ the hymn now, Billy, though you didn’t when your dear mother taught it you. Bless her heart, her patience and prayers ha’ done it all.”
For some minutes after this there was silence. The men of the Evening Star were holding on to shroud or belaying-pin, finding shelter as best they could, and looking out anxiously for the “lower lights.”
“There’ll be some hands missin’, I doubt, in the Short Blue fleet to-morrow, father,” remarked Billy, with a solemn look.
“Likely enough; God have mercy on ’em,” returned Bright. “It wasn’t a much stiffer gale than this, not many years gone by, when twenty-seven smacks foundered, and a hundred and eighty souls were called to stand before their Maker.”