“By St. Rule, but it doth look somewhat angry,” replied Mercer. “We must get more under the lee of the land ere the mischief cometh.”
“By St. Paul, but it doth come already,” cried Barnard; “seest thou not yonder white-topped waves tripping after us?”
“By the mass, but it doth come indeed,” cried Mercer, jumping forward. “Ha, there goeth the foresail flying through the air like a sea-mew. Down with the mainsail. Come, stir ye, stir ye, my hearts. Out with your long-sweeps, my brave spirits—put her head to the land, Barnard. Pull yarely now, my gallants. There is a lull yonder beneath the rocks.”
“’Tis a lull thou wilt never reach, I’ll promise thee, Master Mercer, pull as thou wilt,” said old Barnard gruffly. “Better let her drive to the open sea before the storm. See how angry yonder sinking sun doth look. Trust me, no human power [[531]]may force her against the tempest. But thou art ever for working impossibilities.”
“Tush, old man,” cried Mercer; “time enow to give in when we shall have tried and failed. I have no fancy for a run to Norway, if by any means we may reach the bonny Frith o’ Forth. So put her head more to the land, I say.”
In obedience to the command of his resolute master, the old helmsman, grumbling like a bear, put the bark into the course he had ordered, and the mariners, aided by the pike and cross-bow men, put their hands steadily to the long oars. The brave Mercer moved actively about, giving life and spirit to their exertions. The storm rapidly increased, and he climbed the forecastle to look out ahead.
“Mercy on us,” cried old Barnard, “there burneth a blue flame at the foremast head. ’Tis gone. Some one is near his end, I trow. Run, boy, and tell the master to come down. He is, as it were, mine own son, and I like not to see him yonder after that dismal warning.”
The ship-boy carried the steersman’s message, but Mercer laughed and heeded it not.
“Here, Peter Patullo, do thou take the helm a bit,” cried the old man, becoming anxious. “He is so wilful, I must go to him myself.”
Barnard had hardly spoken, when a tremendous wave came rolling on against the head of the ship, and striking the forecastle, a dreadful crash followed, the huge timber tower being swept away like a cobweb.