There, in the lee scuppers, lay the red-headed giant holding fast to the topsail brace with one hand while the other was fast in the collar of the third mate’s jacket.
O’Toole was up to his armpits in the swirl, but his freckled face and red hair shone like a beacon in the surrounding waste of whiteness, while his deep voice, half-choked with salt water, spluttered out a string of oaths as he dragged Brown to his feet.
“Ef it’s swimmin’ ye’re afther, ’twill be hard to keep up with us,” he roared into the third mate’s ear, “an’ it’s a divin’-bell ye’ll be wantin’ if yer goin’ to help us here, so git on to th’ poop before another sea washes ye clane out av yer skin.” So saying, he released the young man and, grabbing his handspike that floated near, began to start the planking with powerful blows.
The third mate seemed reluctant to leave, but, as his handspike had gone overboard on that sea, there was nothing else for him to do. He climbed on to the poop and held on to the lee rigging. In a few moments we stove out the ports, and the vessel began to relieve herself of the load on her main-deck. Then we climbed back on the poop and held on, watching the lower topsails as they tugged and strained at the clews.
Captain Crojack stood near the wheel, and his seamed and lined face wore an anxious look as he strove to pierce the cloud of flying drift and spray which bore down on the staggering ship.
I remember watching him and the pretty face in the companionway alternately. There was much of the sturdy sailor’s nature expressed in the soft face of the young girl. And I have always found much to admire in strong, sturdy characters.
Even, as is often the case, if the strong personality has a coarse fibre, and lacks the soft and delicate traceries of sentiment of the weaker, I have always felt that more reliance could be placed in the former than in the latter, and under any circumstances.
Old Crojack’s strong, lined face and puckered eyes, as he stood there trying to look to windward, was a study of resolute responsibility.
All of a sudden there was a loud crack, and the maintopsail seemed to melt away from the yard-arm as if it were a sheet of ice under a tropic sun. Then, almost instantly, the wind began to fall until in a few moments a candle would have burned on deck.
“Clew down the mizzentopsail,” roared the skipper, as he sprang for the halyards, and in a moment the watch were all struggling with that bit of canvas and had it rolled snug on the yard in less time than it takes to tell it.