“It’s all very well,” said Tim, who had been down to the cabin to inspect the chart, “but this can’t go on. We’ve had water-room all day, but I reckon we are closing in on the land every yard now, and if we don’t put out her head we shall find ourselves on the Connemara coast.”
“Better run for Galway, and say nothing,” said I.
“Too late now. I wish we had.”
“Out she goes then,” said I; “it’s a question between going down where we are or breaking to pieces against Slyne Head.”
“That’s just it,” said Tim. “The captain’s dead drunk below. Call all hands aft, Barry; let them choose.”
The men crowded aft, and Tim spoke to them.
“We’re in for an ugly night, my lads, and we’re on a rotten boat. The carpenter says, unless we run before the wind, we shall go to pieces in half-an-hour. I say, if we do run, we shall be on Slyne Head in two hours. Which shall it be? I don’t mind much myself.”
“Put it to the vote,” said one.
So a vote was taken, and of forty men who voted, twenty-five were for death in two hours, and fifteen for death in an hour.
“Very good,” said Tim. “Get to your posts, and remember you are under orders till we strike. Then shift for yourselves; and the Lord have mercy on us all!”