“Not alone,” was the prompt reply. “I reckon ’at none of us can’t take very good keer of ourselves in this gale. We’d best not git too fur apart.”
“Well, I’m going to try to get into the cabin,” Brandon added. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
He unfastened the rope from about his waist, and in spite of the objections of his two companions, crept aft toward the cabin companionway.
The feat was not of the easiest, as he quickly found; but once having determined to do it, he would not give up.
The door of the cabin was jammed fast, but after some little maneuvering he was able to force an entrance and descended into the apartment, which was knee deep with water washed in from the heavy seas which had broken over the brig during the day.
There was no means of lighting a lantern, however, and after rummaging about in the darkness for half an hour, he had to return to the deck without having accomplished anything.
As he stepped outside again, he found the brig pitching worse than ever. The gale was full of “flaws” now—a sure sign that it was blowing itself out—but occasionally it would rise to greater fury than it had shown in all the two previous days.
Just as he reached the deck one of these sudden squalls occurred, and a huge green roller swept in over the stern of the brig, and advanced with lightning speed along the deck, sweeping wreckage and all else before it.
Brandon had just closed the door, and by clinging to the handle, was able to keep himself from being washed overboard; but he was almost drowned during the few moments while the wave filled the companionway.
As it passed, there was a sudden crack forward, and even above the shriek of the gale, he heard Swivel’s cry of alarm.