Directly the order was given one of the first aloft was Claymore; Morton followed him on to the main-yard; it was not his duty to go aloft, but he could not resist the impulse which made him do so. It was fearful work, holding on to that yard, up in the darkness, with the fierce gale howling round their heads and the ship pitching furiously, while at the same time she heeled down over the roaring seas. The word was given to let go; but before the sail could be sheeted home it shook and struggled, almost freeing itself from the sturdy crew who were hauling away on the sheet.
Morton felt as if he should be shaken off the yard, but a hand with a firm grasp held him, nor let him go till he had reached the top. They descended on deck.
“Thank you, Lord Claymore,” said Morton, warmly; “had you not held me I might have lost my life.”
“I don’t say you would have deserved it,” said the tall midshipman; “but why rush to a post of danger without necessity? stronger and older men are better fitted for the task you attempted. It was my duty, and I went. However, I like your spirit, Morton. If we weather this cape we shall know more of each other; if our masts go over the side, or we otherwise fail, we may none of us see another sunrise.”
He spoke as coolly and calmly as if talking on some ordinary topic.
Away the ship plunged through the seas more furiously than ever, bending down till it seemed as if her yard-arms literally touched the foaming tops of the seas as they came rolling and hissing by. Every officer was at his post: the captain, with his lips compressed and teeth clenched, stood watching, now the bending masts, now the compass, now the dark threatening land. The frigate drew nearer and nearer to it; still she flew ahead. A quartermaster and two of the best seaman in the ship were at the helm; Jack Lawrence stood near them; they were doing as well as he could desire.
“Keep your luff, lads,” he said once in a quiet tone; “steady—that will do.”
Not another word was spoken by him, or by any one on deck; all eyes were riveted on the land. The ship seemed to be making no progress, for there it still lay on the lee-bow. Some thought they could hear the roaring of the surges, as with the whole force of a south-westerly gale they were hurled against the cliffs. Still the canvas held the fierce wind, and the well-set-up rigging supported the masts.
“Morton, the land is drawing abeam,” exclaimed Claymore suddenly; “the ship will be saved. I did not think so at one time, though.”
He was right: gradually it seemed to rise up more broad on the lee-beam; but as the ship surged onward amid wildly-leaping waves, the water, lashed into masses of foam, was seen over the lee-quarter leaping over the cliff from which she had so narrowly escaped. Still there were other points and headlands farther to the north, from which she was not altogether clear. For another two hours or more the same press of canvas was kept on her. Few breathed freely till the order was being given to take another reef in the topsails; the order was accomplished without a casualty, and the watch below were allowed to turn in.