When Ronald returned on deck he found things in no way mended. The French crew appeared to be obeying their officers very slowly and unwillingly; indeed, the ship was already in a state of semi-mutiny. The officers, too, seemed to be issuing contradictory orders. Ronald saw them examining a chart, but it was evident from their gestures that they differed very much in opinion as to the course which should be steered. No decision was arrived at, and the ship drove onwards towards the coast of Finisterre.
There were harbours and shelter there in abundance; but judgment and good pilotage was required to take advantage of them, and these qualities were wanting on board the “Atalante.”
The English officers stood grouped together, affording a strong contrast to their French captors. Mr Calder was cool and collected as ever.
“If the Frenchmen won’t let us try and save the ship, we must do our best to save our lives,” he remarked. “Remember, in the first place, let us all hold together and help each other. We may make a harbour and run no risk of losing our lives, or we may drive on the rocks and have a desperate struggle for them, but in either case, prisoners we shall remain, only in the last we shall have a better chance of making our escape in the end—let us keep that in view, whatever happens. Now, lads! there is the land; it won’t be long before we become more nearly acquainted with it.”
Rawson, Morton, and the rest promised implicitly to follow Mr Calder’s directions. It was agreed that the instant the ship struck, Morton and Twigg should hasten down to release their own men below, and to tell them what had been resolved on. There was little doubt, even in the expected extremity, that they would willingly follow Mr Calder’s directions.
“In ten minutes we shall know our fate,” said Mr Calder, calmly watching the shore, towards which the helpless ship was rapidly driving.
It consisted of a sandy beach, the ground rising a little beyond it, with here and there a low building, and in the centre a ruined mill, or fort, or watchtower—it was difficult to say what.
The sandy beach might have offered some prospect that their lives would be preserved, but in front of it rose among the foaming breakers a line of dark rocks, and no break was perceived in them through which the ship might force her way.
“Few of those on board this ill-fated craft will see another day,” observed Rawson, as he eyed the threatening coast. But he no longer spoke in a desponding tone; the moment of action was at hand, and such a prospect always roused him up.
“There’s a fresh hand at the bellows, to help us along to our fate,” he added. “Well, let it do its worst; Jack Rawson won’t flinch as long as he has a head on his shoulders.”