“Here it is!” he exclaimed. “Up with the helm—square away the afteryards.”
Scarcely had he spoken, than a terrific roar was heard, and down came the gale upon us with unbridled fury, driving before it vast masses of spoondrift, and tearing up the water into huge waves, which every instant rose higher and higher. Off flew the brig’s head, however, before it, and it seemed like a race between her and the dense sheets of spray which careered over the seas, and the clouds of scud which chased each other across the sky. Her course, however, was to be suddenly arrested. The commander made his appearance hurriedly on deck.
“What means this?” he exclaimed. “There’s our port, sirs,” pointing to the north-west. “Bring the ship on a wind—down with the helm—brace up the yards!”
The officers stood aghast, but the order was not to be disputed.
No sooner did the brig feel the full force of the wind, than she heeled over, till her lee guns were buried in the waves, and the spray came flying over us, fore and aft. Still we looked up to it, and, had the wind not increased, we might have weathered it very well; but it was evident that the gale had not yet come to its height. Magnificently the brave little brig dashed through it; but it was fearful work,—the timbers groaned, and the masts bent, every instant threatening to go by the board. Once more Mr Pullen urged the commander to bear up.
“No, no, master,” he answered, shaking his head; “I’ve sworn that no power shall ever again turn me away from the port to which I am bound; and James Cranley is not a man you would ask to break his oath, I hope.”
“Well, sir, but the brig will hold her own better under closer canvas, you’ll allow,” urged the master.
After some time the commander permitted the topsails to be close-reefed, but not another stitch would he take off her. Still the brig had too much sail set; and wearily and heavily she laboured through the yet fast rising seas.
I had been on deck for some hours, and, drenched to the skin, was shivering with cold, when Mr Pullen, with whom I was a favourite, told me to go and lie down in his berth, our own not being tenable, from the water which the straining of the ship allowed to run into it. All the officers and the watch were on deck. In spite of the heavy pitching of the ship, I soon fell asleep. How long I remained so I know not, when a terrific noise awoke me. I felt the suffocation of drowning, and for a moment saw the water in dark green masses rushing into the cabin. In another instant it was all dark. I uttered a prayer for mercy, for I felt that the brig was on her side and sinking. Still the love of life did not desert me. Through the darkness I discerned one bright spot overhead. I made for it, and as I found my hands grasping the combings of the gun-room skylight, the brig, with a sudden jerk, righted again. I thought it was only preparatory to going down. Still I held on. The water rolled away, and disappeared from above and beneath me, and I was able to obtain a clear view along the deck. What a scene of destruction and horror met my view! Of all those living men who lately peopled her decks, not a soul was there—not a mast was standing—not a boat remained—as if the destroying sword of the Archangel had swept over them. The decks were swept clear of everything; while the green foam-topped seas, in mountain masses, rose above them, threatening every instant to overwhelm my hapless vessel. A glance showed me all this. Looking forward, I saw another head rising from the fore-hatchway; it was that of old Popples, the boatswain.
“What! are they all gone?” he shouted; “then I’m captain. Lend a hand, Mr D’Arcy, and we’ll try and get the ship before the wind.”