Here and
there, far up on the rushing sides of the foaming mountains, stray
smacks hung like specks; the schooner shipped very little water now, and
Ferrier kept the deck with some difficulty. Events succeeded each other
with the terrifying suddenness of shocking dreams, and when the skipper
said, "Thank God for a good vessel under us, sir; many a good man has
gone to meet his Maker this night," Ferrier had quite a new sensation,
which I might almost say approached terror, were I not writing about an
absolutely courageous fellow.
Still the series of moving accidents went on. A smack hove up under the
stern of the schooner, and our skipper said gravely, "That Brixham man's
mad to try sailing that vessel. If one puff comes any harder than the
last, he'll be hove down." Then the skipper turned to look forward, and
Ferrier followed him. A low, strangled moan made them both start and
look down the companion. Marion Dearsley, pointing with convulsively
rigid arm, exclaimed, "The vessel--oh, the poor men!"
That smack was hove down, and her mainsail was held by the weight of
water.
"I expect we must carry away something, but I'm going down to him. Jump
to the wheel, sir, and cast that lashing. When I wave, shove it hard
a-starboard. That way, sir. The men and I must manage forrad. You must
go below at once, Miss. Jim, shove those bolts in."
There was a shock, and Ferrier thought the mainsheet had parted; then
three strongish seas hit the schooner until she shuddered and rolled
under the immense burden.
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