Radisson said as he wiped the sweat from his
brow?
"A pretty pickle,[1] indeed, to ground a man's plans on such dashed
impudence! Hazard o' life! As if a man would turn from his course for
them! Spiders o' hell! I'll strike my topmast to Death himself
first--so the devil go with them! The blind gods may crush--they shall
not conquer! They may kill--but I snap my fingers in their faces to
the death! A pretty pickle, indeed! Batten down the hatches, Ramsay.
Lend Jean a hand to get the guns under cover. There's a storm!"
And "a pretty pickle" it was, with the "porps" floundering bodily from
wave-crest to wave-crest, the winds shrieking through the cordage, and
the storm-fiends brewing a hurricane like to engulf master and crew!
In the forehold were rebels who would sink us all to the bottom of the
sea if they could. Aft, powder enough to blow us all to eternity! On
deck, one brave man, two chittering lads, and a gin-soaked pilot
steering a crazy course among the fanged reefs of Labrador.
The wind backed and veered and came again so that a weather-vane could
not have shown which way it blew. At one moment the ship was jumping
from wave to wave before the wind with a single tiny storms'l out. At
another I had thought we must scud under bare poles for open sea.
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