The coast sheered vertical like a rampart wall, and up--up--up that
dripping rock clutched the tossing billows like watery arms of sirens.
It needed no seaman to prophecy the fate of a boat caught between that
rock and a nor'easter.
Then the gale would veer, and out raced a tidal billow of waters like
to take the St. Pierre broadside.
"Helm hard alee!" shouts Radisson in the teeth of the gale.
For the fraction of a second we were driving before the oncoming rush.
Then the sea rose up in a wall on our rear.
There was a shattering crash. The billows broke in sheets of whipping
spray. The decks swam with a river of waters. One gun wrenched loose,
teetered to the roll, and pitched into the seething deep. Yard-arms
came splintering to the deck. There was a roaring of waters over us,
under us, round us--then M. de Radisson, Jean, and I went slithering
forward like water-rats caught in a whirlpool. My feet struck against
windlass chains. Jean saved himself from washing overboard by
cannoning into me; but before the dripping bowsprit rose again to mount
the swell, M. de Radisson was up, shaking off spray like a water-dog
and muttering to himself: "To be snuffed out like a candle--no--no--no,
my fine fellows! Leap to meet it! Leap to meet it!"
And he was at the wheel himself.
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