“Very true, but a lee shore is no joke; we may be knocked to pieces, as well as the boat—even swimming may not help us. If we could find a cove or sandy beach, we might, perhaps, manage to get on shore.”
“Well,” replied Jack, “I have not been long at sea, and, of course, cannot know much about these things. I have been blown off shore, but I never have been blown on. It may be as you say, but I do not see the great danger—let’s run her right up on the beach at once.”
“That’s what I shall try to do,” replied Gascoigne, who had been four years at sea, and knew very well what he was about.
Jack handed him a huge piece of bread and sausage.
“Thank ye, I cannot eat.”
“I can,” replied Jack, with his mouth full.
Jack ate while Gascoigne steered; and the rapidity with which the speronare rushed to the beach was almost frightful. She darted like an arrow from wave to wave, and appeared as if mocking their attempts as they curled their summits almost over her narrow stern. They were within a mile of the beach, when Jack, who had finished his supper, and was looking at the foam boiling on the coast, exclaimed,—
“That’s very fine—very beautiful, upon my soul!”
“He cares for nothing,” thought Gascoigne; “he appears to have no idea of danger.”
“Now, my dear fellow,” said Gascoigne, “in a few minutes we shall be on the rocks. I must continue at the helm, for the higher she is forced up the better chance for us; but we may not meet again, so if we do not, goodbye, and God bless you.”
“Gascoigne,” said Jack, “you are hurt and I am not; your shoulder is stiff, and you can hardly move your left arm. Now I can steer for the rocks as well as you. Do you go to the bow, and there you will have a better chance. By-the-bye,” continued he, picking up his pistols, and sticking them into his waist, “I won’t leave them, they’ve served us too good a turn already. Gascoigne, give me the helm.”
“No, no, Easy.”
“I say yes,” replied Jack, in a loud, authoritative tone, “and what’s more, I will be obeyed, Gascoigne. I have nerve, if I haven’t knowledge, and at all events I can steer for the beach. I tell you, give me the helm. —Well, then, if you won’t—I must take it.”
Easy wrested the tiller from Gascoigne’s hand, and gave him a shove forward.
“Now do you look out ahead, and tell me how to steer.”
Whatever may have been Gascoigne’s feelings at this behaviour of our hero’s, it immediately occurred to him, that he could not do better than to run the speronare to the safest point, and that therefore he was probably more advantageously employed, than if he were at the helm. He went forward and looked at the rocks, covered at one moment with the tumultuous waters, and then pouring down cascades from their sides as the waves recoiled. He perceived a chasm right ahead, and he thought if the boat was steered for that, she must be thrown up so as to enable them to get clear of her, for, at every other part, escape appeared impossible.
“Starboard a little—that’ll do. Steady—port it is— port.—Steer small, for your life, Easy. Steady now— mind the yard don’t hit your head—hold on.”