“I go aloft, to ease the mast of that topsail, without which we lose the spar, and possibly the ship.”

“Ay, ay, I see that plain enough; but, shall it be said, Another did the duty of Edward Earing?  It is your business to carry the vessel into the Capes of Virginia, and mine to cut the topsail adrift.  If harm comes to me, why, put it in the log, with a word or two about the manner in which I played my part:  That is always the best and most proper epitaph for a sailor.”

Wilder made no resistance, but resumed his watchful and reflecting attitude, with the simplicity of one who had been too long trained to the discharge of certain obligations himself, to manifest surprise that another should acknowledge their imperative character.  In the mean time, Earing proceeded steadily to perform what he had just promised.  Passing into the waist of the ship, he provided himself with a suitable hatchet, and then, without speaking a syllable to any of the mute but attentive seamen, he sprang into the fore-rigging, every strand and rope-yarn of which was tightened by the strain nearly to snapping.  The understanding eyes of his observers comprehended his intention; and, with precisely the same pride of station as had urged him to the dangerous undertaking, four or five of the older mariners jumped upon the ratlings, to mount with him into an air that apparently teemed with a hundred hurricanes.

“Lie down out of that fore-rigging,” shouted Wilder, through a deck-trumpet; “lie down; all, but the mate, lie down!” His words were borne past the inattentive ears of the excited and mortified followers of Earing, but they failed of their effect.  Each man was too much bent on his own earnest purpose to listen to the sounds of recall.  In less than a minute, the whole were scattered along the yards, prepared to obey the signal of their officer.  The mate cast a look about him; and, perceiving that the time was comparatively favourable, he struck a blow upon the large rope that confined one of the angles of the distended and bursting sail to the lower yard.  The effect was much the same as would be produced by knocking away the key-stone of an ill-cemented arch.  The canvas broke from all its fastenings with a loud explosion, and, for an instant, was seen sailing in the air ahead of the ship, as though sustained on the wings of an eagle.  The vessel rose on a sluggish wave—­the lingering remains of the former breeze—­and then settled heavily over the rolling surge, borne down alike by its own weight and the renewed violence of the gusts.  At this critical instant while the seamen aloft were still gazing in the direction in which the little cloud of canvas had disappeared, a lanyard of the lower rigging parted with a crack that even reached the ears of Wilder.

“Lie down!” he shouted fearfully through his trumpet; “down by the backstays; down for your lives; every man of you, down!”