For all our efforts the Gauntlet still canted heavily to leeward, and as the gale grew to its height the little canvas necessary to heave-to came near to drowning us.  Towards midnight our plight grew so desperate that Billy, consulting no one, determined to risk all—­ the unknown dangers of the coast, his complete ignorance of navigation, the risk of presenting her crazy stern timbers to the following seas—­and run for it.  At once we were called up from the hold and set to relieve the half-dead workers at the pumps.

All that night we ran blindly, and all next day.  The gale had southerned, and we no longer feared a lee-shore:  but for forty-eight hours we lived with the present knowledge that the next stern wave might engulf us as its predecessor had just missed to do.  The waves, too, in this inland sea, were not the great rollers—­the great kindly giants—­of our Atlantic gales, but shorter and more vicious in impact:  and, under Heaven, our only hope against them hung by the two ropes of Billy’s jury steering-gear.

They served us nobly.  Towards sunset of the second day, although to eye and ear the gale had not sensibly abated, and the sea ran by us as tall as ever, we knew that the worst was over.  We could not have explained our assurance.  It was a feeling—­no more—­but one which any man will recognize who has outlived a like time of peril on the sea.  We did not hope again, for we were past the effort to hope.  Numb, drenched, our very skins bleached like a washerwoman’s hands, our eyes caked with brine, our limbs so broken with weariness of the eternal pumping that when our shift was done, where we fell there we lay, and had to be kicked aside—­we had scarcely the spirit to choose between life and death.  Yet all the while we had been fighting for life like madmen.

Towards the close of the day, too, Roger Wearne had made shift to crawl on deck and bear a hand.  Captain Pomery lay in the huddle of the forecastle, no man tending him:  and old Worthyvale awaited burial, stretched in the hold upon the ballast.

At whiles, as my fingers cramped themselves around the handle of the pump, it seemed as though we had been fighting this fight, tholing this misery, gripping the verge of this precipice for years upon years, and this nightmare sat heaviest upon me when the third morning broke and I turned in the sudden blessed sunshine—­but we blessed it not—­and saw what age the struggle had written on my father’s face.  I passed a hand over my eyes, and at that moment Mr. Fett, who had been snatching an hour’s sleep below—­and no man better deserved it—­ thrust his head up through the broken hatchway, carolling—­

     “To all you ladies now at land
        We men at sea indite,
      But first would have you understand
        How hard it is to write: 
      Our paper, pen, and ink and we
      Roll up and down our ships at sea,
        With a fa-la-LA!”