“Shall I cut?” he demanded, with uplifted arms, and in a voice that atoned for his momentary confusion, by its steadiness and force.

“Hold!—­Does the ship mind her helm at all?”

“Not an inch, sir.”

“Then cut,” Wilder clearly and calmly added.

A single blow sufficed for the discharge of this important duty.  Extended to the utmost powers of endurance, by the vast weight it upheld, the lanyard struck by Earing no sooner parted, than each of its fellows snapped in succession, leaving the mast dependent on its wood for the support of all the ponderous and complicated hamper it upheld.  The cracking of the spar came next; and the whole fell, like a tree that had been snapped at its foundation.

“Does she fall off?” called Wilder, to the observant seaman at the wheel.

“She yielded a little, sir; but this new squall is bringing her up again.”

“Shall I cut?” shouted Earing from the main-rigging, whither he had leaped, like a tiger who had bounded on his prey.

“Cut.”

A louder and more imposing crash succeeded this order, though not before several heavy blows had been struck into the massive mast itself.  As before, the sea received the tumbling maze of spars, rigging, and sails; the vessel surging at the same instant, from its recumbent position, and rolling far and heavily to windward.

“She rights! she rights!” exclaimed twenty voices which had been mute, in a suspense that involved life and death.

“Keep her dead away!” added the calm but authoritative voice of the young commander.  “Stand by to furl the fore-top-sail—­let it hang a moment to drag the ship clear of the wreck—­cut, cut—­cheerily, men—­hatchets and knives—­cut with all, and cut off all!”

As the men now worked with the vigour of hope, the ropes that still confined the fallen spars to the vessel were quickly severed; and the Caroline, by this time dead before the gale, appeared barely to touch the foam that covered the sea.  The wind came over the waste in gusts that rumbled like distant thunder, and with a power that seemed to threaten to lift the ship from its proper element.  As a prudent and sagacious seaman had let fly the halyards, of the solitary sail that remained, at the moment the squall approached, the loosened but lowered topsail was now distended in a manner that threatened to drag after it the only mast which still stood.  Wilder saw the necessity of getting rid of the sail, and he also saw the utter impossibility of securing it.  Calling Earing to his side, he pointed out the danger, and gave the necessary order.

“The spar cannot stand such shocks much longer,” he concluded; “should it go over the bows, some fatal blow might be given to the ship at the rate she is moving.  A man or two must be sent aloft to cut the sail from the yards.”

“The stick is bending like a willow whip,” returned the mate, “and the lower mast itself is sprung.  There would be great danger in trusting a hand in that top, while these wild squalls are breathing around us.”