Mr. Baker, knocked down
with the rest, screamed--"Don't let go that rope! Hold on to it! Hold!"
And sorely bruised by the brutal fling, they held on to it, as though it
had been the fortune of their life. The ship ran, rolling heavily, and
the topping crests glanced past port and starboard flashing their
white heads. Pumps were freed. Braces were rove. The three topsails
and foresail were set. She spurted faster over the water, outpacing the
swift rush of waves. The menacing thunder of distanced seas rose behind
her--filled the air with the tremendous vibrations of its voice. And
devastated, battered, and wounded she drove foaming to the northward, as
though inspired by the courage of a high endeavour....
The forecastle was a place of damp desolation. They looked at their
dwelling with dismay. It was slimy, dripping; it hummed hollow with the
wind, and was strewn with shapeless wreckage like a half-tide cavern in
a rocky and exposed coast. Many had lost all they had in the world, but
most of the starboard watch had preserved their chests; thin streams of
water trickled out of them, however. The beds were soaked; the blankets
spread out and saved by some nail squashed under foot.
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