‘Man the windlass,’ says he.

‘We’re going ashore, sir,’ says Bartholomew firmly.

‘How?’ says the captain.

‘In the boat,’ says Bartholomew.

‘Are you?’ says Goss:  ‘look at her!’ He had cut her adrift, and she was a mile off.

‘And now,’ says Goss, ’I was drunk last night, and frightened you—­playing tricks with cards.  Don’t be fools; do your duty, and defy Davy Jones.  If not’—­And then he flung open his pea-coat, and we saw four of the brass-mounted pistols in his belt.  But, mates, his one eye was worse than the four muzzles, and we slunk to our work, and obeyed him.  The easterly breeze came fresh, and we were soon bowling away nor’ard.  The captain stood long at the helm, and we gathered for’ard.  ‘We’re lost!’ said Bartholomew; ’we’re lost men!  We’re bought and sold!’

‘Bartholomew,’ shouts the captain, ‘come and take the helm!’ He went aft, mates, like a lamb; and the captain walked for’ards, and looked at us, one after another; and the one eye cowed us.  We were not like men; and he was our master.  When he went below, we grouped together, and looked out to windward.  It was getting black—­black; the wind was coming off in gusts; and the Lively Nan began to dance to the seas that came rolling in from the eastward.  ‘The equinoctial!’ we says one to another.  In an hour more, mates, all the sky to windward was like a big sheet of lead; with white clouds, like feathers, driving athwart it—­the clouds, as it were, whiter than the firmament.  You know the meaning, mates, of a sky like that; and accordingly, by nightfall, we had it; and the Lively Nan, under close-reefed main-sail and storm-jib, was groaning, and plunging, and diving in the seas—­the wind blowing, mates, as if it would have wrenched the mast out of the keelson.  Many a gale have I been in, before and since, but that was the worst of all.  Well, mates, we thought we were doomed, but we did our work, silent and steady; and we kept the smack under a press of canvas that none but such a boat could bear, to claw her off the lee-shore—­off them fearsome sands that lie all along Lincolnshire.  Captain Goss was as bold and cool as ever, and stood by the tiller-tackle, and steered the ship as no hand but his could do.

It was the gloaming of the night, mates, when the gale came down, heavier and heavier—­a perfect blast, that tore up the very sea, and drove sheets of water into the air.  We were a’most blinded, and clung to cleats and rigging—­the sea tumbling over and over us; and the poor, old smack at length smashed down on her beam-ends.  All at once, the mast went over the side; and as we righted and rose on the curl of a seaway, Bartholomew sung out, loud and shrill:  ‘Sail, ho!’ We looked.  Right to windward, mates, there was a sort of light opening in the clouds; something of the colour of the ring round the moon in dirty weather, and nigh as round; and in the middle of it was a smack, driving right down on us, her bowsprit not a cable-length from our broadside.  She looked wondrous like the Lively Nan herself, and some of us saw our own faces clustered for’ard, looking at ourselves over the bow!