He has put the helm up, and soon
the great ship, with swelling sails, breaks out of the current.
He feels the change in an instant; the hands know it too. But the
danger is not past. Leaving the wheel to another, he runs quickly
forward to lean over the weather-rail. As he passes through the
crowd on the fo'castle, the poor fellows cheer him ringingly. The
fine old seaman doffs his cap and makes them a grand, manly bow.
He glances at the reef and then mutters quietly to himself, "She
will never clear it, and God forgive me!" Then, wheeling round, he
gives a command.
"Let go both anchors; it is our only chance!"
Many hearts sink at the order, but in as few moments as possible
the cables are smoking through the hawse-pipes. The anchors touch
bottom, and hold. All hands clutch the stanchions or shrouds in
anticipation of the shock. It comes. The ship, racing on, is brought
up with a round turn of such sudden force as to shake every nail
in her timbers. Aloft there is crash upon crash, and the lighter
spars come showering on to the deck, bringing with them ragged
remnants of canvas. One man is struck down. The hawsers hum with
strenuous vibration.
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