Black Dennis Nolan and his men stood by the frozen land-wash, along
which the currents snarled, and rolling seas, freighted with splinters
of black sea-ice, clattered and sloshed, waiting patiently for their
harvest from the vast and treacherous fields beyond. A grim harvest!
Grim fields to garner from, wherein he who sows peradventure shall not
reap, and wherein Death is the farmer! Aye, and grim gleaners those who
stand under the broken cliff of Nolan's Cove, waiting and listening in
the dark!

A dull, crashing, grinding sound set the black fog vibrating. Then a
brief clamor of panic-stricken voices rang in to the shore. Silence
followed that--a silence that was suddenly broken by the thumping report
of a cannon. The light flared dimly in the fog.

"Quiet, lads!" commanded the skipper. "Let the wood be till I gives ye
the word. She bes fast on the rocks, but she bain't busted yet."

"An' she'll not bust inside a week, i' this sea," said one of the men.
"Sure, skipper, the crew'll be comin' ashore i' their boats afore long.
An' they have their muskets an' cutlasses wid them, ye kin lay to that.
None but fools would come ashore on this coast, from a wreck, widout
their weepons."

"Aye, an' they'll be carryin' their gold an' sich, too," said the
skipper. "Lads, we'll do our best--an' that bain't fightin' an' killin',
i' this case, but the usin' o' our wits. Bill Brennen, tell off ten men
an' take 'em along the path to the south'ard wid ye. Lay down i' the
spruce-tuck alongside the path, about t'ree miles along, an' wait till
these folks from the ship comes up to ye, wid four or five o' our own