The fellow yelped out fear. Down clattered his weapon to the deck.

"Now sit there," ordered Radisson, replacing his beaver. "Sit there
till I give you leave to come down!"

Allemand, the pilot, had lost his head and was steering a course
crooked as a worm fence. Young Jean Groseillers went white as the
sails, and scarce had strength to slue the guns back or jacket their
muzzles. And, instead of curling forward with the crest of the roll,
the spray began to chop off backward in little short waves like a
horse's mane--a bad, bad sign, as any seaman will testify. And I, with
my musket at guard above the fo'scuttle, had a heart thumping harder
than the pounding seas.

And what do you think M. Radisson said as he wiped the sweat from his
brow?

"A pretty pickle,[1] indeed, to ground a man's plans on such dashed
impudence! Hazard o' life! As if a man would turn from his course for
them! Spiders o' hell! I'll strike my topmast to Death himself
first--so the devil go with them! The blind gods may crush--they shall
not conquer! They may kill--but I snap my fingers in their faces to
the death! A pretty pickle, indeed! Batten down the hatches, Ramsay.
Lend Jean a hand to get the guns under cover. There's a storm!"

And "a pretty pickle" it was, with the "porps" floundering bodily from
wave-crest to wave-crest, the winds shrieking through the cordage, and
the storm-fiends brewing a hurricane like to engulf master and crew!