In the forehold were rebels who would sink us all to the bottom of the
sea if they could. Aft, powder enough to blow us all to eternity! On
deck, one brave man, two chittering lads, and a gin-soaked pilot
steering a crazy course among the fanged reefs of Labrador.

The wind backed and veered and came again so that a weather-vane could
not have shown which way it blew. At one moment the ship was jumping
from wave to wave before the wind with a single tiny storms'l out. At
another I had thought we must scud under bare poles for open sea.

The coast sheered vertical like a rampart wall, and up--up--up that
dripping rock clutched the tossing billows like watery arms of sirens.
It needed no seaman to prophecy the fate of a boat caught between that
rock and a nor'easter.

Then the gale would veer, and out raced a tidal billow of waters like
to take the St. Pierre broadside.

"Helm hard alee!" shouts Radisson in the teeth of the gale.

For the fraction of a second we were driving before the oncoming rush.

Then the sea rose up in a wall on our rear.

There was a shattering crash. The billows broke in sheets of whipping
spray. The decks swam with a river of waters. One gun wrenched loose,
teetered to the roll, and pitched into the seething deep. Yard-arms
came splintering to the deck. There was a roaring of waters over us,
under us, round us--then M. de Radisson, Jean, and I went slithering
forward like water-rats caught in a whirlpool. My feet struck against