Taking advantage of a momentary lull, we crawled up the sands on
our hands and knees, and, pausing in the lee of the granite ledge
to gain breath, returned to the camp, where we found that the gale
had snapped all the fastenings of the tent but one. Held by this,
the puffed-out canvas swayed in the wind like a balloon. It was a
task of some difficulty to secure it, which we did by beating down
the canvas with the oars.
After several trials, we succeeded in setting up the tent on the
leeward side of the ledge. Blinded by the vivid flashes of
lightning, and drenched by the rain, which fell in torrents, we
crept, half dead with fear and anguish, under our flimsy shelter.
Neither the anguish nor the fear was on our own account, for we
were comparatively safe, but for poor little Binny Wallace, driven
out to sea in the merciless gale. We shuddered to think of him in
that frail shell, drifting on and on to his grave, the sky rent
with lightning over his head, and the green abysses yawning beneath
him.
Pages:
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33