fleet were blown down to the northward of the bay. On the seventh day the Ter Schilling found herself alone, but the weather had moderated. Sail was again made upon the vessel, and her head put to the eastward, that she might run in for the land.
“We are unfortunate in thus parting with all our consorts,” observed Mynheer Kloots to Philip, as they were standing at the gangway; “but it must be near meridian, and the sun will enable me to discover our latitude. It is difficult to say how far we may have been swept by the gale and the currents to the northward. Boy, bring up my cross-staff, and be mindful that you do not strike it against anything as you come up.”
The cross-staff at that time was the simple instrument used to discover the latitude, which it would give to a nice observer to within five or ten miles. Quadrants and sextants were the invention of a much later period. Indeed, considering that they had so little knowledge of navigation and the variation of the compass, and that their easting and westing could only be computed by dead reckoning, it is wonderful how our ancestors traversed the ocean in the way they did, with comparatively so few accidents.
“We are full three degrees to the northward of the Cape,” observed Mynheer Kloots, after he had computed his latitude. “The currents must be running strong; the wind is going down fast, and we shall have a change, if I mistake not.”
Towards the evening it fell calm, with a heavy swell setting towards the shore; shoals of seals appeared on the surface, following the vessel as she drove before the swell; the fish darted and leaped in every direction, and the ocean around them appeared to be full of life as the sun slowly descended to the horizon.
“What is that noise we hear?” observed Philip; “it sounds like distant thunder.”
“I hear it,” replied Mynheer Kloots. “Aloft there, do you see the land?”
“Yes,” replied the man after a pause in ascending the topmast shrouds. “It is right ahead — low sand-hills, and the sea breaking high.”
“Then that must be the noise we hear. We sweep in fast with this heavy ground-swell. I wish the breeze would spring up.”
The sun was dipping under the horizon, and the calm still continued: the swell had driven the Ter Schilling so rapidly on the shore that now they could see the breakers which fell over with the noise of thunder.
“Do you know the coast, pilot?” observed the captain to Schriften, who stood by.
“Know it well,” replied Schriften; “the sea breaks in twelve fathoms at least. In half an hour the good ship will be beaten into toothpicks, without a breeze to help us.” And the little man giggled as if pleased at the idea.
The anxiety of Mynheer Kloots was not to be concealed; his pipe was every moment in and out of his mouth. The crew remained in groups on the forecastle and gangway, listening with dismay to the fearful roaring of the breakers. The sun had sunk down below the horizon, and the gloom of night was gradually adding to the alarm of the crew of the Ter Schilling.
“We must lower down the boats,” said Mynheer Kloots to the first mate, “and try to tow her off. We cannot do much good, I’m afraid; but at all events the boats will be ready for the men to get into before she drives on shore. Get the tow ropes out and lower down the boats, while I go in to acquaint the supercargo.”
Mynheer Von Stroom was sitting in all the dignity of his office, and, it being Sunday, had put on his very best wig. He was once more reading over the letter to the Company, relative to the bear, when Mynheer Kloots made his appearance, and informed him in a few words that they were in a situation of peculiar danger, and that in all probability the ship would be in pieces in less than half an hour. At this alarming intelligence, Mynheer Von Stroom jumped up from his chair, and in his hurry and fear knocked down the candle which had just been lighted.
“In danger! Mynheer Kloots! — why the water is smooth and the wind down! My hat — where is my hat and my cane? I will go on deck. Quick! A light — Mynheer Kloots, if you please to order a light to be brought; I can find nothing in the dark. Mynheer Kloots, why do you not answer? Mercy on me! he is gone and has left me.”
Mynheer Kloots had gone to fetch a light, and now returned with it. Mynheer Von Stroom put on his hat, and walked out of the cabin. The boats were down, and the ship’s head had been turned round from the land: but it was now quite dark and nothing was to be seen but the white line of foam created by the breakers as they dashed with an awful noise against the shore.
“Mynheer Kloots, if you please, I’ll leave the ship directly. Let my boat come alongside — I must have the largest boat for the Honourable Company’s service — for the papers and myself.”
“I’m afraid not, Mynheer Von Stroom,” replied Kloots; “our boats will hardly hold the men as it is, and every man’s life is as valuable to himself as yours is to you.”
“But, Mynheer, I am the Company’s supercargo. I order you — I will have one — refuse if you dare.”
“I dare, and do refuse,” replied the captain, taking his pipe out of his mouth.
“Well, well,” replied Mynheer Von Stroom, who now lost all presence of mind — “we will, sir — as soon as we arrive — Lord help us! — we are lost. O Lord! O Lord!” And here Mynheer Von Stroom, not knowing why, hurried down to the cabin, and in his haste tumbled over the bear Johannes, who crossed his path, and in his fall his hat and flowing wig parted company with his head.
“O! mercy! where am I? Help — help here! for the Honourable Company’s supercargo!”
“Cast off there in the boats, and come on board,” cried Mynheer Kloots, “we have no time to spare. Quick now, Philip, put in the compass, the water, and the biscuit; we must leave her in five minutes.”
So appalling was the roar of the breakers, that it was with difficulty that the orders could be heard. In the mean time Mynheer Von Stroom lay upon the deck, kicking, sprawling, and crying for help.
“There is a light breeze off the shore,” cried Philip, holding up his hand.
“There is, but I’m afraid it is too late. Hand the things into the boats, and be cool, my men. We have yet a chance of saving her, if the wind freshens.”
They were now so near to the breakers that they felt the swell in which the vessel lay becalmed turned over here and there on its long line, but the breeze freshened and the vessel was stationary! The men were all in the boats, with the exception of Mynheer Kloots, the mates, and Mynheer Von Stroom.
“She goes through the water now,” said Philip.
“Yes, I think we shall save her,” replied the captain: “steady as you go, Hillebrant,” continued he to the first mate, who was at the helm. “We leave the breakers now — only let the breeze hold ten minutes.”
The breeze was steady, the Ter Schilling stood off from the land, again it fell calm, and again she was swept towards the breakers; at last the breeze came off strong, and the vessel cleaved through the water. The men were called out of the boats; Mynheer Von Stroom was picked up along with his hat and wig, carried into the cabin, and in less than an hour the Ter Schilling was out of danger.
“Now we will hoist up the boats,” said Mynheer Kloots, “and let us all, before we lie down to sleep, thank God for our deliverance.”
During that night the Ter Schilling made an offing of twenty miles, and then stood to the southward; towards the morning the wind again fell, and it was nearly calm.
Mynheer Kloots had been on deck about an hour, and had been talking with Hillebrant upon the danger of the evening, and the selfishness and pusillanimity of Mynheer Von Stroom, when a loud noise was heard in the poop-cabin.
“What can that be?” said the captain; “has the good man lost his senses from the fright? Why, he is knocking the cabin to pieces.”
At this moment the servant of the supercargo ran out of the cabin.
“Mynheer Kloots, hasten in — help my master — he will be killed