The flag was brought out and hung up--Jones standing by to see that no
pipe-lights were brought near--and we ranted at "Ye Mariners of
England" till the mate sent word that further din would mean a
"work-up" job for all of us.
Little we thought that we mariners would soon be facing dangers as
great as any we so glibly sang about. Even as we sang, the _Hilda_ was
speeding on a fatal course! Across her track the almost submerged hull
of a derelict lay drifting. Black night veiled the danger from the
keenest eyes.
A frenzied order from the poop put a stunning period to our merriment.
"Helm up, f'r God's sake! . . . _Up_!--_oh God_!--_Up_! _Up_!" A
furious impact dashed us to the deck. Staggering, bruised, and
bleeding, we struggled to our feet. Outside the yells of fear-stricken
men mingled with hoarse orders, the crash of spars hurtling from aloft
vied with the thunder of canvas, as the doomed barque swung round
broadside to the wind and sea.
Even in that dread moment Jones had heed of his precious flag. As we
flew to the door, he tore the flag down, stuffing it in his jumper as
he joined us at the boats.
There was no time to hoist out the life-boats--it was pinnace and gig
or nothing.
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