Even as he spoke he beheld a trickle of water glistening down the
forward bends, and then a little rill, and then a spurt, as if a serious
leak was sprung. He found the source of this, and contrived to caulk
it with a strand of tarred rope for the present; but the sinking of his
knife into the forward timber showed him that a great part of the bows
was rotten. If a head-sea arose, the crazy old frame would be prone to
break in bodily, whereas if he attempted to run before the sea, already
beginning to rise heavily from the west, there was nothing to save the
frail craft from being pooped. On every side it was a bad lookout, there
was every sign of a gale impending, which he could not even hope to
weather, and the only chance of rescue lay in the prompt appearance of
some British ship.
Even in this sad plight his courage and love of native land prevailed
against the acceptance of aid from Frenchmen, if any should approach
to offer it. Rather would he lie at the bottom of the Channel, or drift
about among contending fishes, than become again a prisoner with his
secret in his mind, and no chance of sending it to save his country. As
a forlorn hope, he pulled out a stump of pencil, and wrote on the back
of a letter from his mother a brief memorandum of what he had heard, and
of the urgency of the matter. Then taking a last draught of his tarry
water, he emptied the little tub, and fixed the head in, after he had
enclosed his letter.
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