Wind and current were carrying her out of her
course.
In spite of all the captain's sea-craft the ship was being driven
nearer to the dreaded, low, shingle beach of the island that stretched
along the northern edge of the sea. The captain did not fear the
coast itself, for it had no rocks. But the lines deepened on his
weather-scarred face as he saw, gathering on the shelving beach, the
wild, yellow-haired men of the island.
The ship was being carried nearer and nearer to the coast. All on
board could now see the Men of the Shingle Beach waving their spears
and axes.
The current and the wind swung the ship still closer to the shore, and
now--even above the whistle of the gale in the cordage--the crew heard
the wild whoop of the wreckers. These men on the beach were the sons
of pirates. But they were now cowards compared with their fathers. For
they no longer lived by the wild sea-rover's fight that had made
their fathers' blood leap with the joy of the battle. They lived by
a crueller craft. Waiting till some such vessel as this was swept
ashore, they would swoop down on it, harry and slay the men, carry the
women and children off for slaves, break up the ship and take the wood
and stores for fire and food. They were beach-combers.
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