Chapter 5

A SOUTH PACIFIC TYPHOON

Our fine weather held for five days. Then, just as we were approaching the dangerous district Captain Steele had spoken of to me, the sky lowered, a stiff breeze came out of the northwest and the waves began to pile up as only the waves of the South Pacific can.

By night it was blowing a gale; but our passengers, with the exception of Lucia and Alfonso, had taken to their berths long before this. The Seagull behaves beautifully in a storm. An ordinary gale does not disturb her coolness in the least. She merely tosses her head, takes the bit in her teeth, so to speak, and prances a trifle instead of gliding.

But this was no ordinary storm. We who had experienced all sorts of weather in our voyages were soon forced to admit that fact. The wind veered every hour or so; it blew steadily for a time and then came in gusts—“pushes,” Uncle Naboth called them—that were exceedingly trying to both the ship and crew. We would no sooner find our sea legs on one slant of the deck when over she flopped and we had to seek a new angle to cling to. The waves were tremendous and the wind seized their curling edges and scattered them in foamy spray over the ship. The sky became black as ink; the gale roared and shrieked with maddening intensity; yet we bore it all stolidly enough for a time, confident of the staunchness of our bark and the skill of her captain.

My father had put on his pea-jacket and helmet at the beginning of the storm and kept his station on deck sturdily. He assured us he knew exactly where we were and that we had a clear sea ahead of us; but when the Seagull began to swerve here and there, driven by the irresistible power of the gale, even he became bewildered and uncertain of his bearings.

All that night the ship fought bravely. It kept up the fight throughout the long succeeding day. Perhaps it was because all hands were weary that the ship seemed to head into the storm of the second night with less than her usual energy and spirit.

Drenched to the skin I crept along the deck to where my father stood. I am no seaman and have no business on deck at such a time, but I will own that for the first time in my experience at sea I had become nervous, and I wanted the captain to reassure me.

I found him near the bow, clinging to the rail and trying to peer into the night. He was dripping with spray and had to wipe his eyes every few moments to enable him to see at all.

“How’s everything, father?” I asked, my mouth to his ear.

He shook his head.

“All right if we don’t bump something,” he managed to say when a brief lull came. “We’ve veered an’ sliced an’ slipped around so much that I don’t just know where we’re at; ’cept we’re way off our course.”

That was bad; very bad. We hadn’t sighted an island since the storm began, but that was no evidence we were not near a group of them. There was a fairly good searchlight aboard the ship, and it was now being worked every minute from the lookout; but it couldn’t do more on a night like this than warn us of any near by danger.

“Go back!” roared my father in my ear. “Go to bed an’ save your strength. You may need it afore long.”

That was the most fearful speech I ever heard him utter. Nothing had ever disturbed his supreme confidence before. I crept away heartsick and awed, and managed to get safely below, where I found Uncle Naboth smoking his pipe in the main cabin.

“Where yer been, Sam?” he inquired.

“Talking to father.”

“What does he say?”

“We’ve lost our bearings and the sea is full of islands. The ship is all right, you know. It’s only the water that’s dangerous.”

He gave a grunt and looked thoughtful.

“I’ve seen gales, ’n’ gales,” he remarked presently. “Usually they’re respectable critters an’ you know what to expect of ’em. But this sort of a jugglin’ wind beats all figgerin’. Fer me, Sam, I fall back on our luck. It’s stayed by us so far, an’ I don’t see no reason fer it to change front. Eh?”

“I agree with you, Uncle,” I replied, and was about to add another optimistic remark when in rushed—or tumbled, rather—Señor de Jiminez, his face white and his teeth chattering. He had shed his gorgeous raiment and was attired merely in a dark brown bath robe.

“Tell me,” he said, steadying himself by the table as the ship lurched to leeward, “is there—can there be—any danger?”

“Danger of what?” I asked, not knowing just how to reply to him.

“To the cargo—to the arms!” he gasped in choking tones. Then I saw he was not frightened about the safety of the people, or even the ship, but was exercised solely on account of those precious arms.

“Why, if we go down, the cargo goes with us,” I returned, smiling in spite of the gravity of the situation. “But I imagine we’ll all float long enough to—”

The Seagull lurched the other way as a great wave caught her, and while we clung to the furniture for support there came a sharp crack and the ship staggered and keeled well over.

She lay there a long time, trembling slightly. I could hear the waves dash against her with the force of a trip hammer. The door of the stateroom opposite flew open and Madam de Alcantara came rolling into the cabin and landed at my feet. I managed to seize her and drag her to a chair beside me; but she clung round my neck sobbing and crying out:

“What is it? Oh, what is it? Are we sinking? Is all lost?” This in Spanish was quite impressive.

“Be calm, Madam,” I replied, noticing that she was robed in a charming dressing gown and had not been injured by her dash across the cabin floor. “There’s nothing serious the matter, you may be sure.”

I was not really confident of this. Never had I known the Seagull to behave in such a manner before. She rolled terribly, and the waves were dealing her sides thundering blows, one after another.

Uncle Naboth was endeavoring to gain the door to get on deck when Joe came in, water running from his slicker in floods and his face covered with grease and grime.

“What’s up, old man?” I demanded.

“Screw snapped and tore away the rudder,” said Joe. “I was in the engine-room when it happened. It sent the wheels whirling, I can tell you, before we could shut down.”

“Then we’re now drifting?”

He nodded.

“If there was any chance at all we could ship a new rudder. That would serve to keep us straight, anyhow, and we could use the sails as soon as the wind moderates. But the gale’s as crazy as a bedbug, and I can’t see that anything can be done just now.”

“Nothing but wait,” said I. “Where’s father?”

“Trying to lash a rudder to the stern; but it’s hopeless.”

“And Ned?”

“Ned’s with him, of course. I wanted to help but they ordered me below.”

By this time all of our passengers had gathered in the cabin listening to Joe’s dismal report. Nux was there, too, tying Madam de Jiminez fast in a big chair so she would not fall out and then tendering his services wherever they were needed.

For a wonder the ship became a bit steadier now that she was absolutely helpless. She got into the trough of the sea where the wind did not buffet her so badly, and although the waves washed over her constantly she was so tight and staunch that she shed the water like a duck. I do not remember ever to have passed a more uneasy hour than the one that followed the cracking of the screw and the loss of our rudder. Had it not been for the women it is likely I would have regarded our predicament in the light of an adventure, and been excited and elated over the danger. But the presence of our female passengers altered the case entirely and rendered it far more serious.

We were a glum lot, if I may except Uncle Naboth, who still strove to smoke his pipe and remain philosophic. Alfonso was calm and endeavored to comfort his father by saying that as long as we floated the arms were safe. Lucia devoted herself to her mother with a coolness that was admirable, and Madam de Jiminez was as quiet and contented as ever, not making any sort of a fuss and proving her courage in a way that quite won us all. I do not know just what hysterics are; but if they’re a sort of a wild fit that induces one to run amuck, then Madam de Alcantara had them—and had them badly. She screeched, and kicked and howled and wailed that she was too young to die; although for that matter she hadn’t the advantage of many of us, and I don’t see that youth has any special show in a South Sea gale, anyhow.

At the end of an hour my father came stumping in on his wooden leg, looking haggard and weary.

“Brandy, Sam!” he said, tumbling into a chair.

I brought him the bottle and a glass and he took a good swig.

“Bry can’t make coffee. The galley’s washed out,” continued the captain. And then he drew his hand across his forehead with a gesture that I well knew, and that always betokened perturbation of an unusual sort.

“Did you fail to ship the rudder?” I asked.

“’Tain’t that, Sam. There wasn’t much chance, anyhow. But Billy Burke an’ Dick Leavenworth is washed away—gone—done for!”

My heart gave a thump of dismay. Two of our finest seamen lost; fellows I had earnestly respected and admired. It was the first fatality our crew had ever experienced, so no wonder my father was broken-hearted over it. I remembered that Leavenworth had a family, and the thought made me shudder.

“The ship will the storm stand, and be all good—will it not?” asked De Jiminez, by this time thoroughly unstrung and despairing. There was something almost pitiful in the question—hoping against hope—and of course Captain Steele lied to reassure him.

“The Seagull’s all right,” he asserted. “She’ll stand a much worse knockin’ around than this, an’ be none the worse for it. You’d better all go to bed an’ try to sleep. If only we had a clear sea I’d turn in myself.”

“But it is said we are drifting, Captain! A propeller we have not; a rudder we have not! We have no defense against the sea—we are impotent—helpless!” wailed De Jiminez.

“Why, yes; that’s a fact,” admitted the captain. “We’re jest like a chip, floatin’ whichever way the wind blows. But you never heard of a chip sinkin’, did you?”

“N—no,” was the doubting reply.

“What do you mean by saying there’s not a clear sea?” asked young Alfonso.

“Study yer jogerfy,” said my father gruffly. “You’ll find the South Seas specked with islands everywheres. I don’t jest know where we are at this minute, but I’ll gamble there’s islands not far away.”

“Oh. Then if the ship happens to break up we can easily get to land, and perhaps save the cargo,” remarked Little Jim complacently.

My father stared at him, muttered some inaudible remark and rose to return to the deck.

“Must you go?” I asked.

“It’s my place, Sam,” said he.

“But you’ll be careful?” I never said such a thing to him before, but I had poor Dick and Billy Burke in my mind—cautious fellows, both of them—and my father had a wooden leg.

“I’ll lash myself to the riggin’ when I get to it,” he returned, and disappeared up the companionway.

We sat in dismal silence for a time. The wind seemed to be abating, but the waves continued their mad rolling as vigorously as ever. Finally Madam de Jiminez expressed a wish to return to her stateroom. Nux understood Spanish, for our blacks were marvels at acquiring languages and could speak half a dozen tongues; so the steward assisted the old lady to her berth and made her as comfortable as possible. After a long argument Lucia prevailed upon her mother to go to bed, and the moaning, despairing woman was led to her room. Perhaps inspired by this example Uncle Naboth decided to “turn in,” but the two De Jiminez stuck it out and remained all night in the cabin, deploring their hard luck in choicest Spanish. As much to escape their moody companionship as anything else I went to my own room and lay down upon the bunk without removing my clothing. It was then about three o’clock, and although the motion of the vessel had greatly moderated I found it no easy task to stay in my berth. Being at the mercy of the waves the Seagull performed some queer antics, and once or twice I wondered if she wouldn’t “turn turtle,” so far over did the waves keel her. But, queerly enough, we get used to anything in time, and as I was much exhausted I finally fell into a doze, and then into a deep slumber.