Читать книгу Edith Percival - May Agnes Fleming - Страница 6

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"Alone, alone, all, all alone,

Alone on the wide, wide sea."

"I say, Jack, old fellow, it'll be doomsday before we reach Boston, at this rate," remarked Gus, some three hours after the conversation related above—as he, together with his friend, stood once more on the deck.

The pleasant breeze of the morning had passed away, and was succeeded by a dead calm. Not a breath of air rippled the surface of the deep; the sails lay flapping idly against the masts; the crew lay, gasping for breath, over the side of the ship. The sun, with its fiery, brassy glow, glared in the cloudless sky, loosening the very seams of the ship with the scorching heat, until everything looked parched and burning. The vessel lay motionless on the glittering sea, her masts and ropes reflected on the polished surface, as in a mirror. One could almost imagine her to be a painted ship on a painted ocean—so still, so lifeless, so sluggard was the calm.

The old tar addressed gave his trousers a hitch, turned an enormous quid of tobacco into the other cheek, and replied only by a dissatisfied growl.

"I'm fairly choking for breath," went on Gus, leaning over the bulwarks in the vain endeavor to catch a mouthful of air; "I wish to heaven a breeze would spring up."

"Humph!" grunted the old tar, as he discharged an enormous stream of tobacco-juice over the side, "you'll have your wish before you sleep, youngster, or I'm mistaken."

"Well, confess you're a better judge of the weather than I am, if you can see any sign of a breeze," said Gus. "By the look of things at present I should conclude we might lie sweltering here for a month of Sundays."

"I've been on the ocean man and boy, for thirty odd years, sir, and ought to know something of weather signs. If it doesn't blow great guns before the sun sets to-night, then you may call old Jack a good-for-nothing lubber—that's all."

"I vow I hope it may! This dog-trot rate of going is enough to provoke a Quaker to kick his grandmother. A stiff breeze will give us new life, and set things all right again," said Gus.

"Maybe so," said the old salt, rather doubtingly; "but, if I'm not mistaken, you'll wish yourself safe on land before you see the sun rise again."

"Faith! I wish I were there now," said Gus, with a yawn. "I never was born for a sailor; and never were the children of Israel more tired of their quarters in the desert than I am of this rascally old ark. Look out for your storm, Jack; and if you see it coming, just let me know."

And Gus seated himself on the quarter-rail, and leisurely lit a cigar.

An hour or two passed away in silence. The sun was setting, but the heat was still intense. Fred lay gazing idly into the ship's wake; Gus puffed away, and thought of Nell; but the heat had rendered both too languid to talk. Suddenly a hand was laid on his arm; and looking up, Gus beheld old Jack.

"Look now, sir," said the old man, pointing to the sky. Absorbed in his own reflections, the young man had totally forgotten the prediction of the old sailor. As he glanced up at the sky, he involuntarily uttered an exclamation of surprise at the sight which met his eye.

As far as he could see, in every direction, a huge black pall of intense darkness covered the face of the heavens. A lurid, crimson line of fire in the west showed where the sun had sank below the horizon, and was reflected like a thin stream of blood on the sea. Faint puffs of wind, from what quarter of the heavens no man could tell, at intervals sighed through the rigging, only to be followed by an ominous calm, more profound than before. The ship lay rolling heavily on the black, glassy billows, rising and falling like a dull, heavy log. A gloom like that of midnight was gathering over sea and sky—the dismal, ominous silence involuntarily made the boldest catch his breath quick and short, and filled each heart with a nameless awe, as they stood in silent expectation of what was to follow this dead calm of Nature, as she paused to take breath before the hurricane of her wrath burst in its full force.

At this moment, the clear, commanding voice of Captain Harden was heard giving orders to his men to reef the sails.

"We'll have a rousing gale to-night," said he, a few moments afterward, "or I'm mistaken. I knew this dead calm didn't come for nothing. Ha! here it is! Down, men, down, and hold fast for your lives! The squall is upon us!"

Even as he spoke, the black pall that hung over the sky seemed visibly lifted up, and a ghastly, whitish light lit up the heaving sea. A vivid flash of lightning blazed in the sky followed by a crash of thunder that seemed to rend the very heavens in twain, accompanied by a flood of rain and a terrific gale of wind—and the hurricane burst upon them with tremendous force. For a moment the good ship tottered and quivered in every timber, as if trembling before the gigantic foe; then plunging suddenly downward like a maddened steed, she flew before the hurricane with the speed of the wind. On, on, on, with the spray dashing over the decks, and drenching to the skin the affrighted crew, she sped like a flash. The lightning blazed as though the whole heavens were one vast sheet of flame; the thunder crashed peal upon peal, as though the earth were rending asunder; the rain fell in vast floods of water; the wind shrieked and howled like a demon with impotent fury, and the bark plunged madly on, quivering, creaking, groaning, and straining in every timber. The huge billows rose black and terrific, yawning as though to engulf them, the white foam gleaming dismal and ghastly in the spectral darkness, now and then shown in their appalling hugeness by the blinding glare of the lightning. The whole scene was inexpressibly grand and terrific—the most cowardly soul lost all sense of fear in the awful sublimity, the unspeakable grandeur of the elemental uproar.

Fortunately, the hurricane was not one of long duration. Ere an hour had passed, the violence of the squall had greatly abated, but not before it had nearly dismantled the ship.

Fred Stanley stood clinging to a rope, gazing at the troubled sea and sky with a feeling of unspeakable awe, that swallowed up every other feeling. His hat had blown off; his long dark locks streamed wildly in the gale—his eyes were fixed, as if fascinated, on the gigantic billows, rising like huge mountains as if to overwhelm them.

His meditations were suddenly cut short by a hand being laid on his shoulder. With a start he looked up, and beheld, by the light of the binnacle-lamp, the pale features of Gus Elliott.

"A wild night, my friend," said the youth; and although he spoke loudly, his voice sounded almost like a whisper amid the roar of wind and sea.

"A fearful storm, truly," was the reply, as Fred's eyes again strove to pierce through the thick darkness.

"Would to Heaven it were morning! this intense darkness is appalling. Could we see our danger I would not care; but in this fearful gloom the imagination pictures a thousand horrors, far worse than the most dreadful reality."

"It can scarcely be midnight yet," said Gus; "I see the clouds are breaking away in that direction. It will be light enough presently."

"Well, messmate, have my words come true?" said a voice at Gus's elbow, and turning, both beheld old Jack.

"That they have," replied Gus; "and though I must give you credit for being a true prophet, upon my honor I wish to hear no more such predictions while I am on board the Mermaid."

"That won't be long, sir, or I'm mistaken," replied Jack, gloomily.

"What? croaking again? I thought all danger was past," said the youth.

Jack shook his head despondingly.

"Come, my honest son of Neptune, out with it. What's in the wind now?"

At this moment, one of the crew shouted, in a voice of horror:

"The ship has sprung a leak! There's five feet of water in the hold!"

"All hands to the pumps!" called the calm, trumpet-like tones of the captain.

The eyes of Gus and the old sailor met.

"I knew how it would be," said the old tar, shaking his head, mournfully, "I had a presentiment, last night, that not a soul on board the Mermaid would live to see the sun rise again."

As he spoke, he hurried forward; but not until Gus had fairly started back at sight of the ghastly look on his face, as it was revealed by the dim light of the binnacle-lamp. The youth turned uneasily away, and encountered the dark, earnest eyes of his friend.

"Pooh! nonsense! what an old prophet of evil that is," said Gus, striving to shake off the feeling for which he could not account: "a raven could not croak more dismally than he."

"And yet I fear he is right," said Fred. "We are far from being out of danger. How this old dismantled hulk is plunging and staggering. Hark! what is that?"

It was the voice of one of the men who had been sent below, and who now came to announce that the water was rapidly rising.

The crew redoubled their efforts. Fred and Gus sprang to their aid, and worked for their lives. But all was in vain; in spite of all their exertions, the hold was filling fast.

Suddenly a voice full of horror was heard:

"The ship is sinking!"

In an instant every arm dropped as if palsied, every face blanched to the hue of death, and the silence of the grave reigned. Then the spell was broken, and with a wild cry they sprang toward the boats.

"Are you mad, men?" shouted Captain Harden, as the crew rushed pell-mell to the side of the vessel.

But his words were in vain; the frightened wretches heard not, heeded not. Maddened by their selfish fears, they sprang into the boats, pushing one another fiercely aside in their cowardly haste.

"Those crowded boats will never live in this surf!" exclaimed Fred, in a voice that intense excitement had almost sunk to a whisper.

Even as he spoke, the nearest boat was lifted on the crest of a monster wave. For a moment it poised on its fearful height, quivering like a reed; the next a wild shriek arose from the doomed crew, and every soul was struggling in the hissing seas. In less than a minute, to their inexpressible horror, the other boat shared the same fate! One wild, wild agonized shriek of mortal horror arose high above the storm, and then all grew still. Engulfed beneath the hissing billows, they had sunk to rise no more.

Of all the numerous crew of the good ship Mermaid, there were three persons remaining on board, the captain, Fred and Gus. Above frowned the angry sky, black and ominous; beneath, raged the angrier ocean—the tops of the white billows gleaming like snow against the murky background. Around was spread the dense, dark pall of night—an almost impenetrable wall of thick blackness. Boats and crew were alike gone. Alone they stood on the wide sea, in a sinking ship, with death staring them in every direction in the face.

The ominous words of the old sailor rushed to the mind of Gus: "Not a soul on board the Mermaid would live to see the sun rise again!"

How true his words seemed likely to prove!

"We will soon follow them!" said Gus, turning to the captain.

"God liveth!" was the solemn answer. "He holdeth the ocean in the hollow of His hand. Trust in Him!"