Though the first force of the typhoon had blown itself out, the “Zangwahee” was pitching terrifically, and to lower a boat on such a night was a risky thing.
“’E’s been a good shipmate to us, sor,” said another, as Hans watched the mate’s face and clutched his vast beard that had blown backward right over his shoulder.
“I dinna ken what to do, mon; the skapper wouldnae think on’t, I know,” said the mate, as he lifted his oilskin cap and scratched his red head. Then he looked into Hans’s eyes and said quietly, “All right, mon, lower No. 3 starboard boat.”
Possibly the mate remembered that old Moses had always obeyed him and pulled the blanket off his bunk true to time when the midnight hot coffee was ready. Even at that supreme moment a faint, deep, anguished baying called to him out of the night. It was as though Moses’ wondrous instinct knew that he was something of an outsider in a world of two-legged men, and so might be left to his fate. In a moment the old hands had scampered to No. 3 boat. Their hearts were out on those dark thrashing waters. They cared not one iota about the risk they took that night. The great loneliness of the ocean and the wild poetry of the storm only strengthened the link of fellowship between them and the brown eyes that stared from those seas at the flying, storm-tossed “Zangwahee.” I had more than once seen men lower a boat to save a man overboard, and I swear that there was no less determination and eagerness displayed by those old salts when they struggled with the tackle and risked the tremendous seas in lowering that boat.
“Give a hand there, youngster!” yelled Olwyn, as I clung to the davits and did my best to help them. Then, just before they lowered away, I jumped into the boat to give Hans his clasp-knife to cut some tangled tackle. It was at that moment that one of the men, who was watching for the critical moment to lower away, saw his chance, and loosened the tackle, and I found myself numbered with the old salts in that boat. For a moment I thought we had been swamped, for, as the boat touched the back of the great oily sea that lifted the “Zangwahee” till she heeled over as though she would turn turtle, another sea struck her. But those old sea-poets were not amateurs: they knew how to make the seas scan and the rolling waters rhyme to their requirements. But still for a long time we all had to use our whole strength to keep the boat’s head to the seas. It was then that I discovered, for the first time, that, though the moon was well up on the horizon, a terrible darkness existed in the gulfs of the waves. Once, when our tiny craft rode buoyantly on the top of a tremendous sea, I got a swift kaleidoscopic glimpse of the “Zangwahee’s” swaying masts and rigging, far-off, with the blood-red moon just behind her. The sight of those illimitable miles of tossing waters, our lonely ship and lonelier castaway boat, the frantic, hoarse calls of the boat’s crew, calling “Moses! Moses!” was something unforgettable, to be remembered when old ambitions and natural catastrophes are long forgotten.
No reply came to that frantic call. Not a soul spoke as we all listened, down there in the silence of the hollows, while the wind shrieked overhead and we dropped into the sheer silence, as vast walls of living waters rose around us. So strangely silent was it down there in that gulf of the ocean, that I distinctly heard the deep breathing of the sailors as they strained at the oars. At last we heard it come again, that faint deep baying of our struggling canine shipmate. There was no fancy about it; we heard the wild note of appeal and despair in each faint, deep bark that answered us between the intervals of silence and the crash of the seas.
“Damn the moon!” groaned the boatswain, as he stood by the tiller, stared around him, and almost wept. We all knew that, had the moon been high in the sky, we should have had a thousand better chances of rescuing Moses.
“Yell, boys! Bully boys, yell!” roared Hans. And by faith they did yell. Again they listened and stared out over the wild waters. Back it came—a faint response, very faint. It was evident that, through the heavy seas repeatedly washing over our shipmate’s head, he was fast becoming weak, and so less able to resist the onrush of the travelling seas that would bear him from us for ever. “Shout again, boys!” said Hans. And again we shouted. We well knew that it was the only chance. For Moses would instinctively hear from which direction our voices came and swim towards us. It was then, whilst we all strained at the oars, and listened, that we heard a faint, far-off cry of anguish. It sounded more like the terrified cry of a human being than anything else I could think of. Every face blanched, I know, as we heard that last faint, terrified scream! Old Hans, who stood by the tiller, his eyes looking quite glassy, nearly fell over the side in his eagerness to see what had happened. Indeed, the boat was nearly swamped, for we left off rowing when we realized that something else had come out of the vast night in answer to poor old Moses’, our shipmate’s, despairing appeal to us. We knew that the Pacific was infested by grey-nosed sharks. We had caught three monsters on a hook with fat pork only a day or two before. I know that we all shivered at that moment. We well knew that Moses would give a scream like that only if one thing happened.
Next night, as the “Zangwahee” once again stole steadily on her course, I sat in the fo’c’sle with those strange old sailormen. There they sat, huddled on their sea-chests, smoking their pipes and chewing melancholy-wise, shuffling the cards as though they played a game that was part of their destiny. Even their silhouettes, moving on the wooden walls as the swinging oil-lamp sent its mingy gleams on the low table, looked strangely mournful as the big-bearded mouths drew in tobacco smoke and blew it forth again in clouds. The boatswain, old Hans, had torn his Bible in half and used shocking atheistical expressions. I heard the tramp, tramp of the look-out man just overhead, and the wail of the rigging and heavy foremast canvas as the “Zangwahee” crept along to the pushing hands of the night winds. Then old Hans lifted his bowed head and looked towards the fo’c’sle doorway, where old Moses, night after night, had sat on his mat, on watch, his hairy nose pointing to the stars as we slept in our bunks. I heard the old sailor give a muffled oath as he blew his nose in his dirty bit of sailcloth handkerchief.