“Those who go down to the sea in ships, these men see the works of The Lord, and His wonders in the great deep.”
We thank Him who stills the raging sea, that in His mercy He has guarded us through so fearful a tempest.
We had left Ghirgeh on Tuesday. Late on Wednesday afternoon once more the warning glass fell rapidly, and the breeze that had been fresh and steady suddenly dropped. Towards evening we were almost becalmed, little puffs of hot air only occasionally fanning us as the yacht rose slowly on the heaving sea. But about one o’clock that night, the gale came upon us with all its force, preceded by an icy wind that seemed to freeze the ropes into bits of iron.
No sooner was the roar of the mighty tempest heard across the waters than the sea, lashed into madness by the tremendous force of the wind, turned into a seething cauldron. In an instant the great waves rose up foaming, and tossed and dashed against the poor little vessel as if resolved on its destruction. As the storm raged across her the dear Claymore heeled over, and quivered as if she had received a blow, but righting herself immediately, she gallantly faced her foe and prepared for another shock. Speedily it came—and again another, and another. More and more furious became the wind, and though the foresail had been reefed, and we had only the storm-jib, it was necessary to furl them both and take in the jib-boom; but in vain the men pulled and strained, the ropes were frozen. Servants, cooks, every man on board was summoned, Mr. Harvey, Captain Martini, and Charlie cheering on the men, as they too sprang forward to the ropes; but crash after crash came the great waves, as they raged against the yacht with a fury that it seemed almost impossible anything of wood and iron could long withstand.
At length Charlie and another man, with their knives between their teeth, crawled on to the bowsprit, though every plunge buried them deep in the waves, and succeeded in severing the ropes that held the sail. Relieved from the too great pressure, the little vessel rose more easily, and we heard a voice say cheerfully, “We shall do now.” It was of course impossible to be on deck, but my sister, Mademoiselle G., and I remained crouched on the staircase listening in intense anxiety to the turmoil. When the sail was at last taken in I went down to the children, fearing they would be frightened, but the little creatures had gone to sleep before the gale began, and neither storm nor wind awakened them. It was difficult to stay by them. Exaggerating probably the danger we were in, their lovely, quiet sleep quite unnerved one; so, as it was better to do rather than to think, we busied ourselves as much as possible in making hot tea for those on deck, though even this little task was a work of difficulty, so violently were we thrown from side to side. Occasionally during the night one of us crept up the companion and ventured a hurried look-out.
People have written much about the majestic beauty of a storm. To me it was simply horrible. In the distracting rush and confusion, it seemed as if the elements, seized with hideous rage, were tearing and rending each other like infuriated animals. I looked on with the shuddering horror one would feel if standing between wild beasts who were preparing to spring at each other’s throats. When holding fast by the sides of the companion I ventured a hurried glance upwards. My heart seemed for a moment to stand still, as I saw a huge black mass, rather than a wave of water, towering high above us. So monstrous, so steep did it seem, that until one felt the vessel rising, it seemed impossible that anything framed by man could surmount so precipitous a wall. Piles of foam rose still higher in the air, which was filled with a pale, ghastly light when the moon showed herself occasionally between the great heavy banks of clouds, as if afraid to look fully forth on such a weird scene of chaos and confusion. But worse even than the sight was the overpowering noise—the uproar. Instead of diminishing as day began to dawn the rush and the roar deepened, until the senses seemed carried away by the mighty clamour, and the brain seemed to whirl, as if it also was the sport of the tremendous wind. Everything was crashing, first on one side, then on the other.
In the midst of this wild turmoil a deep unearthly sound rang through the vessel—the slow, heavy toll of a bell that seemed to come from beneath the sea. For a moment our crew, all Italians, but as brave a set of men as ever trod a deck, seemed paralyzed. Again the warning sound pealed forth; several fell on their knees on receiving as they believed so direct an intimation of our fate.
Mr. Harvey and the captain rushed below, for it was absolutely necessary to ascertain the cause. Happily in their anxious search the ominous sound was again heard as they passed through the galley. Two very large copper pans had got loose, and when the vessel rolled heavily one way, they struck against each other, and the blow produced the solemn clang that had appeared so terrific. Fortunately, therefore, the dark omen became a cause of merriment to our superstitious but light-hearted sailors.
Many a ghost-story, probably, has quite as prosaic an origin.
Before the gale began the evening had been oppressively warm; my window on deck had, therefore, been opened. In the hurry and confusion that ensued when the squall came on, it had been closed, but not securely fastened, and I was suddenly and most disagreeably reminded of the omission. Quite worn out with fatigue and anxiety, I had gone to my cabin to lie down for half an hour, when the yacht made an unusually heavy plunge, and the window burst open, just as a cataract of spray and water poured over the deck. Down came a torrent into my cabin, destroying in a minute all the freshness and coquetry of the pretty lace curtains and pink ribbons, and giving me and all my belongings a thorough bath. A more unpleasant sensation can scarcely be imagined, though a few months’ yachting gives one a miserable equanimity about spoiling clothes. Sometimes when a very favourite garment is found covered with a verdant coating of green mould, a few indignant remarks are made upon sea-damp; but, generally speaking, any little spirit on the subject, any little vanity is early crushed, and one remains calm in mind and shabby in person to the end of the voyage.