For in those days a voyage into the western sea was counted, specially while boisterous autumn gales made sailing difficult, as a long and hazardous undertaking. They all knew it must be many months ere they could hope to see home again; but little did any of them guess the strange sad fortunes which should befall them. The Cretan sailors looked back wistfully at the groups of their friends, their wives and mothers and children, whom they had left weeping on the shore, but they did not think how many there were among them who would never return to tell the story of their long voyage. But some at least among them knew and felt that they were in the hands of God for life or for death, and that nothing could really hurt them if they were “followers of that which is good.”
The ship at first sailed on prosperously enough. The sea was calm, and the sky clear above them. The sailors sang their sweet Italian or Grecian songs, as they hurried to and fro, or leant over the bulwarks, watching the blue water.
Their course lay northward now, and wind and wave were sweeping them toward the perilous northern seas. The days had been already growing short when the ship left Candia, and now December, with its cold and darkness, was upon them, and these southern sailors shivered as they met the keen northern blasts.
The cold grew sharper than ever on one night toward the end of the year, but on that very night Master Piero Quirini chose to remain on deck, braving the winter wind, instead of taking shelter in his warm and comfortable cabin below. He stood looking eastward with his keen eyes, his hand shading his face.
“Come hither, Fioravanti,” he called, and the sailing-master approached. “There is a strange appearance in the sky which affrights me; I fear a sudden, and violent storm, and then what will befall our ship, thus heavily laden?” said Quirini.
The old sailor turned towards the part of the horizon which Quirini had pointed out; and as he looked, his face changed. “Quick,” said he, calling to the sailors who were nearest, “bid them draw in the sails. Let the rudder be bound firmly, for the tempest is well nigh on us—alas! for these terrible northern storms.”
Before he had well finished speaking, his Italian sailors had begun their work, the slower and more apathetic Greeks needing, even in that moment of danger, to be urged with many words before they would obey. Thus it was but slowly that the heavy sails, creaking and swaying in the wind, were drawn in and bound to the masts, and before half the work was done, the storm in its full fury had struck the ship, and each man clung for life to the nearest support, as the reeling vessel ploughed heavily through the swollen seas.
“Master, the rudder is gone, the rudder is lost,” cried many voices, as after a sudden lurch forward the ship righted again, and as they cried out, a fresh blast struck her, and the half-furled sails were torn into ribbons, and hung useless over the ship’s side.
The morning light found her still driving before the wind, and deep in the sullen water which rose almost above her sides as she flew faster than ever before the fierce wind. At length a sudden squall threw her on her side, while the waters rushed in as if to fill and sink her in a moment.
“Ho, men! an axe, an axe!” cried the master; “down with the main-mast!” and seizing a hatchet which lay at hand, Piero Quirini struck the first blow at the tall mast, whose weight was dragging down the vessel. Others with sword, or axe, or any tool which they could snatch at the moment, followed, and they were but just in time, for before another wave could wash over the vessel, the mast was floating free, and the ship had righted once more. The water was baled out with every vessel on which the men could lay their hands; and this weary work was continued all through the cold dark night, yet when the morning broke hours behind its time, as it seemed to the despairing sailors, the water in the hold was scarcely three inches lower.