"Ship's officers never acknowledge there is danger," she said crossly. "They wouldn't admit it even if we were all struggling for our lives in the water."
"Oh, there's no question that the ship is staunch enough," said the professor. "The only cause for alarm would be if the hurricane blew us out of our course and the steamer were to run on a rock."
As he spoke there was a terrifying crash of glass and an inrush of water. Mrs. Stuart screamed, and stewards ran from all directions. A giant wave had broken the great glass dome over the dining-room, and the water was pouring down in torrents.
"What will become of us? Where can we go?" wailed Mrs. Stuart.
"The staterooms are the best place in a storm," said the professor.
"Yes," said Grace. "Let's go to my stateroom. It's large enough to hold us all. We can be miserable together. Come."
They followed Grace, leaving the stewards to mop up the water.
The tempest had now reached its height. The shrieking of the wind and the thunderous blows of the terrific seas, as they broke against the sides of the ship, was terrifying to listen to. The boldest among the men passengers no longer concealed their anxiety, and most of the women were in a mental condition bordering on panic. Mrs. Phelps refused to follow the example of Grace and retire to her stateroom. She preferred, she said, to be where she could get out easily if anything happened. So with a stiff brandy and soda to give her courage, and Count von Hatzfeld to keep her company, the widow prepared to sit out the night in company with a crowd of other frightened passengers, who sat all huddled together in a sheltered corner of the dining-saloon.
Up on the deck, where duty compelled the officers and crew to expose themselves to the full fury of the storm, the scene was wild beyond description. The force of the wind was extraordinary. It was impossible to face it and breathe. The noise was deafening. What with the continual roar of the now raging sea, the screeching of the tempest and the crash of thunder, the tumult was appalling. The officers on the bridge, clad all in oilskins, hung on for their lives, shouting orders through megaphones.
A tremendous sea was running and the Atlanta labored heavily. She rolled so badly that it seemed impossible that she could ever right herself again, and every now and then there came a lurch that strained all the joints, throwing everybody off their feet. The promenade-deck, swept by foaming green water, was practically afloat. One giant comber after another broke over the rail with a thunderous roar, sending up clouds of spray that completely hid the bridge from sight. The night was pitch-dark. Only the intermittent flashes of lightning permitted a glimpse of the raging ocean. It being impossible to see farther than a ship's length ahead, the officers on the bridge were ready for any emergency. The lookouts had been doubled, and the engines slowed down. Captain Summers had left nothing undone to ensure the safety of the passengers entrusted to his care and skill, but it was evident from the way in which he bent forward and strained his eyes in an effort to penetrate the murk ahead, that the situation was critical.