Finally the wind increased to the dimensions of a hurricane, and all but the most hardy sought their cabins. The doctor, however, liked to stay out in the open where he could watch the storm. The winds fairly shrieked in the rigging and about the tall smokestacks. The sea hissed and seethed, and the winds whipped it and beat upon it, until the air was filled with flying spray. Finally such a yeast was kicked up that one could gather hands full of the feathery foam from the air. Sky and water seemed to meet, and the mighty ship and its human freight were at the very heart of this terrible storm. So far as they could see or feel this was all there was to the world—a world of wind and foam, all turbulence and frightfulness. One of the ship’s boats was broken loose by a mighty sea and swept away. It rose upon the top of a great swell, then sank into the trough and was seen no more.
The doctor watched the ship’s crew narrowly as they worked. They worked like soldiers, each doing his part with dispatch and decision. The captain stood on the bridge, the master mind. The ship, the crew, all obeyed him implicitly. He was the will of the ship, and an iron will at that.
Finally the fury of the storm spent itself and the skies cleared, but the effect of the hurricane was still manifest in the sea. Great foam-covered swells rolled by, many of them breaking over the lower deck. But they were rhythmic and one always knew when to expect the next one. This was all right as long as the waves ran at the regulation height, but the combers were quite different. In them is an element of danger that no seamanship can guard against, no matter how skillful it may be.
A comber is a wave twice or three times as high as its fellows. It is the king of waves, riding head and shoulders above its fellows, and often carrying death and destruction in its wake. Combers sixty feet high have been observed by trustworthy witnesses.
The ship had experienced several combers about five o’clock, none of which did any damage, although they drenched the lower deck and sent hogsheads of water into the cabin. The sun had come out and many of the passengers had reappeared on deck. Little Hilda had gone down into the steerage to visit another girl with whom she had become acquainted. They were standing by the rail chattering away excitedly about the storm, when the father of all combers reared its foam-covered crest close to the ship. The ship’s officers had seen it coming, but had not appreciated how tall it was, because the seas were running so high. It struck the side of the ship with a noise like heaviest thunder and submerged the lower deck three feet deep with hissing water. It fairly covered the two little girls, but would have done no special harm had not the return impulse of the wave picked Hilda up and carried her over the rail into the boiling sea.
The doctor and the second mate, who were standing on the hurricane deck, saw the frightful accident and gave the alarm. Although the sea was still running mountains high, and it was doubtful if a boat could live in it, yet a crew sprang to the nearest lifeboat and began slowly lowering it.
The doctor strained his eyes to see if Hilda came up on the crest of the next wave, for she had immediately disappeared in the trough. To his great joy the red dress appeared on the very crest.
“My God!” cried the mate, “there she is.” If there was only something or somebody to keep her afloat until the boat could reach her, but no man could swim in that sea.
Pep was whimpering at his master’s legs, trying to climb up that he might see over the rail. He knew instinctively that something terrible had happened, he read his master’s thought like an open book.
His sharp yelp of excitement called the doctor’s attention to him. The surgeon stooped down and lifted him to the rail and in that moment a sudden inspiration came to him. “Pep, see Hilda. Bring Hilda.”