And then, in the midst of it all, the real calamity befell them. A bolt of lightening struck the mainmast, shivered it, and plunged on straight down into the hold of the ship. The crash of it was frightful.
Terrified faces appeared in the companionway. Songbirds came scrambling up to see what was happening to them. They trembled with dismay, and were instantly drenched by the rain.
At first the mate ordered them below, out of the way. But almost immediately a new crisis developed.
A seaman ran up, panting: “We’re afire!” His eyes rolled.
Flames, indeed, began almost at once shooting up out of the hold where the bolt had struck. Everything below was very dry. From this moment there was no time even to think of saving the vessel. And now the mate shouted:
“Get all hands on deck! Bring up blankets, and throw two chests of biscuit into the boats!”
The Skipping Goone was done for. It no longer mattered whether her rudder was jammed or whether it wasn’t. It no longer even mattered about her splintered masts. A bolt had plunged into her bowels, and no power on earth could save her now.
“I guess it’s our scenery that’s on fire!” said Mr. Curry wildly, rushing about in an effort to make sure all his songbirds were up from below. A look of amazement and deep anguish was in his face. “We must get these people off, Mr. Nelson! Where’s Captain Bearman? Lord, Lord!”—he was wringing his hands—“it doesn’t seem possible a thing like this has happened to us!”
The life boats could only be launched from two davits on the poop deck. One boat always hung there in readiness.