“Off with every stitch!” he commanded, as he threw the wheel hard over. “Vave! Vave!”
“Trombe!” he warned his wife, who was in the cabin with Kopcke’s girl. “Hold on, Virginie, hold on! Pray, and be quick about it!”
McHenry, Kopcke, and I sprang to the main boom, and helped to take down the canvas and make it fast. The jibs were still standing, when the Marara turned on her heel like a hare pursued by a hound. The waterspout was yet miles distant, but rushing toward us, as we made slow starboard progress from our previous wake. The daylight faded; the air seemed full of water. The sailors were again prone, and we, at the calm though sharp word of Moet, pulled over the companion cover. I shrank behind the house, and McHenry tucked his head into the bend of my body, while Kopcke, on his knees, held on to the traveler.
“Sacramento!” said Moet, as if to himself. “Maybe she no can meet zat!”
With pounding heart, but every sense alert, I watched the mad drive of the sable column. The Marara was now in smooth water,—the glassy circle of the Puahiohio,—and so near was the terrifying, twisting mass of dark foam and spindrift that it seemed impossible we could avoid it. Every inch the master, Moet alone stood up. Chocolat was huddled whimpering between his feet. I saw the captain pull up the straps that held the wheel when in light airs we drifted peacefully, and attach them so that the helm was fixed. There was a dreadful roaring a short way off and nearing every second. The spout was bigger than any of the great trees I had seen in the California forests, and from its base a leaden tower of hurrying water seemed to wind in a spiral stream to the clouds.
“She’s going to drop,” said McHenry in my ear. “Now hold on, and we’ll see who comes out of the bloody wash!”
The roar was that of a blast-furnace, and so close, so fearful, I ceased to breathe. Captain Moet crouched by the steadfast wheel, his hand on the spokes. Forward, I saw two Tahitians with their palms upon their ears.
Suddenly the Marara heeled over. The starboard rail was in the water, and Kopcke, McHenry, and I, a tangled heap against the rail, as we struggled to keep our heads above the foam. Farther and farther the schooner listed. It was certain to me that we must meet death under it in another instant. Moet’s feet were deep in the water, and now the wheel held him up. We clutched madly at the stanchions of the rail, as we choked with the salt flood.
Came the supreme moment. The waterspout rose above us on the port bow like a cliff, solid as stone. A million trumpets blew to me the call of Judgment Day. Then the wall of water passed by a hundred feet to port. In another breath the Marara regained her poise and was on an even keel. The peril was over.
“Mais, tonnère de Dieu!” cried Moet, excitedly, “zat was a cochon ov a watairespouse! Zere air many in zese latitude. Some time I see seex, seven, playin’ ‘round at wan time. I sink we make ze sail, and take wan drink queeck. Eh, Virginie, ici! Donne-moi un baiser, little cabbage! Deed you pray ’ard?”