The Viking Blood: A Story of Seafaring

by Frederick William Wallace

Driving, swearing, calling,

But ne’er a call of fright.”....

He thought it must have been a night just like this one, but the vessels in those days were not the able, well-ballasted craft of his time. It had been blowing like the devil for some hours now and a hell’s own sea was running, but so secure did the crowd feel that those off duty could sleep peacefully in their rocking bunks with implicit trust in the seaworthiness of the vessel and the skill of him who commanded her.

Moving figures in the gloom for’ard showed that the four men from the forecastle were coming aft with Sanders, and Donald scrambled out of the cabin gang-way and hauled the slide shut. As he leaped out on top of the cabin house, a violent blast of wind struck the schooner and he grasped the gaff-bridles to save himself from being hurled overboard as the vessel rolled down. The squall kept her pressed lee-rail under for fully a minute, during which time McKenzie and the others could do nothing but hang on to the main-boom and the gear around the mast until its fury was expended.

Slowly, very slowly, the vessel came up as the sail eased off, and the water poured over the lee rail. Then Saunders gave a frightened shout, “Watch aout!” McKenzie peered quickly under his arm to windward in time to see a huge wall of water piling up with a roaring crest, livid in the blackness of the night. It was a “boarder”—he saw that—and he swung himself on the lashed gaff and scrambled up the peak halliards as fast as he could go. He was climbing when the sea struck, and the shock of its onslaught hove the Alameda down until her masts were level with the water. McKenzie was almost hurled from the halliards he was climbing, and when the schooner rolled down he found his feet trailing in the sea and his body at right angles to the masts—outlined in the gloom by the frozen sleet adhering to them.

Clutching desperately at the halliards, he waited for the vessel to come up and wondering how the others fared, and if the hull was damaged. She lifted a little, but would come up no further. This time she was hove-down on her beam ends. “Cargo’s shifted!” muttered McKenzie, and he scrambled down to the gaff again with half his body dragging through seething sea. Crawling over the boom with fingers numb and frozen and the chill sleet melting and running down his neck, he made the weather side of the house and clawed his way along to the main-mast, where men were standing hanging on to the gear and working at something. In the darkness it was impossible to discern anything distinctly, save by the film of frozen sleet which outlined objects. Also, nothing could be heard above the thunder of wind and sea. As McKenzie slid down the slanting decks to the mast to see if all hands were safe and the condition of the foresail, Surrette bawled in his ear, “Main-boom’s out of the saddle, Skipper, an’ Wesley’s jammed in it—!”

With a grim foreboding in his heart, Donald felt and stared around the after-side of the mast until he made out the oilskinned figure of Sanders lying head down to leeward. He was writhing and twisting and crying out, and his right leg was jammed against the mast by the jaws of the unshipped main-boom. At every roll of the beam-ended schooner in the sea-way, the man’s head and shoulders were submerged and he was screaming, “For th’ love o’ Christ set me free! Get my leg clear! Oh, God! It’s killin’ me!” His cries could be heard above the noises of the gale.

“Let’s have a pump-handle!” bawled McKenzie quickly—horror-struck at the man’s plight. “Get a fluke-bar—anything.... God’s sake don’t let him suffer like that! Get down and hold his head clear of the water, you Archie!”

With four of them tugging and straining on a pump-brake, they failed to lever the boom-jaws clear. When the vessel rolled, the great sixty-five foot spar swayed and ground against the captive limb and Wesley screamed with the frightful agony of it. “Oh, God!” he shrieked, and his shouts would be stifled by the seas which washed over them from time to time. “Cut my leg away! Cut it away! Holy Mother! I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it!”

Surrette was hanging to loo’ard with one arm around the fife-rail and the other supporting Sanders to keep his head clear of the water. He was trying to soothe the agonized man. “Hold a minute, Wesley-boy, we’ll git ye adrift in a minute! Keep cool, my son, ye’ll soon be alright!” But, eventually, Nature did what Surrette couldn’t do, and Sanders mercifully fainted.