This rapidly accumulated, and the men had to work harder and harder shovelling it to the gangways where others threw it overboard, where it fell silently and without a splash.
“Work away, everyone,” cried the mate. “It will soon be all down, and then we shall get light.”
But the fearsome detonations continued, and it was evident that at every discharge fresh clouds of the volcanic dust were formed, and the darkness remained as profound as ever.
“This can’t go on,” said Oliver Lane, in a husky whisper to his nearest companion as they both paused breathless, dropping with perspiration, choked, and blinded by the volcanic dust.
“I hope not,” was the reply. “It seems to fall more quickly than we shovel it off.”
“What’s that?” cried Lane excitedly, and a low murmur full of horror and despair, arose from the ship as men threw down shovel and broom and made for the boats, for following close upon another of the awful explosions there was a sudden rushing noise, evidently in the opposite direction, and the vessel quivered from stem to stern as if it had suddenly, and without warning, struck upon a rock.
So startling was the concussion that the immediate conclusion was that she was going down, and it was not until a couple of similar concussions had been suffered that it was realised that the blows were shocks communicated through the water, which was once more in a fearful state of disturbance.
“We’re in for it now, gentlemen,” said the mate, in awe-stricken tones. “Look out!” he roared, directly after.
“Hold on everyone, rope and stays.”
His words were hardly heard, for there was once more a deafening roar apparently somewhere ahead, and almost simultaneously a heavy sea struck them astern, making the vessel heel over as the wave swept the deck, and as she recovered herself another and another deluged her, and for the moment it seemed as if she must sink.