Ah! but this was going to be somewhat more than a thunderstorm.
“Hands, shorten sail! All hands on deck!” It was Tandy’s voice sounding through the speaking trumpet—ringing through it, I might say, and yet it scarce could be heard above the incessant crashing of the thunder.
The men came tumbling up, looking scared and frightened in the blue glare of the lightning.
“Away aloft! Bear a hand, my hearties! Get her snug, and we’ll splice the main-brace. Hurrah, lads! Nimbly does it!”
Swaying high up on the top-gallant yards they looked no bigger than rooks, and with every uncertain lurch and roll the yard-ends seemed almost to touch the water.
It was at this moment that the stewardess came staggering aft.
“Don’t go, ’Ansey—don’t go,” cried Nelda.
“Duty’s duty, dear, and it’s ‘all hands’ now.”
He saw her safely down the companion-way, and next minute he was swarming up the ratlines to his station. But he had to pause every few seconds and hang on to the rigging, with his back right over the water—hang on for dear life.
The sails were reefed, and some were got in, and not till the men had got down from aloft did the rain come on. For higher and higher had the clouds on the northern horizon banked up, till they covered all the sky.