Meanwhile the wind seemed to increase. Above the howling of it, however, could now and then be heard the shrieks of the sea-birds. “Good-night! Good-night!” they seemed to cry—“we’re away, away—away—ay!”
Nothing could daunt Antonio.
His heart was resilient to a degree, and when the wind blew the highest, he sang. He did even now, though only a verse or two:
“The twilight is sad and cloudy,
The wind blows wild and free,
And like the wings of sea-birds
Flash the white caps of the sea.”
CHAPTER VII
“YES, YES,” SHE WEPT, “ON A FEARFUL NIGHT LIKE THIS THEY WERE ALL DROWNED”
All that day the Grebe flew on before the wind. Even with the shortened sail that she carried, she must at times have been making twelve knots an hour.
The sun went down and down. You could only have told his position by the coppery hue of the clouds in the western sky, which swallowed up his every ray.
The wind was now somewhat more on the port quarter.
Just as gloaming was darkling into night, the Dane himself being at the wheel, he mistook some order Captain Antonio gave, for the storm was roaring loud and high. The little vessel had gone off somewhat, and instead of going hard a-port, he hove the helm the other way. In another moment the mainsail was aback and the danger extreme. Halliards were neatly let go however, and by Antonio himself and Pandoo everything was done for the safety of the vessel. But not before the saucy Grebe had gone stem on into an enormous wave. For a few moments indeed it seemed as if she were plunging beneath the waves entirely. She shook herself free at last, but had shipped tons and tons of green water.
This came rolling aft, carrying Pandoo, Antonio, and poor Davie Drake before it, as a mill-lead might carry corks away.