About nine p.m. the wind died almost completely away; and shortly afterwards a few heavy drops of rain fell, speedily followed by a drenching shower. This killed the remaining light air of wind, and the boats lay idly upon the water, their saturated canvas flapping heavily against the masts. But not for long; the sails were speedily lowered down and spread across from gunwale to gunwale to catch the precious moisture, and so heavy was the downpour that in the quarter of an hour during which the shower lasted the voyagers were enabled to almost entirely refill their breakers, the contents of which had by this time very materially diminished.
The rain ceased suddenly, and a few minutes afterwards a puff of wind, hot as the breath of a furnace, swept over the boats from the north-east, and passed away, leaving a breathless calm as before. This was repeated twice or thrice; and then with a heavier puff than before a stiff breeze set in from the north-east, breaking off the boats from their course, and necessitating their hauling close upon a wind on the port tack.
By midnight the wind had increased so much that it became necessary to reef; the launch and pinnace double-reefing their canvas in order that they might not run away from the other boats. The sea now began to rise rapidly, and when day at length broke it revealed a dismal picture of dark tempestuous sky, leaden-grey ocean, its surface broken up into high, racing, foam-capped seas, and the little fleet of boats tossing wildly upon the angry surges, the launch leading, the pinnace next, and the others so far astern that it took Captain Staunton quite ten minutes to satisfy himself that they were all still in sight.
It was by this time blowing a moderate gale, and appearances seemed to indicate that downright bad weather was not far off; the captain decided, therefore, to heave-to at once, as it would be quite impossible in any other way to keep the little fleet together. The canvas on board the launch was accordingly still further reduced, the jib-sheet hauled over to windward, and the boat left to fight it out as best she could. The pinnace soon afterwards joined company and followed suit, the remainder of the boats doing the same as they came up.
As the day wore on the gale increased in strength, the sea rising proportionally and flinging the boats about like corks upon its angry surface. So violent was the motion that it was only with the utmost difficulty the steward succeeded in preparing a hot meal at mid-day, and when evening came our adventurers were obliged to content themselves with what Lance laughingly called “a cold collation.” The day was indeed a wretched one; there was no temptation whatever to leave such slight shelter as the tiny cabins afforded, for the launch, and indeed all the other boats as well, were constantly enveloped in spray blown from the caps of the seas by the wind, while, cooped up below, it was unpleasantly warm, and the motion of the boat was so violent that her occupants were compelled to wedge themselves firmly in one position to avoid being dashed against their companions.
If the day was one of discomfort, the night which followed was infinitely worse. The gale continued steadily to increase; the sea rose to a tremendous height, breaking heavily; the spray flew continuously over the launch in drenching showers; the little craft, under the merest shred of canvas, was careened gunwale-to by the force of the wind every time she rose upon the crest of a sea, and the most watchful care of the skipper, who had stationed himself at the helm, was sometimes insufficient to prevent a more than ordinarily heavy sea from breaking on board. The increasing frequency of these occurrences at length necessitated the maintenance of one hand continually at the baler in order to keep the boat free of water, and in spite of all the ladies were unable to escape a thorough wetting. Nor was this the worst mishap. The water rose so high in the interior of the boat on one or two occasions that it got at the provisions, so seriously damaging some of them that there was little hope of their being rendered again fit for consumption. It was a most fortunate circumstance for those in the launch that, thanks to the captain’s foresight, she had been fitted with a partial deck, otherwise she must inevitably have been swamped. How it fared with the other boats it was impossible to say; the darkness was too profound to permit of their being seen, if they still remained afloat; but the manner in which the launch suffered caused the skipper to entertain the gravest apprehensions for the rest of the fleet, and he almost dreaded the return of daylight lest it should reveal to him the realisation of his worst fears.
It seemed to the occupants of the launch as though that miserable night would never end. The tardy dawn, however, made its appearance at last, reluctantly, as it seemed to those drenched and weary watchers, and the moment that there was light enough to enable him to see distinctly Captain Staunton staggered to his feet, and steadying himself by grasping the boat’s main-mast, took a long anxious look all round the horizon. At first he could distinguish nothing save the wildly rushing foam-capped seas, and the scurrying shreds of cloud which swept rapidly athwart the black and stormy sky; but after some minutes of painfully anxious scrutiny he descried, about three miles away to leeward, a tiny dark object, appearing at intervals against the leaden-grey of the horizon, which his seaman’s eye told him was the pinnace.
The remainder of the fleet had disappeared.
It was no more than a realisation of his forebodings; but Captain Staunton possessed far too feeling a heart not to be powerfully affected by the loss of the two boats and the thirteen brave fellows who manned them. He ran over their names mentally, and recalled that no less than nine of the thirteen had arranged for half their pay to be handed over to their families at home; and he pictured to himself the bitter grief and distress there would be in those nine families when it came to be known that the husband, the father, the bread-winner was gone, overwhelmed and swallowed up by the remorseless ocean which knows no pity, not even for the wife and the helpless children.
With a powerful effort the captain dismissed these painful reflections from his mind, and turned his attention to matters nearer home. He had already searchingly scrutinised the aspect of the weather with most unsatisfactory results. As far as his experience went there was every prospect of a continuance—nay more, an increase—of the gale. The sky to windward looked wilder and more threatening than ever; while that the sea was still rising was a fact about which there could be no mistake. He dived into the little cabin or shelter aft, and took a long look at the aneroid, to find that it still manifested a downward tendency. It was evidently hopeless to expect a favourable change in the weather for some hours at least, and to attempt any longer to maintain the boat’s position, in the face of an increasing gale, was to expose her and those in her to imminent risk of destruction; he therefore decided to watch his opportunity and seize the first favourable moment for bearing up and running before it.