The western sky was black as night, except when it was rent by darting forks of lightning. At times they could hear the dull mutterings of thunder, and Benton’s face wore a worried frown as he gazed over the livid green ocean toward the approaching storm. From experience he knew how fierce were the sudden tempests that sweep over the Caribbean Sea, and he had never seen one that looked more threatening than that now brewing.
Suddenly the sails flapped a few seconds, and then dropped limp again. From the distance they heard a faint whistling sound, that grew rapidly louder, and then they could see a white line of hissing foam sweeping over the water and approaching them at terrific speed.
“Stand by to let the mainsheet run!” yelled Benton, but even as the boys sprang to obey, the wind was upon them. It struck with appalling force, and the Fleeting heeled over—further and further, until the deck slanted down at a sharp angle to the boiling waters, and the boys had to hang on to ropes and stays to keep from sliding down the steep incline.
It was a terrible moment, while their lives hung in the balance. A little further, and the Fleeting would surely have capsized, but just at the second when this seemed inevitable, the first furious gust of wind abated a trifle, and their craft slowly righted herself, while the wind whistled and shrieked in her rigging.
Benton had managed to retain his place at the wheel, and as the gallant little craft picked up steerage way, he headed her into the wind and the rising sea. At the first stroke of the raging gale the ocean was covered with spume crested waves, and lashed by its fury, they mounted higher and higher, until the ocean was an endless succession of mountainous rollers, bearing down hungrily on the devoted little ship, as though eager to batter and overwhelm her. Great waves thundered down over her bows, raced aft, and carried away everything movable on the deck. It was only by dint of clinging desperately to ropes that at such times the boys avoided being swept overboard.
The Fleeting was tossed about like a chip in the tremendous welter of waters, and Benton soon saw that he could not hold a course into the wind. His only alternative was the run before it, and he shouted to the boys to lower the mainsail. They could not hear him above the noise of the storm, but they knew from his gestures what he wanted.
To get the mainsail down and furled, even though it was reefed, was a gigantic task, but the boys tackled it bravely, and after a protracted struggle amid flying spray and wildly lashing canvas, they got the sail snugly stowed. Then Benton let the bows fall off before the wind, and soon they were scudding along at a furious rate with the wind astern.
Their staunch little craft rode easier on this course, her stern rising high in air as a mountainous sea lifted it, while her bows slanted dizzily down into the green depths ahead. Then, in the full grip of the big comber, she would go shooting forward, the water boiling and hissing along her sides, until the wave had spent its force and passed on. The sea presented a terrible aspect, and when Bimbo staggered on deck with a potful of steaming coffee that in some mysterious fashion he had managed to make, his dusky face turned a dull ashen hue.
CHAPTER XI
THE WRATH OF THE STORM
For a few minutes his eyes rolled wildly as he viewed the tumbling waste of waters, but he soon overcame his dismay far enough to stagger over to Benton with the pot of coffee. The boys made their way to the same place, and the hot black liquid gave them renewed courage. Then the negro darted back to his galley, and presently reappeared with a tin pail full of sandwiches, which he sheltered from the spray under his ragged coat. These the boys thankfully devoured, after which they felt in better shape to face the perils of the night that was now falling rapidly over the tossing waste.