“So have I,” said Mr Meldrum; “but not a cyclone! Look there, ahead, at that bank of storm-clouds; perhaps we’re running into a worse gale than the one we’ve got.”
“Well, we can only act for the best,” replied the captain curtly, apparently not relishing this criticism of his seamanship from a landsman—as he thought—who knew nothing about the matter; and he then moved back to his post by the binnacle, leaving Mr Meldrum standing by the head of the companion, where he was presently joined by Frank Harness, the first and second mates being both forward, superintending the bending of preventer stays to secure the masts, which seemed to be ready to jump out of the ship from the leverage exercised even by the little sail she was carrying.
By noon, when it was utterly impossible to take an observation, the heavens being black all round, with showers of hail and snow coming down at intervals, and the wind, blowing over the Antarctic ice-fields, seemed to cut the face as with a knife—the temperature of the air had become bitterly cold, while the barometer fell to 29 inches. The very spirit of destruction appeared to brood over the ill-fated Nancy Bell.
Mr Meldrum, after a brief visit below to look after his daughters and see how the American passenger was progressing since his accident, had returned on deck, accompanied by Kate, who pleaded so earnestly to be allowed to come that he could not resist her entreaties. She now stood, sheltered behind him, in the mouth of the companionway, watching the brewing of the fresh storm with which the vessel was about to be assailed—Frank Harness close to her side as if for additional protection, although the captain had told him he might go below and have a spell off after being up all night. The young sailor, as soon as she came up, had taken off his own monkey-jacket and fastened it round her shoulders to protect her from the wind and hail, despite all Kate’s protests, to which he was obliged to turn a deaf ear by reason of the force of the gale.
Suddenly, the dark looming mass of clouds in front of the ship appeared to split asunder, showing gaping ragged edges fringed with white, just like a shark’s mouth.
Mr Meldrum at once rushed to where Captain Dinks was standing close to the wheel-house, where two men had all they could do to control the helm, although they were the strongest hands on board, the one being Ben Boltrope, the ex-man-o’-war’s-man, and the other Karl Ericksen, the Norwegian sailor who had been rescued from the boat, and who was a perfect giant now that he was restored to health and strength—standing over six feet, and with long brawny arms that seemed as powerful as those of a windmill when he threw them about.
“For God’s sake, Captain,” exclaimed Mr Meldrum, “round the ship to, if you can! If that squall that’s coming right forward catches her in the teeth, she will go down stern foremost in a second!”
“Nonsense, Mr Meldrum!” answered Captain Dinks hotly. “Who are you? a landsman, to give orders to a trained seaman! I don’t allow passengers to interfere with me in working my own ship.”
“Considering I have been in the royal navy all my life, and left the service with the rank of commander,” said Mr Meldrum quietly, not a whit angered by the captain’s somewhat reasonable indignation, “I think I am something of an authority on the point. But, don’t let us argue that matter now, Captain Dinks. I apologise for interfering; but I have seen and been through a good many cyclones in the China seas, when I was in command of a gunboat there, and I advise you to do as I’ve said.”
“Trust his honour, Capting, sir,” chimed in Ben Boltrope, for once forgetting his sense of discipline, and speaking to his superior officer without leave; “I’ve sarved with Commander Meldrum, and knows what he is.”