The sailors, however, thought differently. With that superstition peculiar to Italians, they blamed the strange passenger for all the mishaps which had befallen the vessel since the "Shaven Redhead," as they called him, had come on board the vessel. On the first night a sudden storm carried away the rudder, on the second day one of the planks near the helm split, and the storm kept on increasing, finally reaching such a height that even Gennaro, the veteran sailor, could not remember to have ever seen one like it.
The boatswain now approached Gennaro.
"Well, Mello," said the captain, trying to appear indifferent, "do you also think the frigate is lost because the branded man is on board?"
"Yes," replied Mello, briefly, "if God does not perform a miracle."
At this moment a terrific crash was heard, and with loud cries the sailors rushed on deck.
"A waterspout; we are sinking!" they exclaimed, terror-stricken. "Help, captain, help!"
Immense waves of water poured over the deck and tore away part of the stern, making a deep hole in the frigate, which rapidly filled with water.
"To the pumps, men!" exclaimed Gennaro—"to the pumps!"
This time his command was immediately obeyed. The feeling of self-protection was stronger than their superstition, and the sailors were soon hard at work at the pumps.