At the end of an hour my father came stumping in on his wooden leg, looking haggard and weary.
“Brandy, Sam!” he said, tumbling into a chair.
I brought him the bottle and a glass and he took a good swig.
“Bry can’t make coffee. The galley’s washed out,” continued the captain. And then he drew his hand across his forehead with a gesture that I well knew, and that always betokened perturbation of an unusual sort.
“Did you fail to ship the rudder?” I asked.
“’Tain’t that, Sam. There wasn’t much chance, anyhow. But Billy Burke an’ Dick Leavenworth is washed away—gone—done for!”
My heart gave a thump of dismay. Two of our finest seamen lost; fellows I had earnestly respected and admired. It was the first fatality our crew had ever experienced, so no wonder my father was broken-hearted over it. I remembered that Leavenworth had a family, and the thought made me shudder.
“The ship will the storm stand, and be all good—will it not?” asked De Jiminez, by this time thoroughly unstrung and despairing. There was something almost pitiful in the question—hoping against hope—and of course Captain Steele lied to reassure him.
“The Seagull’s all right,” he asserted. “She’ll stand a much worse knockin’ around than this, an’ be none the worse for it. You’d better all go to bed an’ try to sleep. If only we had a clear sea I’d turn in myself.”
“But it is said we are drifting, Captain! A propeller we have not; a rudder we have not! We have no defense against the sea—we are impotent—helpless!” wailed De Jiminez.