It was the King Solomon, a proud warship, with three tiers of decks supplied with windows, which resembled a three-story house with wings; but windows and portholes were now tightly closed.
The rain was pouring, black and white stormy petrels fluttered around the vessel, and ever and anon the waves tossed aloft one of the sharks swimming around the ship, which looked down greedily a moment, with its cold, fixed eyes, at the trembling sailors.
Every man had his hands full; in the midst stood Captain Trahern; the boldest of the crew were in the rigging, trying to secure the sails; others were attempting to rig a jury mast in place of one which had been carried away. Another group toiled at the pumps, and four men were at the helm, straining every muscle whenever a wave stronger than usual dashed against the bow of the ship. In the intervals of rest the sailors at the helm talked with one another.
"What a gale! It's impossible for us ever to reach port again."
"We came near sticking fast in the clouds just now, the waves flung us up so high."
"Lord help us! The thunderbolts are falling like ripe pears, one of us will be hit presently."
"Hush, don't you see the St. Elmo's fire yonder at the mast-head?" asked Philip, the helmsman.
"St. George preserve us!" whispered the others in horror. "That means evil. The St. Elmo's fire usually appears only on ships devoted to destruction. See how it dances!"
"Mind your helm!" shouted the captain, but it was too late; while the men were staring at the electrical phenomena hovering around the mast-head, a huge wave approached the ship, a wave which resembled a transparent mountain-chain in motion. Every effort to put the ship about proved futile, the vast surge, higher than the highest mast-head, rolled nearer, its top crested with foam. The men clung to the rigging and bulwarks. Suddenly the King Solomon rose more rapidly, tossed upward on the towering wave, and the next moment lay on her side with her masts in the water and wave after wave sweeping over her decks. In a few minutes the ship righted again, the water rolling from her as it drips from the plumage of a swan, and the crew, drenched to the skin, returned to their tasks.
"See! The St. Elmo's fire is still shining at the mast-head!" cried Philip, "if it were not kindled by the devil, that flood of water would have put it out."