CHAPTER VIII.
ON THE TRACK.
A splendid mail steamer, bound for the Orient, was ploughing its way through the notoriously treacherous waters of the Bay of Biscay, whose surface to-day was of the brightest and calmest. There was little to indicate the horrors of which “The Bay,” as it is called by sailors, is so often the witness, and most of the passengers were congregated about the deck, chatting, reading, smoking, or otherwise doing their best to enjoy the leisure hours at their disposal.
“So this is the dreaded Bay of Biscay again,” said Mrs. Colbrook, a stout, good-humoured-looking lady. “I suppose I am exceptionally lucky, for it has always been smooth when I crossed it.”
The persons she addressed were Mr. Cory and Miss Annie Cory, who, however, had thought it advisable to take their passage under the names of Mr. and Miss Waine. They were bound upon an important errand, and did not intend to risk failure by proclaiming their identity too widely. True, the chances that anyone knowing their motive in voyaging to Malta would come across them by the way were so remote as to be almost beyond the need of consideration. But Mr. Cory was so far cut out for detective work that he was not likely to fail through lack of carefulness, and preferred to neglect not the smallest precaution.
“Yes, Mrs. Colbrook,” he smiled, in reply to that lady’s remark. “There is little to indicate the mischief that goes on here sometimes. We may be thankful that we are favoured with such beautiful weather.”
“That we may! I cannot picture anything more awful than to be in a ship at sea in a storm so bad that destruction is almost certain,” said Annie. “It seems to me to be like no other danger. On land there is always some loophole of escape if the peril is of a protracted nature. But on the wide, trackless ocean, with not another ship in sight, things look almost hopeless from the first. I have more than once tried to picture the terror and distress that must reign on board a doomed vessel, but my mind faints before the awful picture.”
“There I think you are entirely wrong,” remarked Mrs. Colbrook. “I believe that awful panics on board sinking ships are of much less frequent occurrence than is generally imagined.”
“And your reason for that belief?” asked Annie.
“A little experience of my own. I was, a year or two ago, on board a small steamer bound from the Tyne to Antwerp. There were only five first-class passengers, all of them ladies. We had but been at sea about three hours when a terrific storm arose, which speedily threatened to sink our ship. The wind howled, the rain poured in torrents, the lightning flashed, the thunder rolled, the ship played such a fine game at pitch and toss, that everything breakable was smashed to atoms, and we seemed to be oftener standing on our heads than on our heels, or would have been, if we had been able to stand at all. Soon after the storm began the steamer’s wooden deck groaned and creaked awfully, and the timbers, as if afraid that we were not fully realising the dangers of our position, considerately gaped in a score of places, so that whether we were in our bunks, or whether we were in the saloon, it was all the same—we were so copiously supplied with the elemental fluid that our clothes and bedding were saturated. Three of the ladies sat, shivering and miserable, holding on to the cabin table, and hoping for the advent of the steward with news of a probable improvement in the weather. Near them sat the stewardess, in as helpless a condition as they were. Even if she had cared to risk an attempt to go on deck, she could not have done so, as we were battened down, there being some fear lest the little ship, in her crazy pitchings and rollings, would ship the cabin full of water and swamp us all. Cooking and attendance were all postponed for the time being, ‘for,’ as the stewardess coolly remarked, ‘what was the use of trying to prepare a meal if you were to be drowned directly afterwards?’