But this time it really was a question of minutes before that squall would strike us.
And Stevens saw it as soon or sooner than I did, though he certainly went about his preparation in a way that was decidedly not of the usual practice.
I could see that he was distinctly excited, but I could swear it was not nervousness at the approaching blow, however it might be connected with it.
Without a single word, he nodded to the fellow to resume the helm, while he simply smiled the girl into relinquishing it. Then he stepped quietly forward, and up to old Steve, who had never taken his eyes from his chief since the second the storm had been sighted.
The command was given in an actual whisper, and the men virtually tiptoed at the nimble work of shortening sail.
The main tops’l had been clewed, the flying jib doused, and five fellows were about to man the main halyards to lower—all in a dead silence, broken only by the grumble of the thunder which would soon be upon us—when a sudden yell fairly froze us by its virulence.
And up through the companionway bounded Carl Stroth!
I’ll not soon forget the light in those eyes of his as he bellowed:
“Here, you lily-livered hounds! What? Douse sail for a puny summer shower? What d’ye think we are? Children? Come now, you lame duck!” and he swung Stevens around. “I’ll give an order or two myself—somethin’ worthy of the Ruby Light! Up with that mainsail again! Now the jib! Topsail! All of ’em, I say!”
As well try to cork Vesuvius.