“W-w-w-what is it?” gasped the newly awakened boy, his eyes wide with amazement at the inferno of noises.
“I guess it’s a hurricane,” came Tom’s response, “and we’re running the engines on furniture!”
As he spoke, the Valkyrie appeared to be lifted skyward by a giant hand and then pushed violently down again to an abysmal depth.
“A few more of those and—good-night,” spoke Jack, whose face had grown pale as ashes.
The next few hours were filled with terror. Medway, revolver in hand, stationed himself in the fire-room, keeping the terrified stokers at work on pain of instant death. Into the furnaces of the hurricane-driven ship was piled everything aboard that would burn. Boats were ruthlessly smashed, costly mahogany and ebony trim and panelling, chairs, tables, anything, everything that was combustible.
The boys toiled as if in a nightmare. Half stunned by the violence of the vessel’s movements, sick, dizzy and aching in every limb, they kept at their tasks. But not long before midnight the end came with the suddenness of a thunder-clap. No time was left for thought even, much less preparation.
They felt the Valkyrie lifted bodily upward and then rushed downward again with appalling force. There followed a crash that seemed to be sufficient to smash the stout structure of steel and iron into a mass of junk. The boys felt themselves hurled bodily across the engine-room by some unseen force.
Then came a shout. It was Medway’s voice.
“Everyone for himself!”
The boys rushed on deck, not knowing what to expect. After that appalling crash they hardly knew if the Valkyrie was yet actually under their feet.