Up above, meanwhile, Captain West saw, to his alarm, that he had been mistaken about the storm. The winds had indeed died down, but only for a time.
Now, with the coming of darkness, they were again rising. What had resumed as the gentlest of whispers was now a wild screaming and hammering around the pilothouse that threatened to smash in even those stoutly reinforced windows. The seas were again pounding. The James Kennedy seemed to be weakening. No longer did she plow ahead, straight and true, with the passage of each successive wave. Now she was wallowing in the troughs—and the thundering seas battered her mercilessly. Each time, she staggered and drove on. But each time, she seemed to drive on a little less powerfully.
The waves roared at her in combinations now—sometimes two waves following quickly upon another, frequently three.
Alone in his pilothouse, Captain West realized that a few hours more of such punishment would mean the end of his ship and all aboard her. Below, in the mess hall, the veteran sailors realized it, too. But they said nothing, merely exchanging fearful glances. Only God could save them now, they knew. In such a storm, even the most superb seamanship was useless.
Captain West knew it, too. He wondered if he should radio for help. But what good would that do? Who could get to him? Besides, Captain West had no wish to make contact with the mainland. The storm had given him his perfect excuse for arriving in Buffalo too late to communicate with his employer, Mr. Kennedy. He wished to stay out of contact with the Kennedy offices for as long as possible.
But something had to be done. Quickly, Captain West bent over his chart. His eyes swept over it, eagerly searching for some island or outcropping of land to which he might run for shelter. All around him now were the voices of insane power, the clashing and crashing of that surging sea, the wailing of the wind. As Captain West bent his head, a great wall of water gathered before the James Kennedy’s bow.
It rose, black and awful, to the height of Captain West’s pilothouse—and then it struck.
It fell with a roar. Captain West dove for a stanchion. He threw his arms around it and held on. The water burst the bulkheads of the pilothouse. It flattened those steel walls as though they were made of paper. It swept away the pilothouse as easily as a wave washing away a fruit crate.
Captain West heard that wrenching roar, and then the lake water poured over him. He clung desperately to the stanchion. He felt that monstrous weight—hundreds and hundreds of tons—driving the James Kennedy down and down, and he wondered if the vessel would ever re-emerge from it.
Down below, in his tiny cabin, Sandy Steele held his breath as he felt that wave strike the ship and drive it down.