We were under the shortest canvas, and were trying to get her on the wind before the sea made, as it was sure to make, in a few minutes.
As we tailed on to the topsail-brace, I caught a glimpse of Richards and Yankee Dan rolling the wheel over, although the deck was as steep as the ship’s sides. Slowly the old barque righted herself, as she headed up within four points of it, scooping her main-deck full of water, some of which found its way below, as the main-hatch had not been battened or caulked, and the flood rolled over it waist-deep. Had we been taken aback, the topmasts would surely have gone overboard in that blast, for it was impossible to realize its tremendous power.
I could hear the captain’s hoarse croak from near the mizzen, sounding faintly in the roar about us, and I caught the look of Big Jones’s face as he raised it over the rail and brought it back streaming with the flying drift and gasping for breath. Then we belayed the line, and started to get all yards sharp on the starboard tack.
It was desperate work, but it was finished at last, and, by the time we had a chance to breathe and look about us, the barque was riding into such a sea as seldom runs in the western ocean, her topsails hanging in short ribbons from the jack-stays, and a gale thundering through her rigging that bid fair to drive her under by the sheer weight of the wind in it.
There was no steady blow. Sometimes the roar aloft would die down for a few minutes, and it would seem as if the weight of it had passed. Then would come a squall, snoring and roaring, rising up into a wild chaos of sound that was almost deafening, and the barque would be laid upon her side for several minutes as it tore past.
Jorg, with the pluck and perseverance of his race, worked desperately at the hatches to get them battened down firmly. Henry and I managed to get a large timber over the canvas cover, and, lashing one end fast to the ring-bolt on one side, we hove down with it until we could get Richards, Bill, Jones, and the rest to pass a lashing, heaving the lever over as tight as our combined weight could make it go. I saw Hawkson waving his hand, and crawled to him along the pin-rail.
“Go aft to the wheel,” he roared in my ear, and I climbed the poop.
CHAPTER XIX.
AND STILL MORE ILL-LUCK
As I crawled up the lee steps of the poop of The Gentle Hand, I began to believe it was blowing. I could not possibly stand before that blast. Holding to the poop-rail, I worked aft and relieved Yankee Dan, who had helped the man already there by taking the spokes to windward.
All about the barque were the lowering banks of scud, darkening the ocean now almost to night, and flying with the rapidity of the wind. Above was the deep gray of the heavy pall of vapour.