The skipper came forward. He suggested that the two passengers go below, and Jack, the steward, with Komuri to assist him, managed to get them below without protest, although it was something like ninety-six or seven in that saloon.
A white streak spread upon the sea. The squall struck, snoring away with a vigor that told of more coming. The spumedrift flew over us. Then another, and another furious blast of wind bore down upon the schooner, and she lay slowly over until her rail was submerged.
In five minutes the hurricane was roaring over us, and the Tanner lay upon her beam ends while we struggled with the mizzen, and held the wheel hard up to throw her off, the weight of the wind holding her down with a giant hand.
Yelling and struggling, all hands now tried to get that mizzen in. It was a waste of time. I saw the skipper clinging to the boom and using his knife upon the canvas, and did likewise. With a thundering roar the sail split, torn to ribbons. We could not make ourselves heard in the chaos of sound, but waved frantically our orders and helped as only good seamen can.
But the Tanner refused to go off. She lay flat out with her cross-trees in the lift of the sea, and she hung there. The forestaysail burst with a crack that we heard aft, and vanished as if it had been snow in a jet of steam. The bonneted foresail held with the wind roaring over the top of it, spilling away, but still keeping full enough to keep from slatting and bursting. It was the heaviest canvas and brand new, and all the time squall after squall bore upon the straining ship, roaring, screaming with the blast of a gun as the puffs came and went.
That wind was like a wall of something solid. To move in it was enough to tax the strength. It pressed one against what was to leeward—pressed him, held him and bore upon him like a weight of something solid. To let go meant to run the risk of being blown bodily away into the sea.
We clung along the weather rail, and hung on with both hands, watching the white smother fore and aft, but unable to look to windward for an instant against the blast. The outfly and uproar was so tremendous that all sounds were lost in it. I found myself near Slade and the old man, all three clinging to the rail, and gasping for breath. The skipper's gray head shone bare in the blast, and the white foam flecked it, and dripped from his beard, his ruddy cheeks glowing red in contrast. His teeth were set, and he was just holding on.
For a long time we three hung there, and did nothing but try to survive the fury of that hurricane. The forward part of the schooner was blotted out, and I just remember that to leeward, where I could look, the surge boiled and foamed clear up to the hatch coamings.
I thought of the women below, and knew they were safe for the time being. Then I remembered the starboard alleyway, and the ports that Komuri had left open to give the Chinks air. The alleyway was now completely submerged; the ports far below the surface of the sea, the Chinamen were caught there like rats in a trap.
The narrow space must even now be filling up, and I thought of the poor coolies struggling against that door the carpenter had so securely locked and fastened upon them. They could never break it open, for upon it we had placed our safety against another uprising, and the double, two-inch planks bolted crossways would stand more than the weight of the crowd that would be able to surge against it. The alleyway could fill entirely without any water getting below.