Suddenly all eyes were drawn to the railing above by the horrible, unearthly cry first heard during the gale. It rang out with such blood-curdling intensity that the faces of the listeners blanched.
“We haven’t any business fooling here!” hoarsely muttered one of the oarsmen. “This consarned Flying Dutchman is ha’nted. I move we git as fast as we can.”
“And leave Faraday and Lieutenant Watson behind?” fiercely demanded Joy. “That’s a fine suggestion.”
Just then the sailing launch reached the bow. A quick scrutiny revealed several broken bolts and beam ends where the bowsprit and stays had been torn away. A fragment of chain was hanging down and swinging with a harsh, grating sound against the side.
“Climb up there, one of you,” called out the officer in charge.
Joy, who was nearest started to obey, but before he could leave the boat a prodigious hubbub came from aft.
Looking in that direction he saw Lieutenant Watson striking fiercely with his sword at something behind the rails.
An indescribable pandemonium came from the deck. Harsh cries and groans, wild shrieks, moans and a queer grunting sound which seemed more unearthly than all the rest.
One of the cutter’s crew was climbing the rope as fast as his arms could lift him, and another was preparing to follow.