“What is it?” she cried, blanching at the sight of the awful column.
“A tornado! Into the cabin, quick!” I shouted.
She obeyed without a word, and I had barely time to snatch up the basket containing the remains of our lunch and scramble through the door after her when, with a howl it is impossible to describe, the vortex of whirling air was upon us.
The darkness that came down like a curtain was appalling; the din deafening. The centre of the tornado must have missed us, else I would not now be telling this tale, but the sight through the open doors, which I had not had time to close, showed it had missed us but narrowly. I saw the surface of the Cove turn to milk under the lash of the wind, but had scant time to see more, for, as we were lying broadside to the blast, it struck us fairly on the side and careened us until the deck stood wellnigh up and down.
With a shriek the girl threw herself into my arms, and we both slid to leeward. There came a jar as though we had been struck, a crash overhead that sent the skylight shivering in fragments about us, a quick blast of icy air, and the vessel righted with a jerk.
Placing the fainting girl on a locker I ran up the steps to the deck. The whirlwind was passing out into the Sound, its shape hidden by the muck that flew in its wake, though a well-defined path of fallen trees and boiling water marked its track. A moment’s observation showed its outskirts had created havoc aboard the sloop.
The mainsail, having been only held in stops, had been blown open by the fearful power of the wind and, split into ribbons, was whipping in the gale with quick, pistol-like reports. The boom-jack had been torn away and the broken spar fallen on the cabin-house, which accounted for the smashed skylight. The topsail had clean gone, hardly a rag remaining. The buckets and all loose articles had been blown overboard; the scuttle-butt had fetched away and lay bung down, its contents gurgling out through the vent, while the only things outside the hull that remained intact were the jib-sail and its gearing.
I had hardly made the last observation when I discovered we were adrift! The first fierce tug of the wind had snapped our moorings, which Maxwell had spoken of as chafed, and, under the weight of the gale which was blowing, we were rapidly drawing into open water.
I caught my breath for a moment, but was immediately relieved as I thought of the anchor. Throwing off my coat I tossed it into the cabin, and, opening my pocket-knife, ran forward; but before I could reach the bow I was drenched by a sudden downpour of rain the volume and icy coldness of which made me gasp. It took but a second to cut the lashings that held the anchor, but, as the iron plunged to the bottom followed by only some half-fathom of chain, I nearly fainted. The shackle lay at my feet with its pin gone. The anchor was lost—the mooring parted; we were adrift in a storm and on a crippled boat.
For a moment I was completely stunned at the realization and stood looking over the side like a fool, as though expecting to see the mass of lost iron float to the surface; but the violent beating of the rain, now mixed with hail, forced sense into me and compelled a hasty retreat to the cabin.