“Cut loose, Tom!” I yelled, finally understanding—as did the other men with us—the menacing disaster. In a few seconds we would smash into the bark’s hull, whether the whale dived or not.
But the bull didn’t dive, and Tom swung the axe. His quick stroke severed the line and every man in our boat was awake to the impending catastrophe. Stroke sprang for the long steering oar. The rapid swing of it barely swerved the heavy boat out of the course of sure disaster.
On went the released whale. Plumb his head smashed against the hull of the big bark. The collision was a most awful shock. Consider a heavy train pushing a mogul locomotive down grade ahead of it, and the whole thing ramming another train—the result could have been no more awful.
The three-inch plank of which the vessel’s side was made splintered like the thinnest veneer. The ends of big timbers in her hull were ground to pulp and matchwood. With a terrific splash of his tail, the fighting whale rolled over, after rebounding from the bark, and lay, seemingly stunned!
The bark, driven over almost on her beam ends, righted slowly. We knew the whale must be as good as dead, but we had no thought for him then. The smashing of the Scarboro might mean torture and death to every man of her crew. We were out of the track of general steamship routes, and far, far from land. If the bark sank, we were done for!
Chapter XXI
In Which the Wavecrest Sets Sail Again
Nobody gave any further thought to the whale. My own eyes were set upon that yawning wound in the hull of the old Scarboro. After the shock of the collision the bark righted slowly, and when she did so the sea rushed into the hole in a most awful fashion.