Old Grimshaw’s body seemed like a dry leaf quivering in the wind as he forced his way forward against the growing gale. A haze of rain was drifting over the sea, yet far beyond the gray fringe thereof the vague whiteness of a sail showed above the foam. Isaac, breathless and half fainting, leaned upon his stick, and stared out over the waste of waters. The rain came beating on him, and the wind flicked the wet brim of his hat into his face. But still he stood there like some inexorable harbinger of evil, and cursed Bess and the ship that carried her towards the shores of France.
XLVIII
The storm that swept the Channel in the summer of 17—, was long remembered by the folk along the Sussex coast. Hail fell in many places, and fierce squalls of wind, like huge beasts galloping with the lesser herd, uprooted trees, sent chimneys crashing through the roofs, and scattered tiles in many a street. At one village the church-spire fell, and all along the coast ran the rumor of ships lost and fishing-vessels caught in the storm.
Off the French coast, and still tangled in the lifting fringes of the night, the Sussex Queen lay rolling heavily with the waves washing her lower decks. A squall had struck her soon after sundown, beaten down her masts, and left her drifting like a wounded gull with wings trailing in the water. Two men had been killed by the falling of the masts, and another washed overboard by a heavy sea. All through the night the pumps had been clanging, and water gushing from the brig’s black sides.
About two o’clock in the morning Captain George lurched down the short stairway leading to the poop-cabin. He was bleeding from a wound over the left temple and had the look of a man who was utterly unnerved. Moreover, he smelled of liquor, and his great raw hands trembled as he fumbled at the latch of the cabin door.
A ship’s lantern creaked and rocked from the beacon, throwing an uncertain light about the cabin. Ever and again the poop-windows were drenched and darkened by the waves that broke over the stern of the ship. Bess was half lying on her bunk, with her red cloak wrapped round her, Jeffray leaning against the bulkhead, with the St. Thomas à Kempis, that had been his father’s, open in his hand. Captain George looked at them as though half dazed, blood running down his face to soak into his ragged beard.
“Well, captain, what news for us?”
“News!” and the man laughed with a spasmodic croaking in the throat. “We’re going to the bottom as fast as the ship can take in water.”
“The ship sinking!”
Captain George’s hands had been working at the buckle of his belt.