Chapter Eleven.
Jack knew less of the world, if possible, than most of his shipmates, and not being much wiser, his wealth very rapidly disappeared. How it went he could scarcely tell. He had just enough left to pay for an outfit, when he found himself pressed on board the Tribune sloop of war, fitting out for the East Indies. This time, greatly to his sorrow, he was parted from Sambo, who had got his old rating as cook on board a large frigate. Away sailed the Tribune for the lands of pearls and pagodas, diamonds and marble temples, elephants and ivory palaces, scorching suns and wealth unbounded; but what cared Jack whether he went to the tropics or the poles, provided he had a stout ship under his foot and trusty companions by his side.
India was reached, and over those bright calm seas the frigate glided, visiting many a port, where many a strange scene was beheld, and where communication was opened with many strange people. The Tribune was continuing her voyage towards the rising sun—shortening each day in her progress—when, as she was sailing by some spice-bearing isle, a soft breeze wafting the sweet odours of many a fragrant flower from off the land, a change came over the smiling face of the blue deep,—sudden—terrific—like the work of magic. A loud, tremendous roar was heard, with a milling, hurtling, crashing sound. The tall palm-trees bent low before the blast, torn up by the roots, with roofs of houses, entire cottages, and whole crops, the produce of rich lands and days of wearying toil: they were swept like chaff before it. All hands were called, quick aloft they flew to shorten sail, tacks, sheets, and halliards quickly were let go. The topsail yards were speedily lowered, but the gale was down upon them before the sails could be handed. Wildly they fluttered, bursting all restraint, and then flew in tattered shreds from the bolt-ropes. Not a sail remained entire. Fluttering wildly in the gale the strips of canvas twisted and turned, flapping loudly, driving the hardy seamen from the yards, till it had formed thick, folds and knots which no human power could untie. Not till then could it be cut from the yards. On, on flew the ship, what could stop her now? The fierce typhoon howled and whistled through the rigging. A yard parted; away it was carried; two brave men were on it. Both together were hurled into the seething, hissing, foaming water, through which the ship was madly rushing. Could any human aid avail them? Alas! the cry was heard of a strong swimmer in his agony. He turned his longing eyes towards the ship fast leaving him, as still with giant strength he struggled on, cleaving the yielding waters with his brawny arms, his head lifted above the white foam thrown from her eddying wake, in the vain hope—he knows it vain—to overtake her. Yet he had never given in throughout his life’s combat with the world, and would not now till remorseless death had claimed him as his own. His shipmates grazed astern with aching eyes, till his head alone was dimly seen in the far distance amid the snow-white track the ship had left behind.
“Who was it fell?” was asked from the quarter deck.
“Jack Buntline,” many a voice replied. “Alas, ’twas poor Jack Buntline.”
“But two men were carried away with the broken yard,” exclaimed the officer of the watch; “I saw them fall.”
A voice, faint and struggling for utterance, at that moment was heard from alongside. A rope from aloft was trailing overboard, and at the end a human form was clinging. Numbers hurried to assist their shipmate. “Be careful now, my men, or he also will be carried away,” cried the officers. A rope with a bight was hove to him, but the struggling sailor durst not attempt to clutch it, lest on quitting one he might miss the other, and be borne, like his comrade, far away astern. Oh, not another instant could he cling on. If help cannot be sent him he too certainly must let go. Another rope was hove. This time more successfully, the bight fell over his shoulder. He passed an arm through it. “Now haul away,” was the cry. He was hoisted half fainting on the deck. The surgeon was ready to attend him. “Who is it?” was asked. “Jack Buntline,” was the answer.
Once again Jack Buntline was preserved from sudden death, and what death more dreadful than to feel the life blood flowing freely through the veins, with youth, and strength, and many a fancied joy in prospect, friends looking on, eager to save yet powerless, and to be left alone on the cheerless boundless ocean, the stout ship flying fast and far away, and unable to return till long, long after the strongest swimmer must have sunk in the cold grasp of death. Jack knew and acknowledged with a grateful heart the arm which saved him. Away, away flew the ship. The sky overhead a clear deep-dazzling blue, not a cloud but that wind must have blown it from the atmosphere; the sea beneath was one mass of seething, hissing, foaming, madly-leaping waves; not upward, but rushing in frantic haste one over the other, the spray, like thickest snow drifts, following fast astern, torn, as it seemed, from the summit of the seas. Royal masts, and topgallant masts and yards had from the first been struck, top masts were housed,—still frantically onward flew the ship, scudding under bare poles.
“What sea room has she?” was asked with many an anxious look into each others’ eyes.