“So do I,” I said, looking at the whisky bottle. “Otherwise, after taking those precautions to keep us in the dark, he would not have let on like that.”
“Well,” said Bickley, “he can’t get to the liquor, except through this saloon, as it is locked up forward with the other stores.”
“That’s nothing,” I replied, “as doubtless he has a supply of his own; rum, I expect. We must take our chance.”
Bickley nodded, and suggested that we should go on deck to see what was happening. So we went. Not a breath of wind was stirring, and even the sea seemed to be settling down a little. At least, so we judged from the motion, for we could not see either it or the sky; everything was as black as pitch. We heard the sailors, however, engaged in rigging guide ropes fore and aft, and battening down the hatches with extra tarpaulins by the light of lanterns. Also they were putting ropes round the boats and doing something to the spars and topmasts.
Presently Bastin joined us, having, I suppose, finished his devotions.
“Really, it is quite pleasant here,” he said. “One never knows how disagreeable so much wind is until it stops.”
I lit my pipe, making no answer, and the match burned quite steadily there in the open air.
“What is that?” exclaimed Bickley, staring at something which now I saw for the first time. It looked like a line of white approaching through the gloom. With it came a hissing sound, and although there was still no wind, the rigging began to moan mysteriously like a thing in pain. A big drop of water also fell from the sides into my pipe and put it out. Then one of the sailors cried in a hoarse voice:
“Get down below, governors, unless you want to go out to sea!”
“Why?” inquired Bastin.
“Why? Becos the ’urricane is coming, that’s all. Coming as though the devil had kicked it out of ’ell.”
Bastin seemed inclined to remonstrate at this sort of language, but we pushed him down the companion and followed, propelling the spaniel Tommy in front of us. Next moment I heard the sailors battening the hatch with hurried blows, and when this was done to their satisfaction, heard their feet also as they ran into shelter.
Another instant and we were all lying in a heap on the cabin floor with poor Tommy on top of us. The cyclone had struck the ship! Above the wash of water and the screaming of the gale we heard other mysterious sounds, which doubtless were caused by the yards hitting the seas, for the yacht was lying on her side. I thought that all was over, but presently there came a rending, crashing noise. The masts, or one of them, had gone, and by degrees we righted.
“Near thing!” said Bickley. “Good heavens, what’s that?”
I listened, for the electric light had temporarily gone out, owing, I suppose, to the dynamo having stopped for a moment. A most unholy and hollow sound was rising from the cabin floor. It might have been caused by a bullock with its windpipe cut, trying to get its breath and groaning. Then the light came on again and we saw Bastin lying at full length on the carpet.
“He’s broken his neck or something,” I said.
Bickley crept to him and having looked, sang out:
“It’s all right! He’s only seasick. I thought it would come to that if he drank so much tea.”
“Seasick,” I said faintly—“seasick?”
“That’s all,” said Bickley. “The nerves of the stomach acting on the brain or vice-versa—that is, if Bastin has a brain,” he added sotto voce.
“Oh!” groaned the prostrate clergyman. “I wish that I were dead!”
“Don’t trouble about that,” answered Bickley. “I expect you soon will be. Here, drink some whisky, you donkey.”
Bastin sat up and obeyed, out of the bottle, for it was impossible to pour anything into a glass, with results too dreadful to narrate.
“I call that a dirty trick,” he said presently, in a feeble voice, glowering at Bickley.
“I expect I shall have to play you a dirtier before long, for you are a pretty bad case, old fellow.”
As a matter of fact he had, for once Bastin had begun really we thought that he was going to die. Somehow we got him into his cabin, which opened off the saloon, and as he could drink nothing more, Bickley managed to inject morphia or some other compound into him, which made him insensible for a long while.
“He must be in a poor way,” he said, “for the needle went more than a quarter of an inch into him, and he never cried out or stirred. Couldn’t help it in that rolling.”
But now I could hear the engines working, and I think that the bow of the vessel was got head on to the seas, for instead of rolling we pitched, or rather the ship stood first upon one end and then upon the other. This continued for a while until the first burst of the cyclone had gone by. Then suddenly the engines stopped; I suppose that they had broken down, but I never learned, and we seemed to veer about, nearly sinking in the process, and to run before the hurricane at terrific speed.
“I wonder where we are going to?” I said to Bickley. “To the land of sleep, Humphrey, I imagine,” he replied in a more gentle voice than I had often heard him use, adding: “Goodbye, old boy, we have been real friends, haven’t we, notwithstanding my peculiarities? I only wish that I could think that there was anything in Bastin’s views. But I can’t, I can’t. It’s good night for us poor creatures!”
VI
Land
At last the electric light really went out. I had looked at my watch just before this happened and wound it up, which, Bickley remarked, was superfluous and a waste of energy. It then marked 3:20 in the morning. We had
