This state of things might be prolonged indefinitely. At evening Glenarvan consulted the captain on the subject. The latter, whose supply of coal was rapidly diminishing, appeared much disturbed at the subsidence of the wind. He had covered his ship with canvas, and set his studding- and mainsails, that he might take advantage of the least breeze; but, in nautical language, there was not enough wind “to fill a hat.”
“At all events,” said Glenarvan, “we need not complain. It is better to be without wind than to have a contrary one.”
“Your lordship is right,” replied Captain Mangles; “but I dread some sudden change in the weather. We are now in the neighborhood of the trade-winds, which, from October to April, blow from the northeast, and our progress will, therefore, be very much retarded.”
“But what can we do, captain? If this misfortune occurs, we must submit to it. It will only be a delay, after all.”
“Probably, if a storm does not come upon us too.”
“Do you fear bad weather?” asked Glenarvan, looking at the sky, which, however, was cloudless.
“Yes,” replied the captain. “I tell your lordship, but would conceal my apprehensions from Lady Helena and Miss Grant.”
“You act wisely. What do you apprehend?”
“There are signs of a great storm. Do not trust the appearance of the sky, my lord; nothing is more deceptive. For two days the barometer has fallen to an alarming degree. This is a warning that I cannot disregard. I particularly fear the storms of the South Seas, for I have been already exposed to them.”
“John,” replied Glenarvan, “the Duncan is a stout vessel, and her captain a skillful seaman. Let the storm come; we will take care of ourselves.”
Captain Mangles, while giving expression to his fears, was by no means forgetful of his duty as a sailor. The steady fall of the barometer caused him to take every measure of precaution. The sky, as yet, gave no indication of the approaching tempest; but the warnings of his infallible instrument were not to be disregarded.
The young captain accordingly remained on deck all night. About eleven o’clock the sky grew threatening towards the south. All hands were immediately called on deck, to take in the sails. At midnight the wind freshened. The creaking of the masts, the rattling of the rigging, and the groaning of bulkheads informed the passengers of the state of affairs. Paganel, Glenarvan, the major, and Robert came on deck to render assistance if it should be needed. Over the sky, that they had left clear and studded with stars, now rolled thick clouds broken by light bands and spotted like the skin of a leopard.
“Has the storm broken upon us?” asked Glenarvan.
“Not yet, but it will presently,” replied the captain.
At that moment he gave the order to reef the topsail. The sailors sprang into the windward rattlings, and with difficulty accomplished their task. Captain Mangles wished to keep on as much sail as possible, to support the yacht and moderate her rolling. After these precautions had been taken, he told the mate and the boatswain to prepare for the assault of the tempest, which could not be long in breaking forth. Still, like an officer at the storming of a breach, he did not leave the point of observation, but from the upper deck endeavored to draw from the stormy sky its secrets.
It was now one o’clock in the morning. Lady Helena and Miss Grant, aroused by the unusual bustle, ventured to come on deck. The wind was sharply whistling through the cordage, which, like the strings of a musical instrument, resounded as if some mighty bow had caused their rapid vibrations; the pulleys clashed against each other; the ropes creaked with a sharp sound in their rough sockets; the sails cracked like cannon, and vast waves rolled up to assail the yacht, as it lightly danced on their foaming crests.
When the captain perceived the ladies, he approached and besought them to return to the cabin. Several waves had already been shipped, and the deck might be swept at any moment. The din of the elements was now so piercing that Lady Helena could scarcely hear the young captain.
“Is there any danger?” she managed to ask him during a momentary lull in the storm.
“No, madam,” replied he; “but neither you nor Miss Mary can remain on deck.”
The ladies did not oppose an order that seemed more like an entreaty, and returned to the cabin just as a wave, rolling over the stern, shook the compass-lights in their sockets. The violence of the wind redoubled; the masts bent under the pressure of sail, and the yacht seemed to rise on the billows.
“Brail up the mainsail!” cried the captain; “haul in the topsails and jibs!”
The sailors sprang to their places; the halyards were loosened, the brails drawn down, the jibs taken in with a noise that rose above the storm, and the Duncan, whose smokestack belched forth torrents of black smoke, rolled heavily in the sea.
Glenarvan, the major, Paganel, and Robert gazed with admiration and terror at this struggle with the waves. They clung tightly to the rigging, unable to exchange a word, and watched the flocks of stormy petrels, those melancholy birds of the storm, as they sported in the raging winds.
At that moment a piercing sound was heard above the roar of the hurricane. The steam was rapidly escaping, not through the escape-valve, but through the pipes of the boiler. The alarm-whistle sounded with unusual shrillness; the yacht gave a terrible lurch, and Wilson, who was at the helm, was overthrown by an unexpected blow of the wheel. The vessel was in the trough of the sea, and no longer manageable.
“What is the matter?” cried Captain Mangles, rushing to the stern.
“The ship is careening!” replied Austin.
“Is the rudder unhinged?”
“To the engine! to the engine!” cried the engineer.
The captain rushed down the
