36. CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE PARKI GIVES UP THE GHOST.
A long calm in the boat, and now, God help us, another
in the brigantine. It was airless and profound.
In that hot calm, we lay fixed and frozen in like Parry
at the Pole. The sun played upon the glassy sea like the
sun upon the glaciers.
At the end of two days we lifted up our eyes and beheld
a low, creeping, hungry cloud expanding like an army,
wing and wing, along the eastern horizon. Instantly Jarl
bade me take heed.
Here be it said, that though for weeks and weeks reign
over the equatorial latitudes of the Pacific, the mildest and
sunniest of days; that nevertheless, when storms do come,
they come in their strength: spending in a few, brief blasts
their concentrated rage. They come like the Mamelukes:
they charge, and away.
It wanted full an hour to sunset; but the sun was well
nigh obscured. It seemed toiling among bleak Scythian
steeps in the hazy background. Above the storm-cloud
flitted ominous patches of scud, rapidly advancing and receding:
Attila's skirmishers, thrown forward in the van of
his Huns. Beneath, a fitful shadow slid along the surface.
As we gazed, the cloud came nearer; accelerating
its approach.
With all haste we proceeded to furl the sails, which,
owing to the calm, had been hanging loose in the brails.
And by help of a spare boom, used on the forecastle-deck
as a sweep or great oar, we endeavored to cast the brigantine's
head toward the foe.
The storm seemed about to overtake us; but we felt no
breeze. The noiseless cloud stole on; its advancing shadow
lowering over a distinct and prominent milk-white crest
upon the surface of the ocean. But now this line of surging
foam came rolling down upon us like a white charge of
cavalry: mad Hotspur and plumed Murat at its head;
pouring right forward in a continuous frothy cascade, which
curled over, and fell upon the glassy sea before it.
Still, no breath of air. But of a sudden, like a blow
from a man's hand, and before our canvas could be secured,
the stunned craft, giving one lurch to port, was stricken
down on her beam-ends; the roaring tide dashed high up
against her windward side, and drops of brine fell upon the
deck, heavy as drops of gore.
It was all a din and a mist; a crashing of spars and of
ropes; a horrible blending of sights and of sounds; as for
an instant we seemed in the hot heart of the gale; our
cordage, like harp-strings, shrieking above the fury of the
blast. The masts rose, and swayed, and dipped their
trucks in the sea. And like unto some stricken buffalo
brought low to the plain, the brigantine's black hull, shaggy
with sea-weed, lay panting on its flank in the foam.
Frantically we clung to the uppermost bulwarks. And
now, loud above the roar of the sea, was suddenly heard a
sharp, splintering sound, as of a Norway woodman felling a
pine in the forest. It was brave Jarl, who foremost of all
had snatched from its rack against the mainmast, the ax,
always there kept.
“Cut the lanyards to windward!” he cried; and again
buried his ax into the mast. He was quickly obeyed.
And upon cutting the third lanyard of the five, he shouted
for us to pause. Dropping his ax, he climbed up to windward.
As he clutched the rail, the wounded mast snapped
in twain with a report like a cannon. A slight smoke was
perceptible where it broke. The remaining lanyards parted.
From the violent strain upon them, the two shrouds
flew madly into the air, and one of the great blocks at
their ends, striking Annatoo upon the forehead, she let go
her hold upon a stanchion, and sliding across the aslant
deck, was swallowed up in the whirlpool under our lea.
Samoa shrieked. But there was no time to mourn; no
hand could reach to save.
By the connecting stays, the mainmast carried over with
it the foremast; when we instantly righted, and for the
time were saved; my own royal Viking our saviour.
The first fury of the gale was gone. But far to leeward
was seen the even, white line of its onset, pawing the ocean
into foam. All round us, the sea boiled like ten thousand
caldrons; and through eddy, wave, and surge, our almost
water-logged craft waded heavily; every dead dash ringing
hollow against her hull, like blows upon a coffin.
We floated a wreck. With every pitch we lifted our
dangling jib-boom into the air; and beating against the side,
were the shattered fragments of the masts. From these we
made all haste to be free, by cutting the rigging that held
them.
Soon, the worst of the gale was blown over. But the sea
ran high. Yet the rack and scud of the tempest, its mad,
tearing foam, was subdued into immense, long-extended, and
long-rolling billows; the white cream on their crests like
snow on the Andes. Ever and anon we hung poised on
their brows; when the furrowed ocean all round looked like
a panorama from Chimborazo.
A few hours more, and the surges went down. There
was a moderate sea, a steady breeze, and a clear, starry sky.
Such was the storm that came after our calm.
