CHAPTER V
THE STORM ON THE INDIAN OCEAN
Two days after this conversation, John Mangles announced that the
Duncan was in longitude 113 degrees 37
minutes, and the passengers found on consulting the chart
that consequently Cape Bernouilli could not be more than
five degrees off. They must be sailing then in that part
of the Indian Ocean which washed the Australian continent, and in four days
might hope to see Cape Bernouilli
appear on the horizon.
Hitherto the yacht had been favored by a strong westerly
breeze, but now there were evident signs that a calm was
impending, and on the 13th of December the wind fell entirely; as the sailors
say, there was not enough to fill a cap.
There was no saying how long this state of the atmosphere might last. But
for the powerful propeller the yacht
would have been obliged to lie motionless as a log. The
young captain was very much annoyed, however, at the
prospect of emptying his coal-bunkers, for he had covered
his ship with canvas, intending to take advantage of the
slightest breeze.
"After all, though," said Glenarvan, with whom he was
talking over the subject, "it is better to have no wind than
a contrary one."
"Your Lordship is right," replied John Mangles; "but
the fact is these sudden calms bring change of weather, and
this is why I dread them. We are close on the trade winds,
and if we get them ever so little in our teeth, it will delay
us greatly."
"Well, John, what if it does? It will only make our
voyage a little longer."
"Yes, if it does not bring a storm with it."
"Do you mean to say you think we are going to have
bad weather?" replied Glenarvan, examining the sky,
which from horizon to zenith seemed absolutely cloudless.
"I do," returned the captain. "I may say so to your
Lordship, but I should not like to alarm Lady Glenarvan
or Miss Grant."
"You are acting wisely; but what makes you uneasy?"
"Sure indications of a storm. Don't trust, my Lord, to
the appearance of the sky. Nothing is more deceitful.
For the last two days the barometer has been falling in a
most ominous manner, and is now at 27°. This is a warning I dare not
neglect, for there is nothing I dread more
than storms in the Southern Seas; I have had a taste of
them already. The vapors which become condensed in
the immense glaciers at the South Pole produce a current
of air of extreme violence. This causes a struggle between the polar and
equatorial winds, which results in cyclones, tornadoes, and all those multiplied
varieties of
tempest against which a ship is no match."
"Well, John," said Glenarvan, "the Duncan is a good
ship, and her captain is a brave sailor. Let the storm
come, we'll meet it!"
John Mangles remained on deck the whole night, for
though as yet the sky was still unclouded, he had such faith
in his weather-glass, that he took every precaution that prudence could suggest.
About 11 P. M. the sky began to
darken in the south, and the crew were called up, and all
the sails hauled in, except the foresail, brigantine, top-sail,
and jib-boom. At midnight the wind freshened, and before long the cracking of
the masts, and the rattling of the
cordage, and groaning of the timbers, awakened the passengers, who speedily made
their appearance on deck — at
least Paganel, Glenarvan, the Major and Robert.
"Is it the hurricane?" asked Glenarvan quietly.
"Not yet," replied the captain; "but it is close at hand."
And he went on giving his orders to the men, and doing
his best to make ready for the storm, standing, like an officer commanding a
breach, with his face to the wind, and
his gaze fixed on the troubled sky. The glass had fallen
to 26 degrees, and the hand pointed to tempest.
It was one o'clock in the morning when Lady Helena
and Miss Grant ventured upstairs on deck. But they no
sooner made their appearance than the captain hurried
toward them, and begged them to go below again immediately. The waves were
already beginning to dash over the
side of the ship, and the sea might any moment sweep right
over her from stem to stern. The noise of the warring
elements was so great that his words were scarcely audible,
but Lady Helena took advantage of a sudden lull to ask if
there was any danger.
"None whatever," replied John Mangles; "but you cannot remain on deck,
madam, no more can Miss Mary."
The ladies could not disobey an order that seemed almost
an entreaty, and they returned to their cabin. At the same
moment the wind redoubled its fury, making the masts
bend beneath the weight of the sails, and completely lifting
up the yacht.
"Haul up the foresail!" shouted the captain. "Lower
the topsail and jib-boom!"
Glenarvan and his companions stood silently gazing at
the struggle between their good ship and the waves, lost in
wondering and half-terrified admiration at the spectacle.
Just then, a dull hissing was heard above the noise of
the elements. The steam was escaping violently, not by
the funnel, but from the safety-valves of the boiler; the
alarm whistle sounded unnaturally loud, and the yacht
made a frightful pitch, overturning Wilson, who was at
the wheel, by an unexpected blow from the tiller. The
Duncan no longer obeyed the helm.
"What is the matter?" cried the captain, rushing on the
bridge.
"The ship is heeling over on her side," replied Wilson.
"The engine! the engine!" shouted the engineer.
Away rushed John to the engine-room. A cloud of
steam filled the room. The pistons were motionless in
their cylinders, and they were apparently powerless, and
the engine-driver, fearing for his boilers, was letting off
the steam.
"What's wrong?" asked the captain.
"The propeller is bent or entangled," was the reply.
"It's not acting at all."
"Can't you extricate it?"
"It is impossible."
An accident like this could not be remedied, and John's
only resource was to fall back on his sails, and seek to make
an auxiliary of his most powerful enemy, the wind. He
went up again on deck, and after explaining in a few words
to Lord Glenarvan how things stood, begged him to retire
to his cabin, with the rest of the passengers. But Glenarvan wished to remain
above.
"No, your Lordship," said the captain in a firm tone,
"I must be alone with my men. Go into the saloon. The
vessel will have a hard fight with the waves, and they would
sweep you over without mercy."
"But we might be a help."
"Go in, my Lord, go in. I must indeed insist on it.
There are times when I must be master on board, and retire
you must."
Their situation must indeed be desperate for John Mangles to speak in
such authoritative language. Glenarvan
was wise enough to understand this, and felt he must set
an example in obedience. He therefore quitted the deck
immediately with his three companions, and rejoined the
ladies, who were anxiously watching the dénouement of
this war with the elements.
"He's an energetic fellow, this brave John of mine!"
said Lord Glenarvan, as he entered the saloon.
"That he is," replied Paganel. "He reminds me of
your great Shakespeare's boatswain in the 'Tempest,' who
says to the king on board: 'Hence! What care these
roarers for the name of king? To cabin! Silence!
Trouble us not.'"
However, John Mangles did not lose a second in extricating his ship from
the peril in which she was placed by
the condition of her screw propeller. He resolved to rely
on the mainsail for keeping in the right route as far as
possible, and to brace the yards obliquely, so as not to present a direct front
to the storm. The yacht turned about
like a swift horse that feels the spur, and presented a
broadside to the billows. The only question was, how
long would she hold out with so little sail, and what sail
could resist such violence for any length of time. The
great advantage of keeping up the mainsail was that it
presented to the waves only the most solid portions of the
yacht, and kept her in the right course. Still it involved
some peril, for the vessel might get engulfed between
the waves, and not be able to raise herself. But Mangles
felt there was no alternative, and all he could do was to
keep the crew ready to alter the sail at any moment, and
stay in the shrouds himself watching the tempest.
The remainder of the night was spent in this manner,
and it was hoped that morning would bring a calm. But
this was a delusive hope. At 8 A. M. the wind had increased to a hurricane.
John said nothing, but he trembled for his ship, and
those on board. The Duncan made a frightful plunge for
ward, and for an instant the men thought she would never
rise again. Already they had seized their hatchets to cut
away the shrouds from the mainmast, but the next minute
the sails were torn away by the tempest, and had flown off
like gigantic albatrosses.
The yacht had risen once more, but she found herself at
the mercy of the waves entirely now, with nothing to steady
or direct her, and was so fearfully pitched and tossed about
that every moment the captain expected the masts would
break short off. John had no resource but to put up a
forestaysail, and run before the gale. But this was no
easy task. Twenty times over he had all his work to begin
again, and it was 3 P. M. before his attempt succeeded.
A mere shred of canvas though it was, it was enough to
drive the Duncan forward with inconceivable rapidity to
the northeast, of course in the same direction as the hurricane. Swiftness was
their only chance of safety. Sometimes she would get in advance of the waves
which carried
her along, and cutting through them with her sharp prow,
bury herself in their depths. At others, she would keep
pace with them, and make such enormous leaps that there
was imminent danger of her being pitched over on her side,
and then again, every now and then the storm-driven sea
would out-distance the yacht, and the angry billows would
sweep over the deck from stem to stern with tremendous
violence.
In this alarming situation and amid dreadful alternations of hope and
despair, the 12th of December passed
away, and the ensuing night, John Mangles never left his
post, not even to take food. Though his impassive face
betrayed no symptoms of fear, he was tortured with anxiety, and his steady gaze
was fixed on the north, as if trying to pierce through the thick mists that
enshrouded it.
There was, indeed, great cause for fear. The Duncan
was out of her course, and rushing toward the Australian
coast with a speed which nothing could lessen. To John
Mangles it seemed as if a thunderbolt were driving them
along. Every instant he expected the yacht would dash
against some rock, for he reckoned the coast could not be
more than twelve miles off, and better far be in mid ocean
exposed to all its fury than too near land.
John Mangles went to find Glenarvan, and had a private
talk with him about their situation, telling him frankly
the true state of affairs, stating the case with all the coolness of a sailor
prepared for anything and everything and
he wound up by saying he might, perhaps, be obliged to
cast the yacht on shore.
"To save the lives of those on board, my Lord," he
added.
"Do it then, John," replied Lord Glenarvan.
"And Lady Helena, Miss Grant?"
"I will tell them at the last moment when all hope of
keeping out at sea is over. You will let me know?"
"I will, my Lord."
Glenarvan rejoined his companions, who felt they were
in imminent danger, though no word was spoken on the
subject. Both ladies displayed great courage, fully equal
to any of the party. Paganel descanted in the most inopportune manner about the
direction of atmospheric currents, making interesting comparisons, between
tornadoes,
cyclones, and rectilinear tempests. The Major calmly
awaited the end with the fatalism of a Mussulman.
About eleven o'clock, the hurricane appeared to decrease
slightly. The damp mist began to clear away, and a sudden gleam of light
revealed a low-lying shore about six
miles distant. They were driving right down on it.
Enormous breakers fifty feet high were dashing over it,
and the fact of their height showed John there must be
solid ground before they could make such a rebound.
"Those are sand-banks," he said to Austin.
"I think they are," replied the mate.
"We are in God's hands," said John. "If we cannot
find any opening for the yacht, and if she doesn't find the
way in herself, we are lost."
"The tide is high at present, it is just possible we may
ride over those sand-banks."
"But just see those breakers. What ship could stand
them. Let us invoke divine aid, Austin!"
Meanwhile the Duncan was speeding on at a frightful
rate. Soon she was within two miles of the sand-banks,
which were still veiled from time to time in thick mist.
But John fancied he could see beyond the breakers a quiet
basin, where the Duncan would be in comparative safety.
But how could she reach it?
All the passengers were summoned on deck, for now
that the hour of shipwreck was at hand, the captain did not
wish anyone to be shut up in his cabin.
"John!" said Glenarvan in a low voice to the captain,
"I will try to save my wife or perish with her. I put
Miss Grant in your charge."
"Yes, my Lord," replied John Mangles, raising Glenarvan's hand to his
moistened eyes.
The yacht was only a few cables' lengths from the sandbanks. The tide was
high, and no doubt there was abundance of water to float the ship over the
dangerous bar;
but these terrific breakers alternately lifting her up and
then leaving her almost dry, would infallibly make her
graze the sand-banks.
Was there no means of calming this angry sea? A last
expedient struck the captain. "The oil, my lads!" he
exclaimed. "Bring the oil here!"
The crew caught at the idea immediately; this was a plan
that had been successfully tried already. The fury of the
waves had been allayed before this time by covering them
with a sheet of oil. Its effect is immediate, but very temporary. The moment
after a ship has passed over the smooth
surface, the sea redoubles its violence, and woe to the bark
that follows. The casks of seal-oil were forthwith hauled
up, for danger seemed to have given the men double
strength. A few hatchet blows soon knocked in the heads,
and they were then hung over the larboard and starboard.
"Be ready!" shouted John, looking out for a favorable
moment.
In twenty seconds the yacht reached the bar. Now was
the time. "Pour out!" cried the captain, "and God
prosper it!"
The barrels were turned upside down, and instantly a
sheet of oil covered the whole surface of the water. The
billows fell as if by magic, the whole foaming sea seemed
leveled, and the Duncan flew over its tranquil bosom into
a quiet basin beyond the formidable bar; but almost the
same minute the ocean burst forth again with all its fury,
and the towering breakers dashed over the bar with increased violence.