The summons of the coxswain is too serious to be disregarded; and soon
as hearing it, the two officers hasten upon deck, leaving Don Gregorio
reclining along the settee.
Glancing over the barque's starboard bow, they behold a sky black as
Erebus. It is a fog-bank, covering several points of the compass. But
while they stand regarding it, it lengthens along the horizon, at the
same time rising higher against the heavens. They can see that it is
approaching, spreading over the ocean like a pall. And, where it
shadows the water, white flakes show themselves, which they know to be
froth churned up by the sharp stroke of a wind-squall.
They do not stand idly gazing. All three recognise the threatening
danger. They only cast a glance towards the frigate, and, perceiving
they can hope for no help from her, at once commence taking measures for
themselves. "To the sheets!" shouts Crozier. "Let fly all!"
At the command, the midshipman and coxswain bound off to execute it, the
lieutenant himself assisting; since there are but the three to do the
work. For the negro, released by Grummet, despite half a pint of rum
poured down his throat, is scarcely able to keep his feet. No help,
therefore, to be had from him, nor any one else.
But the three strong men, with confidence in their strength, and with
knowledge to comprehend the approaching peril, take the proper steps to
avert it--these being, as Crozier has commanded, to let go everything.
Working as if for life, they cast off sheets and halyards, and let the
canvas flap free. No time for clewing up, or making snug: no thought of
either. The sails must take their chance, though they get split into
shreds, which they are pretty sure to do.
This actually occurs, and soon. Scarce has her canvas been released
from its sheets and tacks, when the barque becomes enveloped in a dense
cloud, and the wind strikes like a cannon shot against her sails.
Luckily, they were loosed in time. If still stiff set, the masts would
have gone by the board, or the _Condor_ on her beam-ends. And luckily,
too, before struck, Grummet had hold of her helm, and, by Crozier's
command, brought her before the wind. To attempt "lying to," with her
sails in such condition, would be to court destruction. To "scud" is
their only chance for safety.
And away go they before the wind, which, first blowing in fitful gusts,
soon becomes a steady gale, with now and then a violent burst catching
still another sail, and rending it to ribbons.
Soon there is not a sound one, and scarce aught save strips of torn
canvas hanging from the yards, or streaming out like the flags on a
signal-staff.
Fortunately the barque well obeys her helm, and the young officers
contrive to set storm-stay and trysail, thus helping to hold her steady.
During all this time they have not thought of the frigate. Absorbed in
the endeavour to save the craft that carries them, they reflect not on
what may be their fate should they get separated from their own ship.
At length, this reflection arises in a form to appal them. The frigate
is out of sight--has been ever since the commencement of the gale, the
fog having drifted between. They do not now know the direction in which
she is; nor can they tell whether she has lain-to, or, like themselves,
"run." If the latter, there is a hope she will follow the same course;
and, the fog lifting, be again sighted.
Alas! it is more likely she will do the former. Full-manned, she will
have taken in sail in good time, and made all snug, so as to ride out
the storm; and, aware of the danger in which they on the barque will be
placed, she will not forsake the spot, but assuredly lie to.
Just as they have arrived at this conclusion, they hear a gun booming
above the blast. They know it is from the frigate, firing to let them
know her whereabouts. But, although the sound reaches them with
sufficient distinctness, they cannot tell the direction. Who could at
sea, in a fog?
Listening, they hear it a second time, and soon after a third.
Then again and again; still distinct, but with the same uncertainty as
to its direction. For the life of them they cannot determine the point
of the compass whence it comes. Even if they knew, it is a question
whether they dare set the barque's head towards it, for the storm has
increased to a tempest, and it is touch and go for them to keep the
Chilian vessel afloat. Out of trim, she is tossed from wave to wave,
shipping seas that threaten to engulf her, or wash everybody overboard.
In this struggle--as it were, for life and death--they lose all hope of
being able to keep company with the warship--all thought of it. It will
be well if they can but save that they are on from going to the bottom
of the sea.
Again they hear the firing, several times repeated--that signal that
they are unable to answer, or unable to avail themselves of its friendly
warning. Situated as they are, it seems sounding a farewell salute--or
it may be their death knell.
Fainter and fainter falls the boom upon their ears; duller and duller at
each successive detonation, which tells that the distance between them
and the frigate, instead of diminishing, increases. However sad and
disheartening, they cannot help it. They dare not put the barque about,
or in any way alter her course. They must keep scudding on, though they
may never see the _Crusader_ again.
At length, no longer do they hear the signal-guns. Whether from greater
distance, or louder vociferation of the tempest, they can no more be
distinguished amidst its voices.
Throughout all the night the barque scuds, storm-buffeted, shipping huge
seas, yet casting them off, and still keeping afloat. Notwithstanding
her distressed condition, she rides the gale through to its termination.
As the morning sun gleams over the ocean, along with the subsiding wind,
the fog also lifts, leaving both sea and sky clear. And still the
_Condor_ is afloat, rolling from beam to beam; her tall smooth masts as
yet in her, her rigging aright, and her bulwarks unbroken. Only the
sails have suffered, and they are all gone.
Grummet is at the wheel, guiding her wayward course; while the two
officers stand upon her quarterdeck, with eyes bent abroad, scanning the
crests of the big billows that go rumbling along.
But there is no _Crusader_ in sight--no frigate--no ship of any kind--
nothing but the wide, fathomless ocean!
They are alone upon it, hundreds of leagues from land, aboard a craft
they may not be able to manage; and all the more difficult with her
sails in shreds. But even were these sound, they have not the strength
to set them. They are helpless; but little better off than if they were
in an open boat!
In very truth, are they in peril!
But they do not dwell upon it now. A thought still more afflicting is
before their minds; and, casting another glance over the ocean--
unrewarded as ever--they descend into the cabin, to obtain some
particulars of that which has saddened, almost maddened them.