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 bode 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 sit 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
clash 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.