ATTACKED IN A STORM
“Come, boys, tumble up lively now, unless you want to spend the
next week in sail-sewing!” cried Cal Vincent, the boatswain of the
_Columbia_. “There’s a storm a-brewing, and the old man reckons as how
it will be best to take in a little sail to onct!”
While listening to the interesting talk of the missionary, Larry had
noticed the sky growing darker, and he leaped up with alacrity, for he
remembered that it was the neglect to shorten sail in time on board of
the _Rescue_ which had caused the bark to strain and open some of her
seams. Besides, if there was one thing he detested on shipboard, it was
to sit down with a heavy sailor’s needle and assist at sail-mending.
“I don’t reckon it’s going to be much, but still one can’t allers
tell,” remarked Luke Striker, as he came tumbling out of his berth,
where he had been dozing upon that hot afternoon and dreaming of his
far-away down-east home. He had spent many years on the ocean, yet that
spot of his boyhood was as dear to him as ever.
Captain Ponsberry himself was on deck, giving orders at the top of
his voice, and everybody was scurrying here and there, for orders to
shorten sail are always obeyed quicker than any others on shipboard,
the reason for which is obvious.
“Lay aloft there now, men, and don’t stop to think about it,” cried the
captain. “Come now, Hobson, show your heels up those ratlines, and,
Oleson, don’t move as though you had chunks of lead in your boots.
See, Russell is ahead of all of you, and he’s but a boy. Now then, all
ready?”
“All ready, sir,” came from various quarters.
And then came a rapid succession of orders, each followed by a creaking
of halyard blocks, as the topsails came down, followed by the jib and
flying-jib. The fore-course, main-course, and mizzen-course were left
standing, but the men were kept on deck, to reef or take in entirely,
should it become necessary to do so.
Oleson had followed Larry up to the foretop, with an extra sour look
upon his swarthy face, for he did not like the remark the captain had
cast at him, nor the compliment paid to the boy. “Get ofer dare!” he
growled, pushing up against Larry. “You want all de room to yourself.
How I tak in sail if you under my feet?”
“You’ve got as much room as I have,” answered Larry, firmly. “Keep your
distance,” he added, as Oleson continued to crowd him. “Mind now what I
say!”
To this the Norwegian made some uncomplimentary answer, which was,
however, swallowed up in the noise of the flapping sail as it came down
on the run.
The _Columbia_ was rolling and pitching upon the heavy swells under
her, and Larry found it no easy task to keep his balance as he helped
furl and fasten. It was blowing lively, too, and the wind whistled
almost a gale into his ears.
Again Olan Oleson crowded him, until there was but little left to
stand upon. The boy shouted another warning, but the Norwegian paid no
attention.
Suddenly a fearful dread took possession of the lad. Olan Oleson meant
to shove him over into the sea.
“Keep your distance!” he cried, at the top of his lungs. “Keep your
distance. Below there! help!”
“You be still!” growled the Norwegian. “I no hurt you. You go――”
A gust of wind swallowed up the words which followed. Again the
_Columbia_ went over, caught short in the swell under her. The topmast
dipped thirty feet or more to leeward, and Larry made a tight clutch on
the cross-tree, only to find himself shoved rudely off.
His right hand held the gasket he had been tying up, and that was all.
Over rolled the ship again, and now his body swung clear into the air,
supported only by that slender, plaited rope, which was old and not
above snapping without warning. Beneath him was the churning sea, above
him the slender topmast and the dark and angry sky. He shuddered and
was tempted to close his eyes, but could not.
“You let go!” came from Olan Oleson, and he caught hold of the gasket
as if to shake Larry from it.
“Don’t!” gasped the boy. “Oh, you villain! don’t!”
[Illustration: DON’T! GASPED THE BOY. OH, YOU VILLAIN! DON’T!]
He continued to cling fast despite the fact that Olan Oleson’s hand
was over his own, pressing the knuckles to make the fingers relax and
slip. But now the _Columbia_ swung over to the other side, and he felt
his feet touch the rigging below. The gasket slipped; but legs and
arms were on the alert, and in a second more he found himself safe,
on a level with Olan Oleson’s feet. Fearing a kick, he lost no time
in descending still further, until, finding himself at Luke Striker’s
side, he deemed himself comparatively safe.
The storm had evidently reached its height, and as the _Columbia_
carried her lower sails well, there was nothing for the sailors to do
but to stand around and wait until the wind should either increase or
decrease. The spray was flying everywhere, and Larry followed Striker
into the forecastle for his oilskin coat.
“’Pears to me I heard somebody cry for help when I was aloft,” remarked
the Yankee sailor. “Must have been the wind, but it did sound very much
like a human voice.”
“It was a human voice,” answered Larry. “I yelled just as loud as I
could.”
“And what for? Were you afraid of falling?”
“I was afraid of being pushed off.”
“Gee shoo!” Striker stared at the lad a second. “Say, that furiner was
up there with ye? Did he try――”
“Yes, he did. If I hadn’t clung fast for all I was worth, and dropped
to the lower cross-tree when I got the chance, I would at this minute
be out on the ocean a mile astern,” and Larry shuddered.
“The Norwegian ought to be put into irons! Why don’t you go to the old
man and report?”
“What good would it do? It would only be another case of my word
against Oleson’s, for of course the fellow would deny everything.”
“Yes, but have you got to stand this a-havin’ a chap around as is
achin’ to do sech a dirty trick as that? I don’t think you have, not by
a jugful!”
“I certainly wish Oleson hadn’t shipped on the _Columbia_. If it wasn’t
for him, this trip would just suit me, for every one of the others is a
good messmate,” responded Larry.
He had procured his oilskin and was putting it on, when there was a
heavy tramping near the doorway, and Olan Oleson came in. He was about
to withdraw upon seeing the boy and his companion, but with a quick
leap, Luke Striker caught him by the arm and pulled him inside.
“You good-fer-nuthin’ rascal!” he cried, catching the Norwegian by the
collar and running him up against a back berth. “What right have you
to attack this boy up in the top, eh? You jess let that lad alone or
I’ll――I’ll wipe up the deck with ye, by the jumpin’ Christopher I will!”
And he shook the burly sailor until the man’s teeth fairly rattled.
Striker was not as tall as Oleson by several inches, and his weight
was considerably less, but his muscles were tough and his bravery
unequalled, and there was nothing he would not tackle when aroused. In
vain the Norwegian struggled; that grip could not be broken.
“You let go me!” spluttered the swarthy fellow. “You let go! I no mak
quarrel with you. Let go, or I tell captain.”
“Tell the captain, and that’s all the good it will do you. He won’t
allow sech a rascal as you aboard one minit longer nor he can help, and
I know it. Tell him, and take that! and that! and that!”
Each “that” was followed by a bump of Oleson’s head upon the edge of
the berth, blows hard enough to crack an ordinary man’s skull. After
the last bump Striker threw the man to one side, motioned to Larry, and
both walked outside.
“Maybe that will teach him a lesson,” muttered the Yankee sailor. “Hang
those furiners, anyhow!”
“You have made an enemy of him for life, Luke,” returned the boy.
“Hereafter he’ll try to do as bad by you as he has tried to do by me.”
“Let him; we’ll both be on our guard. But don’t you go aloft with him
again.”
“I won’t.”
“And on second thought I don’t know but what it will be jest as well
not to speak to Captain Ponsberry about it. Let Oleson see that we can
take care of ourselves, and he’ll have more respect for us.”
They were now called upon to shorten sail still more, and consequently
the conversation had to come to an end. While taking in the fore-course
and the mizzen-course Oleson came out to assist, but did not look at
either of them.
Although it blew strongly all night, the storm was but an ordinary one,
and by sunrise the next day the wind had fallen sufficiently to allow
the _Columbia_ to proceed upon her way again under full sail. Olan
Oleson kept his distance, nor did he even look at Larry or Striker.
“He’s learned his lesson,” said the Yankee tar, but how grievously he
was mistaken the chapters which follow will show.
They were now reaching the vicinity of Wake Island, and a constant
lookout was kept, that they might not pass the spot, which is
low-lying, rather barren, and of small territory. Larry was up in the
cross-trees one afternoon, when he saw the island far to the north of
the _Columbia_.
“Land O!” he sang out, and the cry soon rang through the ship, speedily
bringing the captain, Mr. Wells, and everybody else on deck.
“Where away?”
“On our starboard quarter, captain. I can just see a bit of rocks and
trees.”
A marine glass was brought into use, and after a brief survey Captain
Ponsberry decided that it was Wake Island. The course of the _Columbia_
was immediately changed, and an hour later they were moving slowly into
a small but safe harbor, surrounded by coral reefs upon which the sea
pounded incessantly.
Larry had expected Wake Island to be a spot where a fine run ashore
might be indulged in, and was somewhat surprised and disappointed to
find the place so barren. However, there was a good spring close at
hand, and as they wanted fresh water more than anything else there was
little over which to grumble. A whole day was spent in filling the
_Columbia’s_ water-casks, and then off they sailed again, bound as
before, due west.