The night was stormy, the steam-ship, beaten by the waves, rolled
frightfully, without being disabled; the furniture was knocked about
with loud crashes, and the crockery began its clatter again. The wind
had evidently freshened, and besides this the “Great Eastern” was now in
those coasts where the sea is always rough.
At six o’clock in the morning I dragged myself to the staircase, leading
on to the upper decks. By clutching at the balusters, and taking
advantage of a lurch or two, I succeeded in climbing the steps, and with
some difficulty managed to reach the poop. The place was deserted, if
one may so qualify a place where was Dr. Pitferge. The worthy man, with
his back rounded as a protection against the wind, was leaning against
the railing, with his right leg wound tightly round one of the rails. He
beckoned for me to go to him—with his head, of course, for he could not
spare his hands, which held him up against the violence of the tempest.
After several queer movements, twisting myself like an analide, I
reached the upper deck, where I buttressed myself, after the doctor’s
fashion. “We are in for it!” cried he to me; “this will last. Heigh ho!
this ‘Great Eastern!’ Just at the moment of arrival, a cyclone, a
veritable cyclone is commanded on purpose for her.”
The Doctor spoke in broken sentences, for the wind cut short his words,
but I understood him; the word cyclone carried its explanation with it.
It is well known that these whirlwinds, called hurricanes in the Indian
and Atlantic Oceans, tornadoes on the coast of Africa, simoons in the
desert, and typhoons in the Chinese Sea, are tempests of such formidable
power, that they imperil the largest ships.
Now the “Great Eastern” was caught in a cyclone. How would this giant
make head against it?
“Harm will come to her,” repeated Dean Pitferge. “Look, how she dives
into the billows.”
This was, indeed, the exact position of the steam-ship, whose stern
disappeared beneath the mountains of waves, which swept violently
against her. It was not possible to see to any distance: there were all
the symptoms of a storm, which broke forth in its fury about seven
o’clock. The ocean heaved terrifically, the small undulations between
the large waves entirely disappeared under an overwhelming wind, the
foam-crested billows clashed together, in the wildest uproar, every
moment; the waves grew higher, and the “Great Eastern,” cutting through
them, pitched frightfully.
“There are but two courses now to choose from,” said the Doctor, with
the self-possession of a seaman, “either to put the ship’s head on to
the waves, working with a minimum speed, or take flight and give up the
struggle with this baffling sea; but Captain Anderson will do neither
one thing nor the other.”
“And why not?” I asked.
“Because—” replied the doctor, “because something must happen.”
Turning round, I saw the Captain, the first officer, and the chief
engineer, muffled in their macintoshes, and clutching at the railings of
the bridge; they were enveloped in spray from head to foot. The Captain
was smiling as usual, the first officer laughed, and showed his white
teeth, at the sight of the ship pitching enough to make one think the
masts and chimneys were coming down.
Nevertheless I was really astonished at the Captain’s obstinacy. At
half-past seven, the aspect of the Atlantic was terrible; the sea swept
right across the deck at the bows. I watched this grand sight; this
struggle between the giant and the billows, and to a certain extent I
could sympathize with the Captain’s wilfulness; but I was forgetting
that the power of the sea is infinite, and that nothing made by the hand
of man can resist it; and, indeed, powerful as she was, our ship was at
last obliged to fly before the tempest.
Suddenly, at about eight o’clock, a violent shock was felt, caused by a
formidable swoop of the sea, which struck the ship on her fore larboard
quarter.
“That was not a box on the ear, it was a blow in the face,” said the
Doctor to me.
And the blow had evidently bruised us, for spars appeared on the crests
of the waves. Was it part of our ship that was making off in this
manner, or the _débris_ of a wreck?
On a sign from the Captain, the “Great Eastern” shifted her course, in
order to avoid the spars, which threatened to get entangled in the
paddles. Looking more attentively, I saw that the sea had carried off
the bulwarks on the larboard side, which were fifty feet above the
surface of the water; the jambs were broken, the taggers torn away, and
the shattered remnants of glass still trembled in their casements. The
“Great Eastern” had staggered beneath the shock, but she continued her
way with an indomitable audacity. It was necessary, as quickly as
possible, to remove the spars which encumbered the ship at the bows, and
in order to do this it was indispensable to avoid the sea, but the
steam-ship obstinately continued to make head against the waves. The
spirit of her captain seemed to animate her; he did not want to yield,
and yield he would not. An officer and some men were sent to the bows to
clear the deck.
“Mind,” said the Doctor to me, “the moment of the catastrophe is not far
off.”
The sailors went towards the bows, whilst we fastened ourselves to the
second mast, and looked through the spray, which fell in showers over us
with each wave. Suddenly there was another swoop more violent than the
first, and the sea poured through the barricading by the opened breach,
tore off an enormous sheet of cast-iron which covered the bit of the
bows, broke away the massive top of the hatchway leading to the crew’s
berths, and lashing against the starboard barricadings, swept them off
like the sheets of a sail.
The men were knocked down; one of them, an officer, half-drowned, shook
his red whiskers, and picked himself up; then seeing one of the sailors
lying unconscious across an anchor, he hurried towards him, lifted him
on his shoulders and carried him away. At this moment the rest of the
crew escaped through the broken hatchway. There were three feet of water
in the tween-decks, new spars covered the sea, and amongst other things
several thousand of the dolls, which my countryman had thought to
acclimatize in America; these little bodies, torn from their cases by
the sea, danced on the summits of the waves, and under less serious
circumstances the sight would have been truly ludicrous. In the meantime
the inundation was gaining on us, large bodies of water were pouring in
through the opened gaps, and according to the engineer, the “Great
Eastern” shipped more than two thousand tons of water, enough to float a
frigate of the largest size.
[Illustration: ONE OF THE SAILORS LYING UNCONSCIOUS.]
“Well!” exclaimed the Doctor, whose hat had been blown off in the
hurricane, “to keep in this position is impossible; it is fool-hardy to
hold on any longer; we ought to take flight, the steam-ship going with
her battered stem ahead, is like a man swimming between two currents,
with his mouth open.”
This Captain Anderson understood at last, for I saw him run to the
little wheel on the bridge which commanded the movement of the rudder,
the steam immediately rushed into the cylinders at the stern, and the
giant turning like a canoe made head towards the north, and fled before
the storm.
At this moment, the Captain, generally so calm and self-possessed, cried
angrily,—
“My ship is disgraced.”