A Middy of the King: A Romance of the Old British NavyCollingwood, Harry
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A Middy of the King: A Romance of the Old British Navy
Collingwood, Harry
Great Britain -- Fiction; Pirates -- Juvenile fiction; Seafaring life -- Juvenile fiction
"It is not natural," said I; "the mere look of the sky is sufficient to
assure us of that. There is something behind it, you may be certain,
though what it is I am sure I cannot say; possibly it may be a fresh
outfly from some other point of the compass, or it may end up with a
violent thunderstorm, though I do not think it will; that sky--"
"No, no," interrupted Henderson, "there's no thunder there, sir, ye may
take my word for it. Listen, Mr Delamere! D'ye hear that?"
I thought for an instant that he was directing my attention to the
pitiful cries and moans that were being extorted from the unhappy
wounded down below as they were flung hither and thither by the furious
lurches of the schooner, and I was about to make some sort of reply when
a low moaning smote upon my ear, increasing with appalling rapidity to a
fierce medley of sounds, in which the savage roars of maddened beasts
and the shrieks and wailings of mortally terrified human beings seemed
to be about equally mingled; a long line of phosphorescent white
appeared upon the northern horizon, showing up with ghastly distinctness
against the background of black scowling sky; a fierce scuffle of hot
wet wind swept over us and was gone again, leaving a taste of salt upon
our lips, and with a deafening howl, as of concentrated fury, the
tempest leapt upon us, filling the air with drenching spindrift and
scudwater, while, taking the schooner fair abeam, it heeled her over
until the water was up nearly level with the coamings of her hatchways.
For nearly a minute she lay thus, and despite the fact that she was
dismasted I believed that she was about to turn turtle with us, when
gradually, as the drag of the wreckage ahead brought her round head to
wind again, she righted to an even keel once more and rode almost as
still as though she were in harbour, while the spindrift and scudwater
raked her decks fore and aft like a continuous tempest of small shot,
which stung our faces and hands so severely that it was literally
impossible to face it, and turning our backs to it and dropping upon our
hands and knees, we were driven to creep for shelter wherever we could
find it.
The sea had gone down as though by magic, for such was the power of the
wind that the slightest irregularity of surface, the slightest lift of a
wave, was at once torn off and swept away to leeward in the form of
spray so dense that it was impossible to see farther than a few yards in
any direction. And perhaps the worst and most terrifying feature of the
whole experience was that there was nothing to be done--nothing that we
could possibly do to abate the peril of our situation; we were as
absolutely helpless as though we had been bound hand and foot, and could
merely crouch impotently waiting for the end, whatever it might be.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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