My Danish Sweetheart: A Novel. Volume 1 of 3Russell, William Clark
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My Danish Sweetheart: A Novel. Volume 1 of 3
Russell, William Clark
Adventure stories; Fiction; Love stories; Sea stories
Amazed as I was by this instant cessation of the gale, I could yet find
mind enough to be struck by my companion's manner, by his words, and
now, I may say, by his voice also. I was about to address him; but, as
my lips parted, there was a vivid flash of lightning that threw out the
whole scene of bay, cliff, foreshore, and town, with the line of the
horizon seawards, in a dazzle of violet; a crash of thunder followed;
but, before its ear-splitting reverberation had ceased, the echoes of
it were drowned in the bellowing of the gale coming directly off the
land.
What is there in words to express the fury of this outfly? It met the
heave of the landward-running seas, and swept them into smoke, and the
air grew as white and thick with spume as though a heavy snowstorm were
blowing horizontally along. It took the barque and swung her; her
labouring was so prodigious as she was thrust by this fresh hurricane
broadside round to the surge, that I imagined every second she would
founder under my feet. I felt a shock: my companion cried, 'One of the
cables has parted!' A moment later I felt the same indescribable tremble
running through the planks on which we stood.
'Is that the other cable gone, do you think?' I shouted.
'There is a lead-line over the side,' he cried; 'it will tell us if we
are adrift.'
I followed him to near the mizzen rigging; neither of us durst let go
with one hand until we had a grip of something else with the other; it
was _now_ not only the weight of the wind that would have laid us prone
and pinned us to the deck--a pyramidal sea had sprung up as though by
enchantment, and each apex as it soared about the bows and sides was
blown inboards in very avalanches of water, which with each violent roll
of the vessel poured in a solid body to the rail, one side or the other,
again and again, to the height of our waist.
My companion extended his hand over the bulwarks, and cried out: 'Here
is the lead-line. It stretches towards the bows. Oh, sir, we are adrift!
we are blowing out to sea!'
I put my hand over and grasped the line, and instantly knew by the angle
of it that the lad was right. By no other means would he have been able
to get at the truth. The weight of lead, by resting on the bottom,
immediately told if the barque was dragging. All around was white water;
the blackness of the night drooped to the very spit of the brine; not a
light was to be perceived, not the vaguest outline of the cliff; and the
whole scene of darkness was the more bewildering for the throb of the
near yeast upon the eyesight.
'Is your binnacle-light burning?' I cried.
The lad answered, 'Yes.'
'Then,' I shouted, 'we must find out the quarter the gale has shifted
into and get her stern on to it, and clear Hurricane Point, if Almighty
God will permit. There may be safety in the open; there is none here.'
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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