Chapter VII

“_YES, YES,” SHE WEPT, “ON A FEARFUL NIGHT LIKE THIS THEY WERE ALL DROWNED_”

All that day the _Grebe_ flew on before the wind. Even with the shortened sail that she carried, she must at times have been making twelve knots an hour.

The sun went down and down. You could only have told his position by the coppery hue of the clouds in the western sky, which swallowed up his every ray.

The wind was now somewhat more on the port quarter.

Just as gloaming was darkling into night, the Dane himself being at the wheel, he mistook some order Captain Antonio gave, for the storm was roaring loud and high. The little vessel had gone off somewhat, and instead of going hard a-port, he hove the helm the other way. In another moment the mainsail was aback and the danger extreme. Halliards were neatly let go however, and by Antonio himself and Pandoo everything was done for the safety of the vessel. But not before the saucy _Grebe_ had gone stem on into an enormous wave. For a few moments indeed it seemed as if she were plunging beneath the waves entirely. She shook herself free at last, but had shipped tons and tons of green water.

This came rolling aft, carrying Pandoo, Antonio, and poor Davie Drake before it, as a mill-lead might carry corks away.

They grasped the grating abaft the binnacle for life or death, and this saved them from being washed overboard.

But they were all more or less badly bruised, although when the danger was once over, and the vessel again on the scud, they all laughed heartily at the mishap.

Davie Drake was bold. All young sailors are, simply because they do not know their danger. Antonio and Pandoo had crossed too many wild seas in the Indian Ocean and around the Capes, and encountered too many hurricanes and tornadoes, to be afraid of the chops of the Channel.

Before sunset they had come across several barques and brigs, that seemed in a worse plight than even they were.

Just at darkling they noticed the coloured lights of a steamer coming hand and hand up astern.

This big vessel was soon close aboard of them to windward, and a lusty voice shouted--

“Whither away?”

“Dieppe.” This was the answer shrieked through Antonio’s speaking trumpet.

“Want any assistance?” cried the voice from the steamer.

“Many thanks, no. We’re all square now.”

And away went the steamer, and night swallowed her up.

After the men on deck had wrung their clothes and put them on again, Antonio went quietly below to see how the children were getting on.

Happy childhood, that knows nought of sorrow and danger.

“Oh, we’ve had such fun,” cried Maud and Phœbe; “when the ship kicked, we were all thrown in a heap on the floor, but we were not hurt; only, our legs and arms were all so mixed up that we couldn’t tell whose was who’s. And then, Captain Antonio, when we tried to get up we all tumbled down again, so we just lay still for a long, long time. Wasn’t it funny?”

Teenie had said nothing, she was looking very demure.

“Well, dearie, what have you to say?”

The little fisher lass looked up in his face with a half-serious smile.

“Is it all right now?” she said. “Barclay Stuart there, and Miss Maud, and Phœbe are only land folk; but I know--oh, _I_ know.”

“Well, dearie, what do you know?”

“We were taken aback.”

Antonio himself was rather taken aback to hear such wisdom from the lips of this pretty wee mite of a fisher lass.

“Yes, we were taken aback, and it was touch and go. Wonder we didn’t go down by the stern.”

Antonio laughed, and patted her on the head.

“We are all right now, little one,” he said, “and I’ll be on deck all night. Yes, I’ll come down to supper, and maybe sing you a song. Be good now.”

“Oh yes, I’ll be good,” said Teenie, “just frightfully good, but----”

“Well, dearie?”

“I’ll keep my weather eye lifting.”

* * * * *

There certainly was danger on the deep to-night.

“The wind blew as ’twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed;
Loud, deep, and long the thunder bellowed.”

These lines are by Burns, and are descriptive of a storm on shore; yet they fall far short of depicting the scene around the seemingly doomed sloop _Grebe_. About an hour after, Antonio once more went on deck.

The thunder did indeed bellow, and the lightning was so incessant, that the little craft appeared sailing through a sea of fire. The waves too had risen, and were now houses high. On top of one of these the _Grebe_ quivered from stem to stern, like a creature in fear and agony. She almost hesitated to take the awful plunges into the trough between the waves. Once down the waves dashed high over her, and for a moment or two the sails were all a-shiver.

Antonio himself took a trick at the wheel, that the Dane might go below for supper and refreshment. In Antonio’s hands the craft behaved better, and seemed to feel the master-touch.

In an hour’s time Peterson came back.

Pandoo had already managed to relight the fire, and was busy cooking a delightful little supper for his master and the children.

Davie Drake, wet as he was, refused to go below. He was brave, this boy, without doubt; but let me whisper, reader--he was also affected by the motion. None of the girls were, nor was Barclay himself.

It was nearly nine by the clock, or two bells in the first watch, before Antonio got below.

But, considering everything, that really was a cosy little supper. Of course there were times when everybody had to let their plates lie in the fiddle-nests, that they might hold on fast to the table.

While the children were still enjoying their fruit, Antonio got out his guitar. The weird little man would have gone nowhere on earth without his guitar. And now its sweet, sad tones were heard high above the howling of the wind and the roar of the merciless waves.

It was sea songs he sang to-night, and the seas that beat against the vessel’s side like muffled drums, formed a terrible but appropriate accompaniment.

It was a strange scene that, down below in the _Grebe’s_ cabin on this night of storm and tempest. The weird wee man, with that uncanny eye of his, that seemed to transfix the skylight as he sat on the locker; the eager face of the handsome boy Barclay and the three wee girls listening so intently, as if afraid to lose a single note.

Somehow or other, little Teenie’s tears were falling.

One farewell sigh breathed over the strings, and the music stopped. Antonio laid down the instrument and beckoned Teenie towards him.

“Why does dearie cry?”

She buried her bonnie face on his shoulder now and sobbed--

“Because--because,” she replied, “poor uncle was dlowned and all in the boat--last--year. Oh, I--loved poor unkie. And--and----”

“And my singing and the roar of the waves brought back the recollection--eh, dearie?”

“Yes--yes,” she wept, “on a fearful night they were all dlowned.”

Antonio petted and soothed her, till she fell fast asleep. Then he placed her and Maud in his own bunk, put Phœbe to bed on the little sofa, while, rolled in rugs, Barclay turned in on the locker.

Antonio lowered the lamp that swung from the roof. Then he once more took up his guitar; that which he played now was a strange Indian lullaby, plaintive, sweet, and low.

It had the desired effect, and soon those innocent children were lulled to dreamless slumber.

Then the little brown captain scrambled on deck once more.

The storm still raged on unabatedly; there was not a star to be seen. All around the dark horizon seemed close aboard of them, and nothing was visible save the white caps of the wind-tossed waves.

Antonio found that poor young Davie Drake had gone to sleep forward with his head on a coil of ropes; but Pandoo had covered him entirely up with a tarpaulin.

All that night long, the _Grebe_ went scudding on before the gale; but when daylight appeared, grey and uncertain, the clouds began to lift in the west, and by-and-by a red saturnine light in the cloudland of the east showed that the sun had already risen.

And lo! land was in sight.

Only like a cloud as yet, far away on the eastern horizon.

So on and on flew the saucy _Grebe_, and hope, that had almost sank in the breasts of the three men on deck, began to rise.

In two hours more the vessel was nearly abreast of Dieppe.

But worse was to follow. At sea, there is nothing certain except the unexpected.

A squall was seen bearing down on them, of greater violence than any they had yet encountered.

Petersen was doing his trick at the wheel. Pandoo and Antonio stood holding on by the stays, when suddenly that awful black squall struck the vessel. For a few seconds she reeled and staggered like a stricken deer.

Luckily axes were on deck.

“Quick, Pandoo, quick,” shouted Antonio. “Get the bight of a rope round you, fasten one end to a belaying-pin, and mount the bulwark to cut through the shrouds while I cut the mast.”

Pandoo, with all the agility of a panther, did as he was bid.

But none too soon.

“Now,” cried the captain, “strike when I give the order.

“Away, aloft.”

Pandoo, secure now from falling overboard, mounted the bulwark.

Antonio, also fastened by a rope to the little capstan, stood by to hack the mast.

It was a pretty bit of seamanship, but would it succeed?