Another series of terrific cracks rose above the tumult. The mizzen-topsails had both split and were rapidly being flogged into fragments. A few minutes later—or was it hours later? Geoff had no idea of time—the upper and lower main-topsails flew into ribbons. The ship, under reefed foresail and forestaysails, but otherwise under bare poles, drove headlong before the wind.
She no longer heeled excessively; but, out of control, she was scudding towards the danger zone—the centre of the storm path.
Again and again she was pooped by mountainous seas pouring completely over her stern and rushing like raging torrents to flood the waist. The glass of the skylight in the poop-deck was shattered but, fortunately, the stout canvas screens lashed over the frames held, otherwise the whole of the officers' quarters would have been flooded, and the buoyancy of the ship endangered.
Save for the captain and Geoff the poop deck was deserted, for the after-guard had been ordered to take what shelter they could under the break of the poop. The cadet was virtually trapped. Without certain risk of being swept either overboard or headlong on the quarter-deck he dare not cast off the lashings that held him to the mizzenmast. As it was, his feet were again and again swept from under him by the rush of water.
How long this terrible state of affairs continued was beyond Geoff's powers of computation. Gradually he realized that day had broken. If anything, the horrors of the situation increased. Darkness had hidden much from his sight; now the scene was revealed in all its grim details.
When the Golden Vanity had rescued Bernard and him from the Arran Dhu the ship looked enormous. Now she appeared small and puny amidst the mountainous, vicious-crested seas. In the trough between crests forty or fifty feet in height, the straining ship was almost becalmed, then, as the following wave overtook her and tossed her like a cork, the spray-laden wind swept past him with a velocity greater than that of an express train.
Overhead the yards—bare save for fragments of canvas adhering to the bolt-ropes—swayed and thudded against main and mizzenmasts. On the foremast the close-reefed canvas was still holding its own. Amidships on the port side a gap of twenty feet in the bulwarks bore testimony to the furious onslaught of the terrific seas. Again and again the whole of the waist was flooded with foaming, frothing water, that discharged itself through the scuppers, but chiefly through the gap in the bulwarks only just in time before another "coamer" thundered inboard.
But the worst was now over. The hurricane was ahead of the sorely pressed ship. By seven bells in the Morning Watch the wind had eased considerably, though the seas were still running high.
The weary watch were relieved by men almost as tired and haggard as themselves, for battened down, without being able to sleep or to eat anything but "dry tack", they had had to endure the discomforts and the anxiety of not knowing what had been happening.
Dog-tired, steeped in brine, and with his face and hands almost raw with exposure to the stinging wind, Geoff stumbled to the cuddy. Even Bernard's spiritless greeting remained unanswered. Kicking off his water-logged sea-boots and painfully divesting himself of his oilskin—for neck and wrists were badly chafed by the friction of the stiff coat—Geoff threw himself otherwise fully dressed upon his bunk, jammed his back against the bulkhead and gripped the bunk board. In this posture—a safeguard against being shot out—the exhausted lad fell asleep.
Without knowing it he could have slept the clock round. He had earned extra watch below by reason of having stood double trick. But afloat more than anywhere else what one earns and what one gets are two very different things. There was work and plenty of it for all hands to get things as ship-shape as circumstances permitted.
"Show a leg there!" shouted Fairclough, shaking Geoff by the shoulder. "Show a leg there! Sun's over the foreyard. Hot grub, you lazy hog!"
Thus admonished Geoff swung his feet out of the bunk and on to the deck. How stiff he felt, how tired! His clothes—which a so-called storm-proof oilskin had failed to protect—were damp and clammy in spite of the tropical heat. Although he was ravenously hungry he would have gladly foregone a meal for the sake of another hour or two of undisturbed sleep. But no! Duty, sometimes a hard taskmaster, made demands that must not be refused.
There was a distinctly subdued air amongst the Mess during the meal. The lads without exception were hungry. They were eating against time and under the disadvantage of having to hold on to their plates with one hand while they harpooned their grub by means of a fork held in the other. The rest of the things on the table, not being held, careered madly from side to side, bringing up against the "fiddles" with each roll of the ship.
During the height of the hurricane one of the dead-lights had been stove-in with the result that before a temporary lid could be fixed over the broken scuttle—and the task required a tremendous amount of brute strength to accomplish—a considerable quantity of water had found its way into the cadets' quarters.
The main topic of the limited conversation concerned the cadets' clothing. Three of them, owing to their gear being shot on to the deck, were without a dry stitch.
"You're lucky to want a kit at all," declared Fairclough irritably. Even the nerves of the usually genial Senior Cadet were a bit on edge after the ordeal. "Wait till you start slogging in again. You'll soon get dry enough."
He had hardly expressed himself thus when he regretted having spoken. In the Tropics the wearing of damp undergarments was apt to result in far worse consequences than in temperate climes. The cadets had been strictly warned against this before leaving England, although Geoff and Bernard had not heard of the restriction. Had they been told so, Geoff would not have run the grave risk of "turning-in all standing".
"You'd better scrounge some other fellow's gear," he continued. "I'll lend you a vest and things, Davis. They'll only fit you where they touch but it'll be better than nothing."
Fairclough went to his chest and unlocked it. Lifting out the tray he drew out one of the articles. Then he gave an exclamation of amazement. It was little more than a network of fray-edged holes.
So was the next article, and the next. While the Senior Cadet was in the act of pulling out a pair of socks a huge rat leapt from the chest, darted between Geoff's legs and diving into the stove promptly disappeared up the pipe. As it did so a shower of soot came down, settling over everything.
Promptly Fairclough closed the flue.
"The brute can't get away now," he declared ominously. "I'll attend to him later."
The rest of his gear was dumped on the deck. Then he carefully examined the chest. It was in perfectly sound condition.
"If I find out who put that rat in my chest there'll be squalls!" he announced.
"Who could?" asked Davis. "You keep the jolly old gadget locked, don't you?"
Fairclough had to admit that such was his invariable practice. It was a patent lock. Even if any other member of the mess had a key that would fit—which was unlikely—the act of unlocking and opening another fellow's sea-chest was not to be thought of. No decent, self-respecting youth would do such a thing. It was like rifling an offertory box.
The lads, their interest roused, were still discussing the matter when Third Officer Kelso appeared in the doorway. With an expressive movement of his hand he indicated that the lads had been hanging on to the slack long enough.
In less than thirty seconds the mess was cleared.