The Red Eric. Robert Michael Ballantyne
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out of his eyes, but he dried them on his pantaloons, bolted up the hatchway, and rushing up to the man at the wheel, demanded in a voice of thunder—“How’s ’er head?”
“Sou’-sou’-east-and-by-east,” replied the man, in some surprise.
“Sou’-sou’-east-and-by-east!” repeated Mr Rokens, in a savage growl of authority, as if he were nothing less than the admiral of the Channel Fleet. “That’s two points and a half off yer course, sir. Luff, luff, you—you—”
At this point Tim Rokens turned on his heel, and began to walk up and down the deck as calmly as if nothing whatever had occurred to disturb his equanimity.
“The captain wants Glynn Proctor,” said the second mate, looking down the fore-hatch.
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Glynn, ascending, and going aft.
“Ailie wants to see you, Glynn, my boy,” said Captain Dunning, as the former entered the cabin; “and I want to speak to you myself—to thank you Glynn. Ah, lad! you can’t know what a father’s heart feels when— Go to her, boy.” He grasped the youth’s hand, and gave it a squeeze that revealed infinitely more of his feelings than could have been done by words.
Glynn returned the squeeze, and opening the door of Ailie’s private cabin, entered and sat down beside her crib.
“Oh, Glynn, I want to speak to you; I want to thank you. I love you so much for jumping into the sea after me,” began the child, eagerly, and raising herself on one elbow while she held out her hand.
“Ailie,” interrupted Glynn, taking her hand, and holding up his finger to impose silence, “you obeyed me in the water, and now I insist on your obedience out of the water. If you don’t, I’ll leave you. You’re still too weak to toss about and speak loud in this way. Lie down, my pet.”
Glynn kissed her forehead, and forced her gently back on the pillow.
“Well, I’ll be good, but don’t leave me yet, Glynn. I’m much better. Indeed, I feel quite strong. Oh! it was good of you—”
“There you go again.”
“I love you,” said Ailie.
“I’ve no objection to that,” replied Glynn, “but don’t excite yourself. But tell me, Ailie, how was it that you managed to keep afloat so long? The more I think of it the more I am filled with amazement, and, in fact, I’m half inclined to think that God worked a miracle in order to save you.”
“I don’t know,” said Ailie, looking very grave and earnest, as she always did when our Maker’s name happened to be mentioned. “Does God work miracles still?”
“Men say not,” replied Glynn.
“I’m sure I don’t quite understand what a miracle is,” continued Ailie, “although Aunt Martha and Aunt Jane have often tried to explain it to me. Is floating on your back a miracle?”
“No,” said Glynn, laughing; “it isn’t.”
“Well, that’s the way I was saved. You know, ever since I can remember, I have bathed with Aunt Martha and Aunt Jane, and they taught me how to float—and it’s so nice, you can’t think how nice it is—and I can do it so easily now, that I never get frightened. But, oh!—when I was tossed over the side of the ship into the sea I was frightened just. I don’t think I ever got such a fright. And I splashed about for some time, and swallowed some water, but I got upon my back somehow. I can’t tell how it was, for I was too frightened to try to do anything. But when I found myself floating as I used to do long ago, I felt my fear go away a little, and I shut my eyes and prayed, and then it went away altogether; and I felt quite sure you would come to save me, and you did come, Glynn, and I know it was God who sent you. But I became a good deal frightened again when I thought of the sharks, and—”
“Now, Ailie, stop!” said Glynn. “You’re forgetting your promise, and exciting yourself again.”
“So she is, and I must order you out, Master Glynn,” said the doctor, opening the door, and entering at that moment.
Glynn rose, patted the child’s head, and nodded cheerfully as he left the little cabin.
The captain caught him as he passed, and began to reiterate his thanks, when their conversation was interrupted by the voice of Mr Millons, who put his head in at the skylight and said—“Squall coming, sir, I think.”
“So, so,” cried the captain, running upon deck. “I’ve been looking for it. Call all hands, Mr Millons, and take in sail—every rag, except the storm-trysails.”
Glynn hurried forward, and in a few minutes every man was at his post. The sails were furled, and every preparation made for a severe squall; for Captain Dunning knew that that part of the coast of Africa off which the Red Eric was then sailing was subject to sudden squalls, which, though usually of short duration, were sometimes terrific in their violence.
“Is everything snug, Mr Millons?”
“All snug, sir.”
“Then let the men stand-by till it’s over.”
The night had grown intensely dark, but away on the starboard-quarter the heavens appeared of an ebony blackness that was quite appalling. This appearance, that rose on the sky like a shroud of crape, quickly spread upwards until it reached the zenith. Then a few gleams of light seemed to illuminate it very faintly, and a distant hissing noise was heard.
A dead calm surrounded the ship, which lay like a log on the water, and the crew, knowing that nothing more could be done in the way of preparation, awaited the bursting of the storm with uneasy feelings. In a few minutes its distant roar was heard,—like muttered thunder. On it came, with a steady continuous roar, as if chaos were about to be restored, and the crashing wreck of elements were being hurled in mad fury against the yet unshattered portions of creation. Another second, and the ship was on her beam-ends, and the sea and sky were white as milk as the wind tore up the waves and beat them flat, and whirled away broad sheets of driving foam.
Chapter Eight.
The Storm, and its Results
Although the Red Eric was thrown on her beam-ends, or nearly so, by the excessive violence of the squall, the preparations to meet it had been so well made that she righted again almost immediately, and now flew before the wind under bare poles with a velocity that was absolutely terrific.
Ailie had been nearly thrown out of her berth when the ship lay over, and now when she listened to the water hissing and gurgling past the little port that lighted her cabin, and felt the staggering of the vessel, as burst after burst of the hurricane almost tore the masts out of her, she lay trembling with anxiety and debating with herself whether or not she ought to rise and go on deck.
Captain Dunning well knew that his child would be naturally filled with fear, for this was the first severe squall she had ever experienced, so, as he could not quit the deck himself, he called Glynn Proctor to him and sent him down with a message.
“Well, Ailie,” said Glynn, cheerfully, as he opened the door and peeped in; “how d’ye get on, dear? The captain has sent me to say that the worst o’ this blast is over, and you’ve nothing to fear.”
“I am glad to hear that, Glynn,” replied the child, holding out her hand, while a smile lighted up her face and smoothed out the lines of anxiety from her brow. “Come and sit by me, Glynn, and tell me what like it is. I wish so much that I had been on deck. Was it grand, Glynn?”
“It was uncommonly grand; it was even terrible—but I cannot sit with you more than a minute, else my shipmates will say that I’m skulking.”
“Skulking, Glynn! What is that?”
“Why, it’s—it’s shirking work, you know,” said Glynn, somewhat puzzled.
Ailie laughed. “But you forget that I don’t know what ‘shirking’ means. You must explain that too.”
“How terribly green you are, Ailie.”
“No!