The Ocean Cat's Paw Part 21

"Didn't want to come down on the deck and break the gla.s.s, uncle," said Rodd rather sulkily. "The schooner oughtn't to dance about like this, ought she?"

"Oh, yes. It's no more than the lugger used to do when we have been out fis.h.i.+ng."

"Oh, yes, uncle; and she's so much bigger too. Besides, we were sitting down then, and here one has to stand."

"You can sit down if you like," said Uncle Paul.

"What, and have the sailors laugh at me? That I won't! I want to get used to it as soon as I can."

"Then go and get used to it," said Uncle Paul. "You can't do better. I should like to do the same, but a man can't hop about at fifty, or more, like a boy at fifteen."

"Why, uncle, I am nearly eighteen."

"Then go and behave like it, boy. Look at the sailors. They keep their feet well enough, without seeming as if they are going to rush overboard."

"Oh, I shall soon get used to it, uncle," cried Rodd.

But instead of improving that day his progress about the deck was decidedly retrograde, for as the time went on and the Channel opened out, the wind from the north-west grew fresher and fresher, and the captain from time to time kept the men busy taking in a reef here and a reef there.

Topgallant sails came down; flying jib was hauled in; and towards evening, as she span along as fast or faster than ever, not above half the amount of canvas was spread that she had skimmed under earlier in the day.

Every now and then too there was a loud smack against the bows, and a shower of spray made the deck glisten for a few minutes; but it rapidly dried up again, and as the schooner careened over and dashed along, Rodd stood aft, looking back through the foam to see how the waves came curling along after them, as if in full chase of the beautiful little vessel and seeking to leap aboard.

The sun had gone down in a bronzy red bank of clouds, and after being below to the cabin tea Rodd had eagerly hurried on deck again, to find that the sea around was beginning to look wild and strange.

Whether he made for Josiah Cross, or Joe, as he was generally called, came up to him, Rodd did not know, but as he stood with one arm over the rail he soon found himself in conversation.

"Are we going to have a storm?" he said.

"Well, I dunno, sir, about storm. More wind coming."

"How do you know?"

"How do I know, sir?" cried the man. "Why, if you come to that, I don't know. Seem to feel it like. I don't say as it will. Wind's nor'-west now, and has been all day, but I shouldn't wonder if it chopped right round, and then--"

"There'll be a storm," said Rodd eagerly.

"Well, I don't say that, sir; but like enough there will be more wind than we want to use, and we might have to put back."

"What, now that we have started at last?" cried Rodd.

The man nodded.

"Oh, that would be vexatious," cried Rodd, "to find ourselves back in Plymouth again!"

"There, you wouldn't do that, my lad," said the man. "If we did have to put back, I should say the skipper would run for Penzance. But there, the wind hasn't chopped round yet, and it's just as likely to fall as it gets dark and we will get our orders to hoist more sail."

But the sailor's first ideas proved to be right, and not only did the wind veer round, but it increased in force and became so contrary and s.h.i.+fty that during the night it began to blow a perfect hurricane, and gave Captain Chubb a good opportunity of proving that he was no fine-weather sailor.

It proved to be a bright night, being nearly full moon, with great flocculent silvery and black clouds scudding at a tremendous rate across the planet, while one minute the schooner's rigging was shadowed in black upon the white, wet deck, at another all was gloom, with the wind shrieking through the rigging, and the _Maid of Salcombe_ proving the truth of the sailor's words, as she was literally dancing about; like a cork.

"Hadn't you better come below, Rodd?" said the doctor.

"No, uncle; don't ask me. I couldn't sleep, and I want to look at the storm. It's so grand."

"Grand? Well, yes," said the doctor; "but we could have dispensed with its grandeur, and it seems very unlucky that after all these weeks of glorious weather it should have turned like this. Ah, here's Captain Chubb. Well, captain," he continued, "where are we making for? Mount's Bay?"

"No. Give it up. Nasty rocky bit about there, so I laid her head for Plymouth; but we shan't get in there to-night."

"Where then?" asked the doctor. "Wouldn't it be better to run for the open sea?"

"No," said the skipper shortly. "This wind's come to stay, and we must get into port for a bit. We don't want to get into the Bay of Biscay O with weather like this. It's going to be a regular sou'-wester."

"What port shall we make for, then?" asked the doctor, while Rodd caught all he could of the conversation, as the wind kept coming in gusts and seemed to s.n.a.t.c.h the words and carry them overboard in an instant.

"Havre," grunted the captain laconically. There was silence for some time, for it became too hard work to talk, but in one of the intervals between two gusts, a few words were spoken, the doctor asking the skipper if he was satisfied with the behaviour of the schooner.

"Oh yes," He grunted; "she's right enough."

"You are not disappointed, then?"

"No. Bit too lively. Wants some more cargo or ballast to give her steadiness; but she'll be all right." All the same this was an experience very different from anything that Rodd had had before, and it was not without a severe buffeting that in the early dawn of the morning Captain Chubb had succeeded in laying the little vessel's head off Havre, so that, taking advantage of a temporary sinking of the wind, he was able to run her safely into the French port, and this at a time when it was a friendly harbour, the British arms having triumphed everywhere, the French king being once more upon the throne, and he who had been spoken of for so long as the Ogre of Elba now lying duly watched and guarded far away to the south, within the rockbound coast of Saint Helena.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

PRIVATE EARS.

The schooner was run safely into port, but just before she cleared the harbour mouth, down came a tremendous squall of wind as if from round the corner of some impossible solid cloud behind which an ambush of the storm had been lying in wait for the brave little vessel.

Down it came all at once, just when least expected, and in a few seconds as it struck the little vessel, rus.h.i.+ng, in spite of the small amount of canvas spread, rapidly for the shelter, every one on deck s.n.a.t.c.hed at the nearest object to which he could cling. The schooner bravely resisted for a while, careening over and then rising again, and then down she went with her masts almost flat upon the foam, and then lying over more and more as Rodd clung hard with one hand and involuntarily stretched out the other to his uncle as if to say good-bye. For he felt certain as the water came surging over the leeward rail that the next minute their voyage would be ended, and the _Maid of Salcombe_ be going down.

It was one horror of breathlessness in the shrieking wind, while the storm-driven spray cut and lashed and flogged at the crew.

"It's all over," gasped the boy, in his excitement, though somehow even then there was no feeling of fear.

Another minute as she still dashed on, plunging through the waves, the vessel began to right again, the masts rising more and more towards the perpendicular, and the water that seemed to have been scooped up in the hollows of the well-reefed sails came streaming back in showers upon the deck.

Another minute and Rodd began to get his breath again, panting hard and feeling as if some great hand had been grasping him by the throat and had at last released its hold, while as the schooner now skimmed on, every furlong taking her more into shelter, the squall had pa.s.sed over them and went sweeping along far away over the town ahead, and the boy felt a strong grip upon his arm.

Rodd turned sharply, to face Cross the sailor, who held on to him with his left while he used his right hand to clear his eyes from the spray.

"All right," he said, with his lips close to the boy's ear, so as to make himself heard, while Rodd winced, for as the man leaned towards him he poured something less than a pint of salt water from off his tightly-tied-on oilskin sou'-wester right into his eyes.

Rodd nodded without attempting to speak, and the sailor laughed.

There was something so genial and content in the man's looks, that it sent a thrill of satisfaction through the boy's breast, telling as it did that they were out of danger, while, as they rapidly glided on, the shrieking of the wind through the rigging grew less and less and the motion of the schooner more and more steady as the harbour was gained.