“Do something useful, lad, whatever you do,” said the captain, looking up from the hole which he was busily engaged in digging for the reception of a post to steady the hut. “There’s lots of work; you can please yourself as to choice.”
“Then I comed fur to suggist that the purvisions and things a-top o’ the sandbank isn’t quite so safe as they might be.”
“True, Briant; I was just thinking of that as you came up. Go and see you make a tight job of it. Get Rokens to help you.”
Briant hurried off, and calling his friend, walked with him to the top of the sandbank, leaning heavily against the gale, and staggering as they went. The blast now whistled so that they could scarcely hear each other talk.
“We’ll be blowed right into the sea,” shouted Tim, as the two reached a pile of casks and cases.
“Sure, that’s me own belaif entirely,” roared his companion.
“What d’ye say to dig a hole and stick the things in it?” yelled Rokens.
“We’re not fit,” screamed Phil.
“Let’s try,” shrieked the other.
To this Briant replied by falling on his knees on the lee side of the goods, and digging with his hands in the sand most furiously. Tim Rokens followed his example, and the two worked like a couple of sea-moles (if such creatures exist) until a hole capable of holding several casks was formed. Into this they stowed all the biscuit casks and a few other articles, and covered them up with sand. The remainder they covered with tarpaulin, and threw sand and stones above it until the heap was almost buried out of sight. This accomplished, they staggered back to the hut as fast as they could.
Here they found everything snugly secured, and as the rocks effectually sheltered the spot from the gale, with the exception of an occasional eddying blast that drove the sand in their faces, they felt comparatively comfortable. Lighting their pipes, they sat down among their comrades to await the termination of the storm.
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
The Storm.
A storm in almost all circumstances is a grand and solemnising sight, one that forces man to feel his own weakness and his Maker’s might and majesty. But a storm at sea in southern latitudes, where the winds are let loose with a degree of violence that is seldom or never experienced in the temperate zones, is so terrific that no words can be found to convey an adequate idea of its appalling ferocity.
The storm that at this time burst upon the little sandbank on which the shipwrecked crew had found shelter, was one of the most furious, perhaps, that ever swept the seas. The wind shrieked as if it were endued with life, tore up the surface of the groaning deep into masses and shreds of foam, which it whirled aloft in mad fury, and then dissipated into a thin blinding mist that filled the whole atmosphere, so that one could scarcely see a couple of yards beyond the spot on which he stood. The hurricane seemed to have reached its highest point soon after sunset that night, and a ray of light from the moon struggled ever and anon through the black hurtling clouds, as if to reveal to the cowering seamen the extreme peril of their situation. The great ocean was lashed into a wide sheet of foam, and the presence of the little isle in the midst of that swirling waste of water was indicated merely by a slight circle of foam that seemed whiter than the rest of the sea.
The men sat silently in their frail hut, listening to the howling blast without. A feeling of awe crept over the whole party, and the most careless and the lightest of heart among the crew of the Red Eric ceased to utter his passing jest, and became deeply solemnised as the roar of the breakers filled his ear, and reminded him that a thin ledge of rock alone preserved him from instant destruction.
“The wind has shifted a point,” said the captain, who had just risen and opened a chink of the rude door of the hut in order to look out. “I see that the keel of the boat is all fast and the planking beside it. The coral rock shelters it just now; but if the wind goes on shifting I fear it will stand a poor chance.”
“We’d better go out and give it a hextra fastening,” suggested Mr Millons.
“Not yet. There’s no use of exposing any of the men to the risk of being blown away. The wind may keep steady, in which case I’ve no fear for it.”
“I dun know,” said Rokens, who sat beside Ailie, close to the embers of their fire, with a glowing cinder from which he re-lighted his pipe for at least the twentieth time that night. “You never can tell wot’s a-goin’ to turn up. I’ll go out, cap’en, if ye like, and see that all’s fast.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Tim; you may make a bolt across to it, and heave another rock or two on the planking if it seems to require it.”
The seaman rose, and putting aside his pipe, threw off his coat, partly in order that he might present as small a surface to the wind as possible, and partly that he might have a dry garment to put on when he returned. As he opened the little door of the hut a rude gust of wind burst in, filling the apartment with spray, and scattering the embers of the fire.
“I feared as much,” said the captain, as he and the men started up to gather together the pieces of glowing charcoal; “that shows the wind’s shifted another point; if it goes round two points more it’ll smash our boat to pieces. Look sharp, Tim.”
“Lean well against the wind, me boy,” cried Briant, in a warning voice.
Thus admonished, Rokens issued forth, and dashed across the open space that separated the hut from the low ledge of coral rock behind which the keel of the intended boat and its planking were sheltered. A very few minutes sufficed to show Tim that all was fast, and to enable him to place a few additional pieces of rock above the heap in order to keep it down. Then he prepared to dart back again to the hut, from the doorway of which his proceedings, were watched by the captain and as many of the men as could crowd round it.
Just as the harpooner sprang from the shelter of the rock the blast burst upon the bank with redoubled fury, as if it actually were a sentient being, and wished to catch the sailor in its rude grasp and whirl him away. Rokens bent his stout frame against it with all his might, and stood his ground for a few seconds like a noble tree on some exposed mountain side that has weathered the gales of centuries. Then he staggered, threw his arms wildly in the air, and a moment after was swept from the spot and lost to view in the driving spray that flew over the island.
The thing was so instantaneous that the horrified onlookers could scarcely credit the evidence of their eyes, and they stood aghast for a moment or two ere their feelings found vent in a cry of alarm. Next instant Captain Dunning felt himself rudely pushed aside, and Briant leaped through the doorway, shouting, as he dashed out—
“If Tim Rokens goes, it’s Phil Briant as’ll go along with him.”
The enthusiastic Irishman was immediately lost to view, and Glynn Proctor was about to follow, when the captain seized him by the collar, dragged him back, and shut the door violently.
“Keep back, lads,” he cried, “no one must leave the hut. If these two men cannot save themselves by means of their own strong muscles, no human power can save them.”
Glynn, and indeed all of the men, felt this remark to be true, so they sat down round the fire, and looked in each other’s faces with the expression of men who half believed they must be dreaming. Little was said during the next ten or fifteen minutes; indeed, it was difficult to make their voices heard, owing to the noise of the wind and dashing waves. The captain stood at the door, looking out from time to time with feelings of the deepest anxiety, each moment expecting to see the two sailors struggling back towards the hut; but they did not return. Soon the gale increased to such