CHAPTER XVI
THE WRECK
Will Bertram was utterly overwhelmed at the intelligence conveyed by Tom’s announcement of the condition of affairs on the deck of the Golden Moose.
For some moments he did not speak. The peril of their situation stunned him completely.
“They could not have been so cowardly, so inhuman,” he murmured.
“Maybe the men didn’t miss us in the excitement, and the Captain wanted to leave us behind,” remarked Tom.
Will groped his way to a place where a lamp was fastened to the wall and lit it.
Its rays showed the boatswain, insensible on the floor. Will leaned over him and shook him gently.
In a few moments, he had the satisfaction of seeing him move, open his eyes, and stare bewilderedly around him.
“Why, what’s happened? Oh, I remember—the captain and the mate. They knocked me insensible. Where are they?”
“Gone.”
“Gone—where?”
“They locked you in and left the ship in the longboat;” and Will related what had occurred.
“The scoundrels!” ejaculated the boatswain. “Stay here, my lads, for the ship’s tossing at a terrible rate, and it ain’t safe for you to go on deck.”
The practiced eye of the old sailor took in the peculiar position of the ship at a glance.
One of the masts was broken, and whole parts of the deck had been swept away. The forward part of the ship dipped low, as though disabled, and its course was erratic and unguided by rudder or sails.
Amid the darkness, there was no sight of the longboat.
“You’re right, lads,” said the old tar, returning to the cabin. “The ship is deserted and at the mercy of the storm—and a bad storm it is.”
As he spoke, a gigantic wave swept over the deck and into the cabin.
“We’ll get out of here as soon as we can. No whimpering, Tom. With common sense and courage, we may be saved yet.”
Jack ransacked several nooks in the cabin and brought to view several old coats made of tarpaulin cloth. In these, as a protection against the rain and waves, the trio encased themselves.
Then the boatswain tied a strong rope around his waist and bade his fellow companions in peril do the same.
“Now, keep close to me,” he said.
He climbed to the deck, the boys following him. It was well that he took the precautions he did, for the first wave swept Will and Tom off their feet.
Jack clung to the wheel, toward which he with difficulty made his way.
His companions crouched at his feet, awed and frightened at the wildness of the storm.
“The boat may weather the storm yet, leaking as she is,” remarked Jack.
“But if not?”
“Then we must trust to the small boat those scoundrels have left behind. Hold fast, lads. A light!”
Old Jack strained his vision to pierce the darkness.
“I certainly saw a light,” he repeated, anxiously; “there it is ahead, directly in our course, and bearing down on us.”
“Is it land?” queried Tom.
“No; we are hundreds of miles from land.
“It is probably a ship in distress, like ourselves. It’s coming nearer, and our lantern is swept out. Steady, lads, for a crash is coming.”
One single speck of light relieved the gloom of the scene. The excited boys could make it out coming nearer and nearer.
It shadowed out dimly the outlines of a large ship, and then—
A crash that sent a shock through their frames sounded above the frightful roar of the tempest.
The timbers started beneath their feet; Jack’s hold was torn from the wheel, and the trio were flung indiscriminately across the deck.
The ship that had collided with them had passed on or sunk, they knew not which. Their own desperate situation called for immediate action.
“We’re sinking, lads. It’s the boat, now, or certain death by drowning.”
But the boat had been swept away. Old Jack uttered a cry of dismay.
The water was up to their waists now, and various movable objects were floating about as if on the surface of the sea itself.
“Cling to this, lads,” shouted Jack, as a wooden grating that had been near the forecastle drifted before them.
They obeyed him just in time, for a gigantic wave enveloped the deck and swept the ship from beneath them.
Clinging to the grating they were flung upon the boiling waters about them.
“She’s gone down,” they heard Jack’s voice say. “It is a matter of endurance now.”
Tom was half fainting with terror, while Will, chilled and benumbed, blindly, hopelessly clung to the frail craft.
At the mercy of the waves, it drifted to and fro, now on the crest of the waves, now in the trough of the sea, always half submerged, the salt sea water blinding and choking the three voyagers.
It was an awful experience for the imperiled trio. Only the staunch, encouraging words of Jack Marcy, ringing above the tempest, kept them from utterly succumbing to the terrors of their situation.
At last—it seemed after many hours—the storm subsided. A calm stole over the wild waters and faint daylight began to creep over the scene.
A dusky gray in the far horizon was succeeded by a flush of ruddy hue. The darkness faded at last, and a great golden globe of fire shone over the dreary scene.
Far as the eye could reach was water, unbroken, monotonous.
The old boatswain’s eye scanned the bleak expanse searchingly.
He saw what the boys had not noticed. His face was eager and hopeful as he fixed his glance toward the rising sun.
Then he announced in thrilling tones:
“A sail!”
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