ordered the negroes obeyed. Although they grinned with frank good-humor when Marston talked to them, he knew he did not share Wyndham's authority. Yet Harry was not harsh.
When the sail was lowered Wyndham looked about. Some of the scattered clouds had rolled together and the sky was black over the land. One could scarcely feel the light wind, but the surf had got louder. Its roar came out of the dark as if heavy trains were running along the coast.
"It looks ridiculous, particularly since I'd like to edge her farther off the beach, but I think we'll stow the mainsail and fore-staysail," Wyndham remarked.
Marston agreed. Although he could see no grounds for shortening sail, he trusted Wyndham's judgment, and the Krooboys got to work again. The ropes, however, were stiff and swollen with the dew, and the mainsail came down slowly. The heavy folds of canvas caught between the topping-lifts; the gaff-jaws jambed on the mast. Wyndham sent a man aloft to sit upon and ride down the spar, but this did not help much, and the boom along the foot of the sail lurched with violent jerks. Blocks banged and loose ropes whipped across the deck. The sweat ran down Marston's face; he wanted to finish the job. For one thing, Columbine was unmanageable while the half-lowered canvas flapped about.
Stopping a moment for breath, he glanced over the rail. The long swell sparkled with small points of light that coalesced in sheets of green flame when the undulations broke against the schooner's side. The deck was spangled with luminous patches by the splashes and the wake that trailed astern was bright. Columbine stole through the water although the wind had nearly gone. It was not worth while to bring her head-to when they shortened sail.
Then the helmsman shouted and Marston felt one side of his face and body cool. The loose canvas flapped noisily. Its folds shook out and swelled, and Marston seized a rope. His skin prickled; he felt a strange tension and a feverish desire to drag down the sticking gaff. A few moments afterwards, something flickered behind the sail and a peal of thunder drowned the noise on board. When it died away, rolling hull, slanted masts, and the figures of the men stood out, wonderfully sharp, against a dazzling blaze that vanished and left bewildering dark. The next peal of thunder deafened Marston, who thought Wyndham shouted but heard no words. This did not matter, because he knew they must secure the sail before the tornado broke, and he pulled at the downhaul. He could not hear the wind for the thunder, but it had begun to blow.
The sail swelled between the confining ropes, there was a noise on one side of the yacht, water foamed along the planks, and she began to swing. It looked as if the steersman were putting up the helm. The peak of the gaff was nearly down; with another good pull they could seize it and lash it to the boom. Then a dazzling flash touched the deck. Marston saw Wyndham run aft and push the Kroo from the wheel, but this was the last he saw clearly for sometime. He imagined the fellow had meant to run the yacht off before the squall; one could ease the strain of a sudden blast like that, but if the squall lasted, they could not shorten sail while she was before the wind. Now she was coming round. Wyndham had put the helm down. It looked as if he were too late.
The tornado broke upon her side and she went over until her lee rail was in the sea. There was a noise like a thunder-clap forward as a sail blew away; Marston thought it was the jib. He could see nothing. It had got impenetrably dark, but he had a vague notion that water rushed along the deck and the mainsail had broken loose and blown out between the ropes. Unless they could master it, the mast would go. He heard another report forward and thought somebody had loosed the staysail halyards and the sail had blown to rags. Although his eyes were useless, he knew what was going on.
But they must secure the main gaff, and clutching at the boom above his head, he swung himself up and worked along to its outer end, which stretched over the stern. A footrope ran below the spar; one could balance oneself by its help and he vaguely distinguished somebody close by. It was, no doubt, Wyndham, because his clothes looked white. There was no use in shouting. The uproar drowned one's voice; besides, their job was plain. They must get a rope round the end of the gaff and lash it fast.
Marston's waist was on the boom; his feet stuck out behind him, braced against the rope. In front there was a dark gulf. This was, no doubt, the hollow of the sail, and the indistinct slanting line above was the gaff. He threw a rope across the latter, but the end did not drop, so that he could seize it under the sail; the wind blew it out, straight and tight. He tried again, farther aft, jostling against the figure that looked faintly white, and leaning down across the boom, caught the end of the rope. The other man helped him and when they had got a loop round the end of the gaff he stopped for breath. He was shaky after the effort, his heart thumped painfully, and his chest rose and fell. He imagined other men were on the boom, but he and his companion were all that mattered. They must lash the peak down before the sail blew out again. When this was done, the others could master the distended folds.
The wet rope tore his hands; he felt them get slippery with blood, but he held on and the man beside him helped. Marston knew he was not a Kroo. The Kroos were bold sailors, but their resolution had a limit. When a job looked hopeless they gave up; the man beside Marston was another type. While there was breath in his body he would stick to his task. The sail must be conquered.
Lightning played about them and Marston's eyes were dazzled by the changes from intolerable glare to dark. He trusted to the feel of things and his seaman's knowledge of what was happening. He did not think, but worked half-consciously. They made the gaff fast, and then something broke and the heavy boom swung out over the sea. The jerk threw Marston's feet from the rope and his body began to slip off the boom. He saw fiery foam below, but as he braced himself for the plunge the next man seized him. It looked as if they must both slip off, for Marston found no hold for his hands on the smooth, wet spar. Perhaps the pressure of the wind saved them by forcing their limp bodies against the boom, for the other man steadied Marston until his foot touched the rope again.
For a moment or two they hung on, not daring to move and waiting until they gathered strength. Then they carefully worked their way to the inner end of the spar and dropped, exhausted, on the deck. There was however, no rest for them. The massive boom must be dragged back and dropped into its crutch. It could not be left to lurch about and smash all it struck. Marston was vaguely conscious that a gang of Krooboys ran to the mainsheet and Wyndham directed their efforts. He, himself, could do no more, and he leaned against the rail, breathing hard.
As his exhaustion vanished he began to note things. The men had secured the boom; but the schooner's bows looked bare and he remembered the jibs had blown away. The foresail was torn and half-lowered, and the gaff at its head was jambed. The torn canvas kept the vessel from falling off the wind, but would not bring her up enough for her to lie to. Masts and deck were horribly slanted, the windward bulwark was hove high up, and luminous spray drove across its top. It looked as if she were going over and there was an appalling din, for the scream of the tornado pierced the thunder.
Then lightning enveloped the yacht and ran along the water. For an instant Marston saw Wyndham's white figure at the wheel, and then he groped his way towards him in the puzzling dark. Harry would need help, for Marston knew what he meant to do. Since Columbine would not come up, he was going to run her off before the wind in order to ease the horrible pressure that bore her down. The trouble was, the tornado blew from sea, and land was near. Marston seized the wheel, and using all his strength, helped Wyndham to pull it round. She felt her rudder and began to swing, lifting her lee rail out of the water. Then she came nearly upright with a jerk, and although the tornado was deafening, Marston thought he heard the water roar as it leaped against her bows.
The speed she made lifted her forward and a white wave curled abreast of the rigging. She was going like a train and Marston sweated and gasped as he helped at the wheel. There was nothing to do but let her run, although it was obvious she could not run long. A glance at the lighted compass indicated that she was heading for the land, where angry surf beat upon an inhospitable beach. If they tried to bring her round, the masts would go and she might capsize.
She drove on and presently
