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CHAPTER VII. THE TYPHOON

THE storm that struck the Halfmoon took her entirely unaware. It had sprung,

apparently, out of a perfectly clear sky. Both the lookout and the man at the

wheel were ready to take oath that they had scanned the horizon not a half-

minute before Second Mate Theriere had come racing forward bellowing for all

hands on deck and ordering a sailor below to report the menacing conditions to

Captain Simms.

Before that officer reached the deck Theriere had the entire crew aloft taking in

sail; but though they worked with the desperation of doomed men they were only

partially successful in their efforts.

The sky and sea had assumed a sickly yellowish color, except for the mighty

black cloud that raced toward them, low over the water. The low moaning sound

that had followed the first appearance of the storm, gave place to a sullen roar,

and then, of a sudden, the thing struck the Halfmoon, ripping her remaining

canvas from her as if it had been wrought from tissue paper, and with the flying

canvas, spars, and cordage went the mainmast, snapping ten feet above the deck,

and crashing over the starboard bow with a noise and jar that rose above the

bellowing of the typhoon.

Fully half the crew of the Halfmoon either went down with the falling rigging or

were crushed by the crashing weight of the mast as it hurtled against the deck.

Skipper Simms rushed back and forth screaming out curses that no one heeded,

and orders that there was none to fill.

Theriere, on his own responsibility, looked to the hatches. Ward with a handful of

men armed with axes attempted to chop away the wreckage, for the jagged butt of

the fallen mast was dashing against the ship's side with such vicious blows that

it seemed but a matter of seconds ere it would stave a hole in her.

With the utmost difficulty a sea anchor was rigged and tumbled over the

Halfmoon's pitching bow into the angry sea, that was rising to more gigantic

proportions with each succeeding minute. This frail makeshift which at best

could but keep the vessel's bow into the wind, saving her from instant engulfment

in the sea's trough, seemed to Theriere but a sorry means of prolonging the agony

of suspense preceding the inevitable end. That nothing could save them was the

second officer's firm belief, nor was he alone in his conviction. Not only Simms

and Ward, but every experienced sailor on the ship felt that the life of the

Halfmoon was now but a matter of hours, possibly minutes, while those of lesser

The Mucker