The Cruise of the Kawa | Page 4

in the tropics, an extraordinary thing happened. A
simoon, a monsoon and a typhoon met, head on, at the exact corner of
the equator and the 180th meridian. We hadn't noticed one of
them,--they had given us no warning or signal of any kind. Before we
knew it they were upon us!
I have been in any one of the three separately many a time. In '95 off
the Blue Canary Islands I was caught in an octoroon, one of those
eight-sided storms, that spun our ship around like a top, and killed all
the canaries for miles about--the sea was strewn with their bodies. But
this!
"Below," bellowed Captain Triplett, and we made a dive for the hatch.
William Henry Thomas was the last in, having been in the bow setting
off a pinwheel, when the blow hit us. We dragged him in. My last
memory is of Triplett driving a nail back of the hatch-cover to keep it
from sliding.
How long we were whirled in that devil's grip of the elements I cannot
say. It may have been a day--it may have been a week. We were all
below, battened down ... tight. At times we lost consciousness--at times

we were sick--at times, both. I remember standing on Triplett's face and
peering out through a salt-glazed port-hole at a world of waterspouts, as
thick as forest trees, dancing, melting, crashing upon us. I sank back.
This was the end ...
[Illustration: A Bewildered Botanist]
[Illustration Note: A BEWILDERED BOTANIST Here, against the
background of a closely woven hedge of southern hornbeam (Carpinus
Tropicalis), we see that eminent scientist, Reginald Whinney, in the act
of discovering, for the first time in any country, a magnificent
specimen of wild modesty (Tiarella nuda), which grows in great
profusion throughout the Filbert Islands. This tiny floweret is distantly
related, by marriage, to the European sensitive plant (Plantus pudica)
but is infinitely more sensitive and reticent. An illustration of this
amazing quality is found in the fact that its snowy blossoms blush a
deep crimson under the gaze of the human eye. At the touch of the
human hand the flowers turn inside-out and shrink to minute
proportions. Dr. Whinney attempted in vain to transplant specimens of
this fragile creation to our old-world botanical gardens but found the
conditions of modern plant life an insuperable barrier. The seeds of
wild modesty absolutely refuse to germinate in either Europe or
America.]
* * * * *
Calm. Peace and sun! The beneficence of a warm, golden finger that
reached gently through the port-hole and rested on my eye. What had
happened? Oh--yes. "Like a blackbird in the spring." Slowly I fought
my way back to consciousness. Triplett was sitting in a corner still
clutching the hammer. On the floor lay Whinney and William Henry
Thomas, their twisted legs horribly suggestive of death.
"Air," I gasped.
Triplett feebly wrenched out the nail and we managed to pull the hatch
far enough back to squeeze through. Enlivened by the fresh air the
others crawled slowly after, except poor William Henry Thomas who

still lay inert.
"He's all right," said Whinney. "The gin bottle broke and dripped into
his mouth. He'll come to presently." He added in an undertone, "The
wages of gin..." Whinney was always quoting.
Minus our factotum we stood and silently surveyed what once had been
the Kawa. The leathern features of Captain Triplett twisted into a grin.
"Bald's a badger!" he murmured.
Everything had gone by the board. Mast, jigger, bow-sprit and running
gear. Not a trace of block or tackle rested on the surrounding sea. We
were clean-shaven. Of the chart, which had hung in a frame near the
binnacle, not a line remained. All our navigating instruments, quadrant,
sextant, and hydrant, with which we had amused ourselves making
foolish observations during that morning of the glorious Fourth, our
chronometer and speedometer,--all had absolutely disappeared.
"And there we are!" said Swank.
Triplett coughed apologetically and pulled his forelock.
"If you don't mind, sir, night'll be comin' on soon and I think we'd
better make sail."
"Make sail?" I murmured blankly. "How?"
"The bedding, sir," said Triplett.
"Of course!" I cried. "All hands abaft to make sail."
How we knotted our sheets and blankets together to fashion a rough
main-sail would be a tedious recital, for it was slow work. Our
combined efforts made, I should say, about eight knots an hour but half
of them pulled out at the least provocation. We persevered, however,
and finally completed our task. Nor were we an instant too soon, for
just as we had succeeded in getting the oars to stand upright and were
anxiously watching our well-worn army blankets belly out with the

steady trade wind, the sun, which for the last hour had hung above