The Wings of the Morning | Page 6

with horrible uncertainty,
lurching through battling currents, and perchance convoyed by fighting
sharks.
The surgeon had been called away. Iris was the only lady left in the
saloon. She watched a set of whist players for a time and then essayed
the perilous passage to her stateroom. She found her maid and a
stewardess there. Both women were weeping.
"What is the matter?" she inquired.
The stewardess tried to speak. She choked with grief and hastily went
out. The maid blubbered an explanation.
"A friend of hers was married, miss, to the man who is drowned."
"Drowned! What man?"
"Haven't you heard, miss? I suppose they are keeping it quiet. An
English sailor and some natives were swept off the ship by a sea. One
native was saved, but he is all smashed up. The others were never seen
again."
Iris by degrees learnt the sad chronicles of the Jackson family. She was
moved to tears. She remembered the doctor's hesitancy, and her own
idle phrase--"a huge coffin."
Outside the roaring waves pounded upon the iron walls.
Were they not satiated? This tragedy had taken all the grandeur out of
the storm. It was no longer a majestic phase of nature's power, but an

implacable demon, bellowing for a sacrifice. And that poor woman,
with her two children, hopefully scanning the shipping lists for news of
the great steamer, news which, to her, meant only the safety of her
husband. Oh, it was pitiful!
Iris would not be undressed. The maid sniveled a request to be allowed
to remain with her mistress. She would lie on a couch until morning.
Two staterooms had been converted into one to provide Miss Deane
with ample accommodation. There were no bunks, but a cozy bed was
screwed to the deck. She lay down, and strove to read. It was a difficult
task. Her eyes wandered from the printed page to mark the absurd
antics of her garments swinging on their hooks. At times the ship rolled
so far that she felt sure it must topple over. She was not afraid; but
subdued, rather astonished, placidly prepared for vague eventualities.
Through it all she wondered why she clung to the belief that in another
day or two the storm would be forgotten, and people playing quoits on
deck, dancing, singing coon songs in the music-room, or grumbling at
the heat.
Things were ridiculous. What need was there for all this external fury?
Why should poor sailors be cast forth to instant death in such awful
manner? If she could only sleep and forget--if kind oblivion would blot
out the storm for a few blissful hours! But how could one sleep with the
consciousness of that watery giant thundering his summons upon the
iron plates a few inches away?
Then came the blurred picture of Captain Ross high up on the bridge,
peering into the moving blackness. How strange that there should be
hidden in the convolutions of a man's brain an intelligence that laid
bare the pretences of that ravenous demon without. Each of the ship's
officers, the commander more than the others, understood the why and
the wherefore of this blustering combination of wind and sea. Iris knew
the language of poker. Nature was putting up a huge bluff.
What was it the captain said in his little lecture? "When a ship meets a
cyclone north of the equator on a westerly course she nearly always has
the wind at first on the port side, but, owing to the revolution of the

gale, when she passes its center the wind is on the starboard side."
Yes, that was right, as far as the first part was concerned. Evidently
they had not yet passed the central path. Oh, dear! She was so tired. It
demanded a physical effort to constantly shove away an unseen force
that tried to push you over. How funny that a big cloud should travel up
against the wind! And so, amidst confused wonderment, she lapsed into
an uneasy slumber, her last sentient thought being a quiet thankfulness
that the screw went thud-thud, thud-thud with such firm determination.
After the course was changed and the Sirdar bore away towards the
south-west, the commander consulted the barometer each half-hour.
The tell-tale mercury had sunk over two inches in twelve hours. The
abnormally low pressure quickly created dense clouds which enhanced
the melancholy darkness of the gale.
For many minutes together the bows of the ship were not visible.
Masthead and sidelights were obscured by the pelting scud. The
engines thrust the vessel forward like a lance into the vitals of the storm.
Wind and wave gushed out of the vortex with impotent fury.
At last, soon after midnight, the barometer showed a slight upward
movement. At 1.30 a.m. the change became pronounced;
simultaneously