Tom Fairfield at Sea: or, The Wreck of the Silver Star

The vessel pitched and tossed, but Tom had been in worse blows than this, and he saw nothing to be alarmed about. The sky was overcast with clouds, for no stars were visible, and the wind was strong, but aside from these indications there did not seem to be anything to be alarmed about.

“Well, I’ll have to wait until morning, all right,” mused Tom, as he took a turn about the deck before going in. Mr. Blake left him with a good-night.

“I’ll go tell my wife there’s nothing to be alarmed about,” he said, “but she’s that nervous that it’ll be just like her to sit up dressed all night.”

“Oh, I guess the Silver Star can weather this little blow,” said Tom.

Remaining on deck for about half an hour longer Tom was beginning to feel sleepy enough to turn in. The wind had not increased. If anything it had gone down, though the lad could see, over the rail, that the waves were running high. They did not break, however, being more like huge oily swells that heaved up in the darkness, showing dimly the reflection of the ship’s lights.

“Some power to those waves,” reflected our hero. “A lot of power there when it’s needed, but the trouble is it can’t be controlled. Well, I hope we don’t run into a worse blow by morning.”

A little saddened as he looked off across the black waste, and reflected that somewhere on that heaving ocean his father and mother might be helplessly drifting, Tom went below.

As he did so he cast a look at the bridge. He saw Captain Steerit standing there with the first mate, their figures being brought out in relief against the glow of light from the charthouse. The two seemed to be in earnest conversation, and Tom, who was unaccountably nervous, could not but wonder if there was any danger in their situation.

As he passed the room of the mysterious passenger Tom saw that the door was closed, though a light showing over the transom indicated that the occupant was still up.

It must have been past midnight when Tom was suddenly awakened by being pitched sharply against the side of his berth.

“Hello! What’s up?” he cried.

There was no answer, but he felt himself tossed in the opposite direction, while some loose objects in his room rolled about the floor.

“Something’s going on!” said Tom aloud, as he reached out and turned the electric switch, flooding his room with light.

As he did so he became aware that the vessel was rolling and pitching at what, even to his accustomed senses, was an alarming degree. Tom sprang out of bed, and brought up with a bang on the opposite side of his little apartment, giving himself quite a severe knock.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, rubbing his elbows. He forgot to hold on to something, and felt himself sliding back toward his berth, but he had sense enough to put out his hands and save himself from another collision.

“Some motion here!” thought Tom.

At the same time he became aware of a rushing of feet on the deck above him, while hoarse commands were cried out, coming but faintly to his ears.

Without waiting to dress, Tom cautiously opened his porthole a trifle. In an instant, even through the small crack, he was drenched with a spray of salty water.

“Say! It must be a blow!” he cried, screwing the porthole glass back into place. “It’s a storm all right! I’m going to get dressed, and go on deck. No telling what might happen.”

Steadying himself with one hand, he sorted out his clothes with the other. He could hear the passengers in the stateroom adjoining his moving about, and he thought he detected a woman crying.

CHAPTER VIII

A BLOW IN THE DARK

“Trouble somewhere,” reflected Tom, as he hastily dressed as best he could in that small stateroom, which seemed uncertain on its own part as to what was the floor or ceiling. Sometimes one of the walls would serve as the floor, and again as the ceiling.

“Trouble,” repeated Tom, “or else some one is frightened. The storm must have developed in a hurry. I’m going to see what’s up. I don’t like being below when there’s any danger.”

Finishing with his dressing, Tom hurried along the passageway leading to the upper deck. He had to steady himself as he went along, or he would have received more hard knocks.

Coming opposite the room where the “mysterious” man was quartered, Tom noted that the door was ajar a trifle. It went shut with a slam as our hero passed, but whether the occupant had been the cause, or the swaying of the ship, Tom could not determine.

“No chance to talk with Captain Steerit now,” Tom reflected. “But I guess it will keep until after the blow.”

On deck our hero was at once made aware of the fury of the storm, and its increasing violence. He had a glimpse of great billows, foam-capped, racing along at the side of the Silver Star, as if to keep pace with her, mocking her efforts to speed away from them. He heard the wind fairly howling through the wire stays, as if giant fingers were playing a wild tune on some immense harp. And he felt, too, the violent pitching and tossing of the craft, as he had not in his cabin below. In fact so great was the motion that he had difficulty in keeping his feet.

“Some blow – this,” gasped Tom, the words being almost snatched out of his mouth by the wind.

He saw sailors making their way here and there, fastening in place such gear as might tear away when the storm became worse. And that this was likely was becoming every moment more evident.

Tom managed to make his way forward, clinging to some safety ropes that had been rigged. He was near the bow, and could see towering billows curling toward the ship, when a voice hailed him.

“Get back! Go on back, Tom!” someone shouted.

He looked up toward the bridge, to see Captain Steerit standing there, clad in oilskins, for the spray was flying from the crests of the mountain-like ridges of water.

“Is there any danger?” Tom shouted back.

“There always is – in a storm,” was the grim response. “Get back. No telling when a comber may come aboard, and it will carry you off like a chip. You can’t hold on. Get back, Tom!”

Our hero decided that it was good advice to follow, and, even as he turned he felt the ship stagger as though some giant had dealt her a blow. There was a shower of spray and a rush of water that drenched Tom, and nearly carried him off his feet.

“Well I’m wet through,” he reflected. “I’d better get back to bed, or else put on dry clothes. I should have put on oilskins before coming up.”

As he went down a companionway he saw Mr. Blake coming up, with his wife clinging to him. She had been crying, and was even now sobbing.

“Don’t go up,” Tom advised them.

“Oh, is it as bad as that? Are we sinking?” gasped Mrs. Blake.

“Oh, there’s no particular danger,” said Tom, as calmly as he could, “only you’ll get all wet. I’m drenched. Captain Steerit warned me back, just as a big wave came aboard.”

“Oh, Will, I’m so frightened!” wailed Mrs. Blake. “I know we’ll go to the bottom!”

“Nonsense!” answered her husband. “I told you we’d better stay below.”

“It’s more comfortable, at any rate,” said Tom, and he helped Mr. Blake assist his wife to their stateroom.

Tom lost no time in putting on dry garments, and over them he put a suit of oilskins, that would keep out the wet. Thus equipped he started for the deck again.

“Now that I’m up I may as well stay and see the storm out,” Tom reflected. “If it grows worse I don’t want to be below, anyhow. I’ll have more chance in the open.”

For a moment his heart misgave him, as he thought of the storm through which the ship on which his father and mother were sailing had gone.

“I do hope the Silver Star isn’t wrecked,” mused Tom. “That would upset all my plans. But pshaw! It won’t happen.”

He passed one of the sailors whom he knew.

“What do you think of it?” asked Tom.