Great chunks of green water came hurtling over the rail, thundering down upon us till The Waif was buried in a boiling turmoil from which she would leap and shake herself, only to be pulled down again when the next sea fell upon us.  When she sprang out of the lather, those devilish, snarling, snaky waves sprang after her, slapping at her flanks, tearing and biting at her like a pack of wolves.  There’s an awful likeness to a wolf pack about storm waves.  When you see them all foam-lathered stretching out like a pack in full cry, or watch them leaping up as if they were trying to see whether the unfortunate ship had been torn down by one of their band, you begin to credit them with some sort of intelligence.

The Waif was no poppycock yacht, built to dodge about the Solent and run for Cowes if the wind blew a capful.  She had been built to hold her own with the hardest slamming seas that ever chased a shattered hull, and it was lucky for us that she was.  The storm that came screeching after us from way across the Coral Sea was one of those high-powered freak disturbances that juggle with lumps of water like a vaudeville performer juggling with cheap crockery.  It took the tops off those rollers and pelted them at us, and the wind seemed to yell in triumph when the yacht was buried in the whirlpools in which she dived headlong.

All through the night we raced before it, and through the following day The Waif never paused for an instant in her mad race to the eastward.  The Kanakas became demoralized with fear, and I forgot the trouble hanging over the heads of the girls and their father as I helped Newmarch drag the crew from their bunks to cut away the wreckage of the vessel.

I saw a new side of the captain during those hours.  A very devil of energy took hold of him with the coming of the storm, and he became a human dynamo.  He pounded the frightened crew unmercifully, dragging the screaming islanders back to their work by the hair of their heads, and heaping upon them curses that were strange and blood-curdling.  That he was a good sailorman I had little doubt.  He handled The Waif with skill and patience, while the crew, with rolling eyes and quivering lips, were so terrorized by his wrath that they fled to do his bidding.

I had been wondering since the moment when he had ordered me to let go my grip of the Kanaka in the f’c’stle, if he was afraid that any disagreement between me and the knife-thrower would start trouble with the crew, but from the way he hazed the niggers during the storm I was convinced that it was not through any fear of them that he ordered me to leave my assailant alone.  The conviction did not increase my love for him.  As I viewed the happening he was inclined to shield the big brute who threw the knife simply because the offence did not appear to be one that merited punishment, and this view was not pleasing to my nerves.

It was on the second day of the storm that a little incident happened which is worth mentioning.  Toni, the small Fijian who had chanted the song of Black Fernando’s hell, was caught by a huge wave and pounded hard against the cabin.  The mad turmoil of water swept his nearly lifeless form into the scuppers, but before another comber could snatch him overboard, I managed to reach his side and drag him into safety.