Kitabı oku: «The Ruined Cities of Zululand», sayfa 17

“Lowe will have charge of the forecastle, and I, with your friend, take the quarter-deck, the crew being equally divided.”

“You will let me fight by your side?” replied the soldier.

“Not so,” answered the old seaman. “Yours is a sterner duty. Any one can fight when his blood is up, and death sure, whatever happen. I am going to lower the Spanish Don and his daughter into the hold, and your station will be beside them.”

“And do you for a moment think I am going to be shut up like a bandicoot in a hole, while others fight for life and liberty?” indignantly asked the soldier.

Captain Weber grasped Hughes by the hand, looking into his face, and pointing to the schooner as he spoke:

“The crew of yonder pirate are not human beings. They are steeped in murder and crime. Our fate is death, sure and certain death. Maddened by the destruction of their comrades, by their defeat in yonder Bay, no torments will be spared us. It will not be simply walking the plank, but the worst torture those practised villains can invent, which awaits us.”

“Look at her white sails, and tapering spars, how beautiful she is, as she sheers down on us. Is all this possible?”

“More is possible,” replied the master, “Death will be our fate, but not the lady’s. A life-long servitude of the vilest description on board yon floating hell will be her fate!”

Captain Hughes covered his face with his hands, and his tall, sinewy frame shook with emotion. The loud boom of the eighteen-pounder, and the crashing of the shot as it plunged into the brig’s bows, the rending and riving of her timbers, were unnoticed.

“There are ten barrels of powder in the hold; to you, as the man most interested in it, I give the charge of the magazine. The barrels are piled one on another. Yours should be a cool head and a determined hand. When the last hope is over, when the brig is carried, as carried she must be, but then only, fire your pistol into the nearest keg, and rid the seas of yonder miscreant, whose white sails bear him to his doom.”

A rattling peal of thunder came from the dark mass of clouds, while a vivid flash of forked lightning seemed to bury itself in the waves.

The soldier’s face was pale as that of a corpse; as he removed his hand, the lines of the mouth twitched nervously.

“Your orders shall be obeyed to the letter,” he said, as he struck his open palm into that of the captain.

The two stood for a moment on the deck hand in hand, looking into one another’s eyes. The stern, determined face of the old seaman showed no trace of feeling as he spoke.

“Do not think, my friend, that I feel nothing. This was to have been my last voyage. The brig was half mine. We shall disappear from the face of the ocean, and in their home, in the mountains of Cumberland, a mother and her two sons will remain in ignorance of what far-away place holds the husband’s, the father’s bones.” Suddenly changing his tones, “Now, my lads, rig out a chair,” he continued, “and we will lower the lady out of harm’s way. Captain Hughes, will you tell Dona Isabel we are ready?”

It is a terrible thing, that waiting for death, to those in the full enjoyment of health and strength. When it is met face to face in the excitement of the fight, in the crash of battle, or the chaos of elemental strife, it is terrible enough. When it comes to the worn and exhausted frame, after months, perhaps years, of agony and suffering, as a liberator, as a kind and merciful friend,—even then it is feared: that step into the vast and unfathomable abyss of the future; that new world, whence none have returned. But here it was far otherwise.

Life, health, strength, all were there; and take but away from the face of the ocean that dark, beautifully moulded hull, with its long tapering spars, and canvas as white as the driven snow; take away that floating pandemonium, with its beautiful outside appearance, and its crew of men hardened in crime, and steeped in blood and murder; and not only health, strength, and life were there, but high hopes and happiness were the lot of those who were on board the dismantled brig.

Isabel had regained her courage. Her long hair floating behind, her eyes showing no trace of tears, she had walked along the deck leaning on her lover’s arm. The crew looked at her pityingly as she passed. More than one strong man shook his clenched fist in the direction of the pirate, as Isabel, her foot on the first step of the ladder, took her last look at the scene around her. There lay the schooner, rapidly nearing the brig, which was now running dead before the wind. Far astern, a long green line on the lead-coloured sea marked the coming squall; ahead, far as could be seen, the dark-coloured ocean, over which the hot haze seemed to hang heavily, while the splintered mainmast, and torn bulwarks alone showed the dire distress of the brig’s crew. The pirate had ceased firing, for the sea was rising rapidly; the black squall, too, seemed coming up like a racehorse astern, and it was time her bloody work was finished. Isabel passed forward, one squeeze of the hand—for not a word was spoken—and she was carefully and gently sent down into the hold, her father following; the old noble having taken a formal leave of all, thanked the crew, raising his hat with punctilious politeness as he was lowered away. None now remained except the soldier. Round his waist he wore a belt, in which were placed two six-barrelled revolvers. Beside him stood the missionary, his pale, thoughtful face calm as usual, not a trace of emotion visible. He held in his left hand a heavy double-barrelled rifle, and, as he grasped his friend’s with his right.

“Hughes,” he said, “you have the hardest task among us. We shall fight to the last, relying on you, on your calmness and determination. No entreaty, no delusional hope must move you.”

“Ay, ay,” muttered the seaman, “you may trust him.”

And it was evident he could be trusted, even in this dire extremity. His face was deadly pale, but the firmly compressed lips, the determined look, the high, broad, clear forehead, all told their own tale, as, without a word, he wrung his friend’s hand, and seizing the rope which dangled free, swung himself from the deck and dropped hand over hand into the hold below.

“To your stations, my lads, and we will rid the seas of the villains yet!” shouted the captain.

The brig carried little cargo, and that of a light description. Boxes and bales were neatly ranged in her hold, and piles of elephants’ tusks were to be seen here and there. A large dark lanthorn threw a small circle of light around, but beyond this all was darkness. Ten barrels or kegs containing powder had been placed end on, near each other, forming two tiers. Several had been broken open, and the wood loosely replaced.

Walking carefully towards the pile, Hughes removed the head of a cask and verified the contents. There lay the mass of black glittering coarse grains, which were to send them to their doom. Seated on a heavy case near was the Portuguese noble, and at his feet in prayer, her large black eyes tearless and raised to heaven, kneeled Isabel, the dim light just showing the two, as Dom Maxara leaned over his daughter, his grey hair mingling with her raven tresses. Having replaced the heading of the cask, the soldier looked to his pistols, examining the caps and the lock, then replacing them, walked to Isabel’s side and knelt down.

All seemed still on deck, and the noise of the rushing water could be heard as the brig surged on through the seas. Half an hour passed, each minute seeming an age; for it was a fearful thing to be caged there in the darkness, knowing nothing of what was going on. Sometimes the father’s heavy sobs could not be restrained, as he leaned over his daughter; but Isabel’s eyes were dry, and she prayed fervently; the deep darkness in which the hold lay out of the feeble rays of the lanthorn, completing its resemblance to the tomb. A loud shout and a spattering fire were indistinctly heard, telling that the last moment was near; then the rushing sound of the wind as the brig heeled over before the strength of the squall, two shots, a long cheer, with the words, “Starboard! hard a-starboard!” shouted from the deck. Gasping Isabel in his arms, Hughes rose calmly and deliberately; not a word passed, all power of speech had left him. One kiss, one long last kiss, and he strode calmly and deliberately towards the fatal pile. Passing his hand over his eyes, he removed the heading and plunged his fingers into the black mass. A loud shriek from Isabel rang out as she rushed across the space which divided them, and threw herself into his arms. Rising, the old noble steadied himself by a pile of cases, his eyes seemed glaring out of their sockets as he strained them in the direction of the powder casks. Then came a terrible shock, the crash of splintering wood, the roar of the tempest, which had burst in fury over the doomed brig, and amidst all, one loud, despairing cry, as though the last united effort of a hundred voices. Pressing his lips to those of Isabel, his left arm encircling her—

“Mine, Isabel, in death if not in life,” he murmured, as he thrust the muzzle of the cocked pistol into the powder cask.

The hatchway opened, the light streamed down into the dreary dark hold, and he knew the pirates were upon them.

His arm tightened round Isabel’s waist, his eyes glared upwards, and his finger contracted on the trigger.

“Hold your hand, Hughes!” were the words which came to his ears, shouted in his friend’s voice. “Hold your hand! God, even at the last moment, has looked down upon us, and we are saved!”

The Pirate’s Fate

His passengers in the hold, Captain Weber, fully relying on the soldier’s promise, and certain his brig could never fall into the hands of the pirates, had made his last dispositions. An old sailor named Porter was at the wheel, the crew, as it had previously been determined, were divided into two watches, one under the mate on the forecastle, the other with Wyzinski, commanded by the captain. The break of the quarter-deck had been fortified with a number of bales and boxes roused up from below, an opening for the nine-pounders having been left. The same arrangements had been made for the forecastle, and the companion ladders removed. The “Halcyon” surged along, the wind aft, under the little sail she could show, but the schooner was coming up, hand-over-hand, the wind over her quarter. The brig already felt the coming squall, and, had she not lost her masts, would have cared little for the pirate. Hauling down his foresail under his mainsail and jib, the piratical craft came sweeping up with the diminished sail. It was a beautiful sight as her low black hull drew through the waves, her flush decks crowded with men, and the long eighteen-pounder slewed fore and aft. Feeling the first puffs of the squall, she heeled over, showing the bright copper nearly to her keel, while the water swirled in jets from her wedge-like bows. On she came, driving through the seas until she was a couple of lengths only from the brig, and then a discharge of musketry, and a shout to heave-to followed.

“Run up the Union Jack,” said Captain Weber, in deep guttural tones, “we will show them the temper of the old flag yet.”

“Do you see yonder fellow at the wheel? If I did not know to the contrary, I should say it is the very man who led the attack in St Augustine’s Bay,” exclaimed the missionary.

“You are a dead rifle shot,” replied the captain, speaking slowly and deliberately, “are you not?”

Another hail from the schooner followed. She was now, as has been already said, running under her mainsail and jib, and yet fore-reaching on the brig though her main tack was hauled up, her crew once more getting the eighteen-pounder ready to discharge before boarding.

“I am,” replied Wyzinski, the schooner’s hail being unanswered.

“Pick off that man when I raise my hand. Remember, sir,” added the captain, speaking sharply and sternly, “remember, sir, I am about to play my last stake, and all depends on your aim.”

Leaving Wyzinski, the seaman stood by the wheel, his eyes fixed on the schooner. It was evidently her intention to pass under the brig’s bows, and range up under her lee using her gun before boarding. So near were the two craft that a biscuit could have been thrown aboard either.

“Port a little. Luff you may, Porter—”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the man. “Luff it is, sir,” and the schooner passed ahead.

“Now!” shouted the captain, raising his hand. The double report of Wyzinski’s rifle followed. The bulky Malay, shot through the back, loosed his hold of the wheel, the spokes flew round as he threw up his hands, and with one long unearthly yell fell forward dead on the deck; the schooner, as Captain Weber foresaw, under the pressure of her enormous mainsail, flying up into the wind, and almost crossing the brig’s fore-foot.

“Starboard! hard a-starboard!” roared the captain, as the whole fury of the squall struck the two vessels. Dashing madly onward, the “Halcyon” tore through the water as with one broad sheer to port she neared the black hull. For a moment her decks seemed to overshadow those of the doomed craft, while her broad bow, with all the force of the tempest driving her, struck the schooner amidships.

“Hurrah!” shouted the master, in his excitement, “Hurrah! To Hell with the pirates!”

The shock was tremendous, as the brig bore down her small antagonist bodily, burying her beneath the sea. The crashing sound of splintering wood followed, a hundred half-naked yelling figures were grouped on the schooner’s decks, the next a few floating spars lay astern, a few drowning wretches cried for the mercy they themselves had refused, and the “Halcyon” passed on her way. Half-a-dozen Malays had escaped, as, clutching at the ropes and gear which hung from the jib-boom broken with the shock, they scrambled on board, to meet the cutlasses of the enraged crew. Their bodies were hove overboard, and then not a vestige remained of the dreaded pirate, the scourge of the Indian sea.

Leaping from the quarter-deck, Wyzinski hauled at the hatchway, shouting down it to his friend below. He was just in time, for but another moment and the brig, disembarrassed of her enemy, would have been blown to atoms; as it was, a wild cheer burst from the crew when five minutes later Hughes was hoisted on deck, his pistol black with the loose powder into which it had been thrust, and his face pale with excitement.

“We are in the hands of Providence, dear lady,” said the captain, as the whole party sought the cabin. “With a half-dismasted ship, a heavy gale in prospect, and a lee shore, there is much to be done; but the great peril is over. You can clear the deck, Mr Lowe, of all the boxes and bales we roused up. I don’t think the pirates will trouble us any more. Take the foresail off her, and send the carpenter aft.”

The captain had his hands full on deck. Scudding before the wind is ever a dangerous thing, because the waves following so fast are apt to break on board, if the vessel is not propelled through the water with a speed greater than that of the following sea.

In the cabin, that cabin which they had never thought to see again, the whole party knelt, and led by Wyzinski, returned thanks to Heaven, for their lives thus almost miraculously spared. The missionary prayed long and eloquently, for it seemed to him that his had been the act which had resulted in sending the whole crew of that terrible vessel to the bottom. True, life, and more than life, was at stake; true, also, that the schooner, with her low, black hull and white canvas, had been a scourge in those seas, still the loud despairing shriek which rose on the air, as the brig’s bows buried themselves in the frail timbers of the lightly-constructed vessel, rang in his ears, and though an act of necessity, it was none the less a terrible one. A fearful crisis in the lives of all had passed by, and with the sense of relief came that of deep gratitude to the hand which had turned aside the terrible fate so lately hanging over them. The missionary, then, prayed long and fervently, and never had he an auditory, more disposed to join him with heart and soul. A long life may be the soldier’s destiny, a bright career that of the Portuguese noble, a happy lot fall to the share of the dark-eyed maiden whose face is now buried in her hands, as she follows the missionary’s words, but never can any of the three actors in the scene forget that moment, when with the muzzle of the pistol buried in the powder keg, the forefinger bent on the trigger of the cocked weapon, one second would have hurled into eternity not only themselves but the entire crew.

On deck the scene was a wild one. The wind had gradually freshened, and the sea in consequence risen, the ocean, far as the eye could reach, being one sheet of green, crested with white foam, the brig rolling through the waves under her fore-topsail only, at a great rate. Two serious holes in the hull, caused by the entrance of the eighteen-pound shot, had been plugged in a makeshift manner, it is true, but still they had been boarded over.

Notwithstanding all this the party in the cabin was a merry one. So hopeless, so utterly desperate had been their situation that morning, that all the danger of a lee shore, all the discomforts of a small vessel during a heavy gale at sea, were forgotten. The old noble, too, had accepted the position which had been made for him. After late events, more particularly the half-hour passed in the brig’s hold, it was impossible to think of Captain Hughes as anything but his daughter’s affianced husband, and as such he had been frankly and fairly accepted. The marriage was to take place on their arrival in Portugal, and the whole party to proceed to Europe together.

The captain sat poring over an Admiralty chart laid before him on the table. The old noble was dozing in one corner, the missionary communing with his own thoughts and Isabel and her lover talking in low tones. The roar of the wind was heard even in the cabin, the creaking of the ropes as the gale tore through them, and now and then a wave larger than common would break over the brig, deluging her decks.

“Why don’t you run for Delagoa Bay, captain?” said Hughes, as the seaman rose, placing his hand on the table to steady himself.

“We are far to the southward of Delagoa Bay,” replied he; “the only port available is Port Natal.”

“Then run for that,” rejoined Hughes.

“It’s a nasty coast, and there is a bar there of which I am afraid. It was of this I was thinking; for some of those makeshift spars may leave us at any moment, and then I must lie-to.”

“Is the harbour dangerous at all times?” asked Hughes.

“Most certainly not; but with an easterly gale there can be no communication with the shore. I do not know the harbour, and have never been there but once, which makes the attempt, if I am forced to it, the more dangerous.”

“But you have been there once, and consequently, with a seaman’s instinct, know the place,” said Hughes.

“I will tell you how I know it, and what that knowledge is worth,” said the captain, seating himself beside Isabel, “and then when I go on deck you can tell the story to Dona Isabel. She may be very anxious to set her pretty little foot on land, but hardly in the same way I did. Some years since I was first-mate of the brig ‘Vestal,’ sailing under the command of Captain Bell. We dropped our anchor on Thursday morning, just off the bar, close to Port Natal. The following one it began to blow, and all that day the gale increased, just as this one has done, and from the same direction. Steward, just mix me a glass of grog. Will you join me, captain? Better had than wish you had. No—well, you have not to pass the night on deck, as I have—but to continue: All that unlucky Thursday the gale steadily increased, and the sea came rolling in mountains high. Near us lay a schooner called the ‘Little Nell,’ and further to sea a steamer ‘The Natal.’ This latter got up her steam, and under a full head went out. It was a glorious sight to see her as the waves swept her decks, and sometimes she seemed more under water than above it. The schooner parted from her anchors, and ran right across the bar, thumping heavily, but she was light, and managed to cross, though she stripped all the copper from her bottom, and had to be docked. Towards eight o’clock, our anchors parted too, and we drifted bodily in, the big waves pounding at our brig, and sweeping clean over us.”

“But why did you not try to run over the bar like the schooner?” asked Hughes.

“You shall hear,” continued the captain, leisurely sipping his grog. “Our skipper lost his head. I do believe we might have run over the bar, and, at all events, the crew have been saved, but no,—all went against us. He let go his third anchor on the bar itself. Wood and iron could not stand the fearful sea running there. She struck right between the breakwaters, the sea dashing clean over her, and the brig thumping heavily. The masts went over the side, and at last one enormous wave turned her over on her broadside, we clinging to the upper bulwarks. It was a fearful sight, for we could see the lights moving about on shore close to us. The hurricane never diminished, and the seas made a clean breach over us, carrying away from time to time some of the crew. We held on our best, for, so near land, we could not think we should be left to perish, but we waited in vain.”

“Could not a lifeboat live in that sea?” asked Hughes.

“Ay, ay, but the lubbers had none, and for anything I know have not got one yet. Lashed to the bulwarks, we waited for help all through that fearful night, but when the grey light of day came, we saw that there was no hope. I and a sailor named Hesketh determined to take our chance. We lashed ourselves to a stout spar each, and tried hard to persuade the others to do as much, but they would not. The captain was nearly speechless, and did not seem to know what he was doing. It was a fearful moment when we two threw ourselves into the raging ocean.”

“You could both swim, I suppose?” asked Hughes.

“Ay, ay; we could swim, but what use was swimming in such a sea? The first wave rolled us over and over, like corks, but could not sink us. We remained several hours in the water, every moment expecting death. I was insensible most of the time.”

“Did you remain near each other?”

“No, after the last shake of the hand as we jumped overboard, we parted company. Two lads found me rolled on the beach like a log, and help being forthcoming I was kindly treated and restored, but it was weeks before I could get about. The sailor, Hesketh, was a good deal bruised, but managed better than I did.”

“And the captain and remaining crew?” inquired Hughes.

“Perished. Not a trace of the brig remained. Captain Bell, belonging to the port, and Captain Wilson of the Point, the landing agents, and other authorities, had fires lit, and did what they could, but there was no lifeboat, and save myself and Hesketh, brig and crew went to Davy Jones’s locker, stock and block.”

“I can easily conceive your antipathy to an anchorage at Port Natal during a gale of wind,” remarked his hearer.

“If our jury masts only hold, and the gale don’t increase, we shall do very well; and now I’m for deck, and I would advise Dona Isabel to turn in. Good night, Senhora,” said the old seaman, rising, and in his heavy leggings, waterproof, and broad sou’-wester, clumping up the companion into the rough night; and when the clear ring of the brig’s bell came from the forecastle, striking eight times, the cabin was empty, and a solitary lamp shed a feeble light as it swayed to and fro, the brig pitching heavily, her timbers groaning and creaking, the gale roaring over her decks, and moaning through her rigging.

Towards midnight, Captain Weber and his mate came below, the steward mixing for them two stiff glasses of grog.

“How’s the barometer, sir?” asked the mate, as he passed the sleeve of his coat over his mouth, after having taken a good pull at the steaming liquor.

Captain Weber stepped into his own cabin, remained some minutes, and then came out again, looking very grave.

“We have not had the worst of it yet,” he replied; “the mercury has fallen since four bells struck.”

The chart was placed on the table, and the ship’s position verified.

“There’s nothing for it, Lowe,” said the captain, “with a falling glass, a lee shore, and a heavy gale, there’s nothing else for it. Heave the brig to until morning.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the officer, rising, and draining the last drop in the tumbler, “it’s a good moment too, for there seems a lull.”

The mate went on deck, leaving Captain Weber poring over the chart. His broad-brimmed sou’-wester lay on the table, his coat was open, the wet dropping from it, and his grey hair was dripping with salt brine.

A momentary bustle on deck was heard. A noise of trampling feet, and a few hoarse words of command. A heavy sea struck the ship, flooding her decks; a cabin-door opened, and the steward was called; but still Captain Weber remained poring over his chart. Hours passed by, and at last the anxious man rose, and went into his own cabin once more. His face was very grave when he came out, for the mercury in the barometer had again fallen, and it now stood so low as to foretell a hurricane.

Morning broke slowly over an ocean whose long, green, angry looking waves were lashed into boiling foam. Not a sail was in sight, but the thin haze hung over the sea. The brig was doing her best, hove-to, under a closely reefed make shift main-topsail, and fore and main-staysails, the gale, if anything, having diminished in fury.

“It is a grand sight, Isabel,” said Hughes, as towards ten o’clock the whole party stood on the quarter-deck, looking over the wild, angry ocean, the speaker holding on to the weather bulwarks, with one hand, the other being passed round Isabel’s waist, who clung to him for support. Dom Maxara stood at the break of the quarter-deck, looking the picture of misery, while the missionary under the lee of the companion, was gazing over the raging ocean, his face perfectly calm and composed. Near the wheel stood the captain and his mate, in their rough sailor dreadnoughts and dripping sou’-westers.

“Well, I will never wish to see a gale on the ocean again,” said Isabel; “but how warm the wind is.”

A report like that of a heavy gun was heard over the howling of the gale, which now came down with double force, and the white canvas which had been the main-topsail was seen flying to leeward, while the shreds and ribbons left in the bolt-ropes were beating violently about in the gale. Losing the sail aft which had so powerfully helped to keep her to the wind, the brig’s bows fell off, just as the whole weight of the hurricane came down upon her. Striking her broadside on, a huge wave bore her down on her broadside into the trough of the sea, pouring over the bulwarks, and flooding her decks fore and aft. The “Halcyon” was on her beam ends, with the full fury of the hurricane raging around her. The crash of splintering wood was heard over the roar of the tempest, as the fore-topmast, with its heavy top and all its gear, came tumbling down on deck, smashing in the planking of the forecastle, and driving out the lee bulwarks, as the heavy blocks and massive wood-work surged to and fro.

Slowly the brig righted, and the voice of the master was heard above the confusion.

“Steady lads; out axes, and cut away the wreck.”

Not a man moved, for some hundred yards away a monster wave, tipped with white, was rolling furiously towards the brig. The men were stunned by the suddenness of the misfortune.

The first-mate, seeing the imminence of the danger, sprang forward; seizing an axe, he and the missionary, who had quietly followed him, were soon busy cutting away the wreck. Dom Maxara had disappeared.

“Hold on, lads, hold on for your lives,” roared the captain, as the great sea struck the brig on her starboard bow, pouring over her decks, and burying her beneath the foam, and then passed away astern. “Cut away cheerily,” now he shouted, as the bright axes flashed among the tangled mass of ropes, for their hesitation was over, and the crew, led by the first-mate and the missionary, were now working well.

Two crushed and mangled bodies lay among the broken spars, but there was no time to look to the wounded, for the safety of all depended on the wreck being cleared away, and the brig got before the wind.

“Man the down-haul. Tend the staysail sheet. Let go the halyards. Haul down,” were the rapid words of command shouted by the master, as the main-staysail was hauled down.

Again a heavy sea poured over the brig’s bows, but as it passed aft, with it went the remains of the fore-topmast, with all its tangled mass of ropes and blocks. A moment of comparative calm succeeded, and the men lay out on the fore-yard. The close-reefed foresail was set, the stout sail threatening to blow bodily out of the bolt-ropes, as feebly obeying her helm, the brig slowly righted, the sail filled, her bows payed off from the wind, and the dismasted “Halcyon” flew before the gale.

“This is indeed terrible,” moaned Isabel, as, supported by her lover, she took her way below, following four of the crew who bore the body of her father to his cabin. Dom Maxara had been nearly dashed overboard as the huge wave broke over the brig, throwing her on her beam ends. Sorely bruised and shaken he had been unable to rise, and each succeeding wave, as it swept the decks, had rolled him to and fro, surging about among the broken timbers and tangled rigging.

Flash after flash of lightning, instantly followed by peals of thunder, succeeding each other so closely as never to seem to die wholly away, now followed, and all day long the hurricane continued to sweep the face of the Indian Ocean, until, far as the eye could reach, the sea was one boiling mass of foam.