The Boy Fortune Hunters in the South Seas by L. Frank Baum

Our fine weather held for five days. Then, just as we were approaching the dangerous district Captain Steele had spoken of to me, the sky lowered, a stiff breeze came out of the northwest and the waves began to pile up as only the waves of the South Pacific can.

By night it was blowing a gale; but our passengers, with the exception of Lucia and Alfonso, had taken to their berths long before this. The _Seagull_ behaves beautifully in a storm. An ordinary gale does not disturb her coolness in the least. She merely tosses her head, takes the bit in her teeth, so to speak, and prances a trifle instead of gliding.

But this was no ordinary storm. We who had experienced all sorts of weather in our voyages were soon forced to admit that fact. The wind veered every hour or so; it blew steadily for a time and then came in gusts -- "pushes," Uncle Naboth called them -- that were exceedingly trying to both the ship and crew. We would no sooner find our sea legs on one slant of the deck when over she flopped and we had to seek a new angle to cling to. The waves were tremendous and the wind seized their curling edges and scattered them in foamy spray over the ship. The sky became black as ink; the gale roared and shrieked with maddening intensity; yet we bore it all stolidly enough for a time, confident of the staunchness of our bark and the skill of her captain.

My father had put on his pea-jacket and helmet at the beginning of the storm and kept his station on deck sturdily. He assured us he knew exactly where we were and that we had a clear sea ahead of us; but when the _Seagull_ began to swerve here and there, driven by the irresistible power of the gale, even he became bewildered and uncertain of his bearings.

All that night the ship fought bravely. It kept up the fight throughout the long succeeding day. Perhaps it was because all hands were weary that the ship seemed to head into the storm of the second night with less than her usual energy and spirit.

Drenched to the skin I crept along the deck to where my father stood. I am no seaman and have no business on deck at such a time, but I will own that for the first time in my experience at sea I had become nervous, and I wanted the captain to reassure me.

I found him near the bow, clinging to the rail and trying to peer into the night. He was dripping with spray and had to wipe his eyes every few moments to enable him to see at all.

"How's everything, father? " I asked, my mouth to his ear.

He shook his head.

"All right if we don't bump something," he managed to say when a brief lull came. "We've veered an' sliced an' slipped around so much that I don't just know where we're at; 'cept we're way off our course."

That was bad; very bad. We hadn't sighted an island since the storm began, but that was no evidence we were not near a group of them. There was a fairly good searchlight aboard the ship, and it was now being worked every minute from the lookout; but it couldn't do more on a night like this than warn us of any near by danger.

"Go back! " roared my father in my ear. "Go to bed an' save your strength. You may need it afore long."

That was the most fearful speech I ever heard him utter. Nothing had ever disturbed his supreme confidence before. I crept away heartsick and awed, and managed to get safely below, where I found Uncle Naboth smoking his pipe in the main cabin.

"Where yer been, Sam? " he inquired.

"Talking to father."

"What does he say?"

"We've lost our bearings and the sea is full of islands. The ship is all right, you know. It's only the water that's dangerous."

He gave a grunt and looked thoughtful.

"I've seen gales, 'n' gales," he remarked presently. "Usually they're respectable critters an' you know what to expect of 'em. But this sort of a jugglin' wind beats all figgerin'. Fer me, Sam, I fall back on our luck. It's stayed by us so far, an' I don't see no reason fer it to change front. Eh?"

"I agree with you, Uncle," I replied, and was about to add another optimistic remark when in rushed -- or tumbled, rather -- Señor de Jiminez, his face white and his teeth chattering. He had shed his gorgeous raiment and was attired merely in a dark brown bath robe.