About eight o'clock in the evening, a noise is heard, distinct
even above the raging of the hurricane. The panels of the deck
are upheaved, and volumes of black smoke issue upwards as if from
a safety-valve. An universal consternation seizes one and all:
we must leave the volcano which is about to burst beneath our
feet. The crew run to Curtis for orders. He hesitates; looks
first at the huge and threatening waves; looks then at the boats.
The long-boat is there, suspended right along the centre of the
deck; but it is impossible to approach it now; the yawl, however,
hoisted on the starboard side, and the whale-boat suspended aft,
are still available. The sailors make frantically for the yawl.
"Stop, stop," shouts Curtis; "do you mean to cut off our last and
only chance of safety? Would you launch a boat in such a sea as
this?"
A few of them, with Owen at their head, give no heed to what he
says. Rushing to the poop, and seizing a cutlass, Curtis shouts
again,--
"Touch the tackling of the davit, one of you; only touch it, and
I'll cleave your skull."
Awed by his determined manner, the men retire, some clambering
into the shrouds, whilst others mount to the very top of the
masts.
At eleven o'clock, several loud reports are heard, caused by the
bursting asunder of the partitions of the hold. Clouds of smoke
issue from the front, followed by a long tongue of lambent flame
that seems to encircle the mizen-mast.
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