It was the third day of the gale. Life-lines had been rigged on the fore and aft decks, and the Jackies clawed their way about as best they might. Mountainous seas still towered all about the great fighting ship, tossing her about as they might have handled a fishing smack. The men who had at first looked upon the storm as a lark began to be disgusted with the monotony of cold rations, eaten as best they might be, and the never ceasing motion of the storm tossed ship. A man-of-war, from the fact that she carries such a heavy deck load in the shape of her turrets and big guns, not to mention her ponderous cage masts, rolls to a much greater extent than an ordinary craft, and the Manhattan proved no exception to the rule. The great mass of steel[129] that in harbor looked as impossible to disturb as the Rock of Gibraltar itself, was a plaything of the gale and the seas.
The wireless kept the rear-admiral and the commander informed of all that was going on on board the other craft of the squadron, and all reported that they were making good weather of it, despite the fury of the sea. But speed was still kept down to ten knots, and it was only when the Manhattan rose on the top of a big comber that those on board, except the men kept constantly stationed in the tops, could sight the other ships steaming on through the storm in column formation.
Many of the greener hands were incapacitated by sea-sickness, and several seamen were in the ship’s hospital for minor injuries incurred on the decks. Orders had been issued that the men were to take no chances, and those not on duty were to remain below. Ned and Herc, being petty officers, were on duty every day during that week,[130] and on the third day of the blow they found a moment’s leisure to chat in the lee of the big thirteen-inch turret forward.
“Well, this is a corker and no mistake,” remarked Herc. “I thought that ‘Pacific’ meant nice and gentle and all that. This ocean is just about as quiet as a mad bear with the toothache.”
“It’s about as bad a blow as we’ve been in since we were in the service,” agreed Ned; “but a ship like this is in no danger. It is just uncomfortable, that’s all, and we will have to put up with it like sailors till it decides to quit.”
“That’s so, I suppose,” said Herc, “but I’m getting sick of being wet through all the time.”
“You’re no worse off than any of the rest of us, Herc,” laughed Ned; “and say, by the way, have you noticed a peculiar odor about the ship for the last few hours?”
“A sort of rotten-eggy smell?” asked Herc.
“Well, I suppose that describes it as well as anything else. But, Herc,” and here Ned came[131] close to his comrade, “I’m almost sure that the odor is that of coal gas.”
“Coal gas! Where from?”
“From the coal bunkers, of course.”
“What of it?”
“Just this, that I think we ought to investigate. I don’t want to cause an alarm without due cause, but if there is coal gas coming from the bunkers, it means only one thing.”
Herc was struck by the gravity of Ned’s voice. He faced around on him.
“What do you mean?”
“I heard a fireman say that the coal we took on at ’Frisco was damp when it was loaded. It has been rolled about now for three days in this storm, setting up a lot of friction.”
“Yes.”
“Well, that............