Writings of Eleanor Frothingham Haworth

From Eleanor Haworth's "The Isle of Dreams"

As the steamer neared the Philippines, there came a sudden change in the weather. A glassy sea, a coppery sky, a rapidly falling barometer, a peculiar haze along the horizon – all gave a feeling of expectancy that led not so much to conversation as to retirement within one’s own being to analyze this terror of an unknown something that baffled understanding. The tension was broken quite suddenly by sharp orders to the crew, the fastening of portholes, the tightening of hatches, the looking over of sea gear. The haze was traveling rapidly toward them and sudden clouds were whirling through the upper sky. It meant only one thing, and all passengers were ordered below before the typhoon should strike the ship. The stout teak doors were barred against all egress. Scarcely minutes afterward, the ship seemed pitched into a hundred hells. Demon voices whistled and shrieked and moaned and bellowed; demon hands tossed the ship up out of the waves, where demon arms caught it only to throw it back into deep hollows, while demon laughter mocked and jeered at the terrified passengers. Great unearthly green waves dashed against the portholes. Then, moments later through these same windows came glimpses of a vast extended stretch of dark and angry fighting waters. Friend clung to friend, acquaintance to acquaintance, some talking in excited tones, others weeping, a few hysterical.