“I don’t know,” he rejoined. “We may reach the nearest point of land much sooner.”
“Where is that,” I asked.
“The bottom.”
The gale did not grow so fierce that day as our north-western gale had done; but still it was a bigger gale than any man need wish for.
Two of the men were severely injured at the wheel, and had to be conveyed to the forecastle and stowed away. Moreover, one or two others had fallen ill, from sheer exhaustion; and as the crew only numbered twenty-three, including officers, steward, and carpenter, this was a considerable diminution of force. The ship leaked as badly as ever, and the pumps had to be kept going continually.
That night, in the midst of the gale, the wind hushed suddenly, as on the night of the sixteenth, while the sea was running high, and left us again struggling in a trough of the sea.
“At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are
As human beings’ during civil war.”
However, it was soon blowing again, and the captain, who wanted to get across the Gulf Stream as soon as possible—for the sea is always more turbulent there than elsewhere—put the ship before the wind, determined to run her “as long as she would float.”