At daylight they hoisted the lugsail, and steered north-east before a fresh south-westerly breeze, heading for Pitcairn Island.
Jack, with pencil and paper, worked out his dead reckoning, and calculated the distance to the island; but his great hope was being picked up by a passing vessel, as he was so uncertain about his longitude.
Having got his position to the best of his ability, he arranged a scale and regular allowance of food and water, which he personally served out, the others trusting themselves entirely to his judgment.
The whaleboat darted swiftly and buoyantly over the long swell, making good northing, and all hands were in cheerful spirits.
Lobu, who seemed quiet enough again, was allowed to have his hands free; but one ankle was padlocked to a thwart, whilst all weapons were removed from within his reach.
He sat silent and meditative in the bottom of the boat, gazing intently at his little black tiki which Tari, with kindly forethought, had removed from the ill-fated Ocmulgee.
Aft sat Jack, the steering-oar in his hand, a boat's compass between his feet, whilst Broncho and Jim reclined at their ease against the stroke thwart, and Tari slumbered peacefully at full length in the bows.
Four days passed thus peacefully, and then the good south-west wind slackened, wavered, and finally died away, leaving the whaleboat floating motionless on the long, never-ceasing Pacific swell.
The sun shone fiercely with an eye-wearying glare; a thickness of steamy mist gathered and obscured the horizon. The atmosphere was heavy and suffocating, with a moist heat; the sky was a pale sickly blue, and the deep stillness grew oppressive and aroused a feeling of depression and apprehension.