It was really a shocking state of affairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE FLYING MOOR
I
The wind, capricious in the extreme, settled on the last day out from Borneo into an uncompromising head wind. The schooner laboriously plowed along toward Sandakan, on the Bornean north coast; it was necessary to tack constantly, and progress was heavy. The glass stood low. The air was thick and murky.
“I reckon there’s more rain in Borneo than anywhere else on earth,” observed the mate, as he and Captain Bearman stood conversing a few minutes near the wheel just prior to the latter’s going below for his usual four hours of sleep. The mate and the captain relieved each other every four hours, while the seamen worked on a schedule of two on and six off, day and night.
Bearman made some mumbling reply. Then he began issuing instructions—a great many more than were really necessary; and the mate, who knew his business, privately resented being treated like an apprenticed seaman.
All the passengers, assuming that port would not be made until morning, had gone below. Captain Bearman at first had figured that the coast ought to be picked up around noon, and his binoculars began to be a little in evidence soon after that—not seeking Borneo itself, but the islands which string along to the north-east. The wind was very unfriendly and the schooner laboured as though she had a barge in tow. It grew dark—and no Borneo. It was slow and heavy-going progress at best.
The dark came down, and with the early dark, the sky seemed to lighten a little, and a few stars emerged. The wind slackened, too. But the glass retained its pessimistic outlook, and clouds were slowly banking ahead.