“Stand by topsail halyards fore and aft, clew lines and reef tackles. Let go, clew down and haul out. Aloft, topmen, and put in two reefs!” was the next order.
I looked in vain for any sign of our boat. “Masthead there, can you see the cutter?”
“No, sir, the cutter and schooner are both entirely shut in!” was the reply.
By this time we were tearing through the water under our double reefs, keeping our course as nearly as possible toward where the boat had last been seen. The squall brought rain with it in torrents, and, as the darkness closed in, the desire to overhaul the schooner became second to that of picking up my boat and her crew. So I decided to heave the ship to and let Mr. Taylor find me, as I certainly could not expect to find him.
I ordered lanterns hoisted at each masthead and at the ends of the topsail yards, and directed that a gun be fired and a Coston signal burned every ten minutes.
By this time the squall had passed to leeward, the rain had ceased, and the moon was struggling out of the ragged-looking clouds.
Boom! went our first gun, and at the same time the Coston signal was ignited and flamed up, lighting all about us with its deep crimson glare.
“Sail ho!” yelled the forecastle lookout.
“Where away?”
“Close aboard on the starboard bow, sir!”