The man shook his head.
“Stop her O.K.?”
The man nodded.
There was a loud crash. Duval looked around and saw water trickling down the companionway. A porthole must have broken in the salon.
The Chief waited for Evans to ring instructions; he wondered if this was to be the way he would die. He had thought about it often, dying up in the islands. Everyone had thought about it. He had never thought, though, that he would come this close. New Orleans was a much better place to die.
The loud ring of the telegraph startled him. He nodded to his assistants. They spun the mechanism which stopped the engines. This done, the real wait began.
“Where we heading?” the man next to him shouted.
Duval thought a moment. He had not noticed and he did not know. He shook his head.
The same question was in each of their minds: were they heading for the island and the rocks? Those sharp tall rocks, much pounded by the sea.
He cursed himself for not having noticed. Just to know where they were going, without being able to do anything about it, was better than knowing nothing.