Lister sailed a few days afterwards, and reaching Sierra Leone found nobody could make the articles he required. For all that, they must be got, and he resolved to push on for Grand Canary. The distance was long, he had not men enough for an ocean voyage, and would be lucky if he got back to the lagoon in three or four weeks, but if he could not mend the pump, the salvage work must stop. Lister knew when to run a risk was justified.
After he passed the Gambier, wind and sea were ahead, his crew was short, and he was hard pressed to keep the engine going and watch the furnaces. He slept when he could, in snatches, with his clothes on, and now and then used an exhausted fireman's shovel On the steamy African coast the labor and watchfulness would have worn him out, but the cool Trade breeze was bracing. Although he was thin, and got thinner, the lassitude he had felt at the lagoon vanished, and the fatigue he fought against was not the fatigue that kills.
In the meantime, Terrier pushed stubbornly north across the long, foam-tipped seas that broke in clouds of spray against her thrusting bows. She was swept by the sparkling showers, but the showers were warm, and the combers were not often steep enough to flood her deck. For all that, their impact slowed her speed. She must be driven through their tumbling crests, full steam was needed to overcome the shock, and the worn-out men moved down coal from the stack on deck to feed the hungry fires.
Lister's eyes ached from the glare of smoky lamps that threw puzzling lights about the machinery. After long balancing on slanted platforms, his back and legs were sore; his brows were knit in a steady frown, and his mouth was always firm. When the strain was over, he sometimes wondered what he thought about in the long, exhausting watches, but remembered nothing except his obstinate concentration on his task. The strange thing was, he did not think much about Barbara, although he was vaguely conscious that, for her sake, he must hold out. He meant to hold out. Perhaps his talents were not numerous, but he could handle engines, and when it was necessary he could keep awake.
At length, Learmont called him one morning to the bridge, and he leaned slackly against the rails. His eyes were dull, and for some hours he had breathed the fumes of burning tallow. A slide had given him trouble; he could keep the metal cool. On the bridge, however, the air was keen and sweet, and he felt the contrast. Terrier plunged and threw the spray about, but the seas were short, as if something ahead broke the wind. By and by Learmont indicated a lofty bank of mist.
"Teneriffe!" he said. "I was half-asleep when I took the sun, but my reckoning was not very far out."
Lister looked up. In the distance a sharp white cone, rising from fleecy vapor, cut the sky, and Lister, with dull satisfaction, knew the famous peak. Nearer the tug was another bank of mist, that looked strangely solid but ragged, as if it were wrapped about something with a broken outline. Some minutes afterwards a high, dark object like a mountain-top, loomed in the haze.
"Grand Canary!" Learmont remarked. "The range behind Las Palmas town. I expect the smudge ahead is the Isleta hill."
"We've made it!" Lister said hoarsely, and braced himself. Now the strain was gone, he felt very slack.
The sun rose out of the water, the mist began to melt, and rolling back, uncovered a line of surf and a belt of rough hillside. Then volcanic cliffs, a sandy isthmus, and a cluster of masts and funnels got distinct, and Lister fixed the glasses on a white stripe across a cinder hill. His hand shook, but he steadied the glasses and saw the stripe was a row of huge letters.