Wyllard looked at him sourly, and the white men, at least, understood what he was feeling. So far, he had had everything against him—calm, and fog, and sudden gale—and now, when he was almost within sight of the end of the first stage of his journey, they had met the ice.
“You’re sure of that?” he questioned.
Dampier smiled. “It would cost too much, or I’d let you try.” He called to the man perched high in the foremost shrouds, and the answer came down: “Packed right solid a couple of miles ahead.”
Wyllard lifted one hand, and let it suddenly fall again.
“Lee, oh! We’ll have her round,” he said, and spun the wheel.
The men breathed more easily as they jumped for the sheets, and with a great banging and thrashing of sailcloth the vessel shot up to windward, and turned as on a pivot. As the schooner gathered way on the other tack, the men glanced at Wyllard, for the Selache’s bows were pointing to the southeast again, and they felt that was not the way he was going.
Wyllard turned to Dampier with a gesture of impatience.
“Baulked again!” he said. “It would have been a relief to have rammed her in. With this breeze we’d have picked that creek up in the next six hours.”
“Sure!” replied Dampier, who glanced at the swirling wake.
“Then, if we can’t get through the ice we can work the schooner round. Stand by to flatten all sheets in, boys.”