“We did,” answered Dampier. “She had three or four planks on one side ripped out of her.”
Wyllard’s faint grimace implied that this did not matter, and Dampier braced himself for the question he dreaded. He had to face it another moment.
“How’s she heading?”
“A little south of east.”
Wyllard’s face hardened. It was still blowing moderately and by the heave of the vessel and the wash of water outside he could guess how fast she was traveling. For a moment or two there was an oppressive silence in the little cabin. Then Wyllard spoke again.
“You have been running to the eastwards since I was struck down?” he asked.
Dampier nodded. “Three days,” he confessed. “Just now the breeze is on her quarter.”
He winced under Wyllard’s gaze, and spread out his hands with a deprecating gesture.
“Now,” he added, “what else was there I could do? She wrung her masthead off when you jibed her and there’s not stick enough left to set any canvas that would shove her to windward. I might have hove her to, but the first time the breeze hauled easterly she’d have gone up on the beach or among the ice with us. I had to run!”
Wyllard closed a feeble hand. “Dunton was crippled, too. It’s almost incredible.”