“It is possible that we have got on a wrong tack,” the boatswain acknowledged. “And so I think it would be better to wait until the horizon clears, even if we have to stay where we are all night.”
That might be the best thing to do. But if the boat were close to the shore it would not be wise to risk it among the reefs which probably fringed it.
So all listened intently, trying to detect the least sound of surf.
Nothing was to be heard—none of the long and sullen rolling of the sea when it breaks upon reefs of rocks, or bursts in foam upon the beach.
The utmost caution had to be exercised. About half-past five, the boatswain ordered the foresail to be struck. The jib was left as it was, to give steerage way.
It was the wisest thing to do, to reduce the speed of the boat until the land was sighted.
At night, in the midst of such profound darkness, there was danger in venturing near a coast—danger of counter-currents drifting on to it, though there might be no wind. In similar conditions a ship would not have delayed until the evening to put out again and seek the security of the open sea. But a boat cannot do what a ship may. To tack up against the southerly wind, which was freshening now, would have involved a risk of getting too far away—not to mention the severe toil.
So the boat stayed where it was, with only the jib sail set, hardly moving, her head pointed north.
But at last all uncertainty and all possibility of mistake was removed. About six o’clock in the evening the sun showed itself for a moment before disappearing below the waves.
On the 21st of September it set exactly in the west, and on the 13th of October, twenty-three days after the equinox, it set a little above in the southern hemisphere. Just at that moment the fog lifted, and Fritz could see the sun drawing near to the horizon. Ten minutes later its fiery disc was flush with the line of sky and sea.