Not to lose way too much, I put her on a more southerly course, but only so much as would still keep me clear of the blockade line which was stationed westward of the Hebrides. Even in the thickest fog one was never quite safe from the English bloodhounds, and it was scarcely to be hoped that the next we met would be as stupid as the last.
Wind and sea were now from the north-west—nearly on our beam—and we rolled heavily. By midday the wind was already blowing with force 8.[8] We could easily have more of this than we wanted. I had confidence in the ship, which was staunch and seaworthy enough to ride out even a heavy storm; what worried me was the cargo. As has already been mentioned, this had not been as well stowed as under normal conditions the safety of the ship demanded. With seas breaking over us all the time there was no use thinking of re-stowing it; the holds would have been filled with water the moment the hatchways were uncovered. If the ship began to labour yet more heavily there would be nothing for it but to lie to and wait for calmer weather.
The seas grew bigger and bigger, one squall followed hard on the heels of another. The glass fell steadily. All the signs pointed to a regular hurricane.
I had had no astronomical observation for the last two days, and meanwhile the wind, the run of the seas, and the current (the last very uncertain in the neighbourhood of Iceland), had doubtless carried us some way out of course. How much, it was impossible to estimate with any accuracy.
On the other hand, it was of the first importance that I should make an accurate land-fall, as I could not risk having to feel my way along the Irish coast, and to that end it was very desirable to get an exact position during the next day or two. It was highly probable, however, that the weather would not permit of an observation. I therefore decided to lay a course for the Rockalls, from which we were now about a day's steaming.
These Rockalls are a veritable wonder of nature. Far out in the Atlantic, more than two hundred nautical miles west of the Scottish coast, there lies a far-stretching reef, a sandbank with innumerable little points of rock sticking up through it. The bank has a diameter of about three nautical miles, and runs roughly east and west. At its western end there rises out of the water a single rock, neither higher nor wider than an ordinary two-story house. This rock is the only visible portion of the reef, all the other ridges are covered, though many of them are only just below the surface of the water. Where the bank ends, the floor of the Atlantic goes suddenly down to a depth of several thousand yards. Even on the big English charts the Rockalls are only marked with a point about as big as the head of a pin. The sailing-directions mention that in the course of a year dozens of ships are wrecked upon these rocks and perish with all hands. It is a veritable ocean graveyard. The soundings which the charts give on the banks are few, and, as all the books state, very uncertain, because no one has taken the trouble to survey this inhospitable island. The thing to do is to avoid it. I knew, therefore, that I was taking a considerable risk in making for it, even though I should approach it from the west, and with the greatest caution.
It would suffice, however, if I sighted it from a distance; that would give me a sufficiently exact position. So I hardened my heart and laid my course for the western extremity of the bank.
By now the storm was howling like hell let loose, the squalls slung volleys of hailstones down on us. The seas raged against our little ship, which still shouldered them from her gallantly. Darkness at length descended upon the furious raging of the elements.
'Wind-force 10 to 11,'[9] reads the entry in the log, made by the officer of the watch at 8 p.m. 'Force 12' is the maximum. The scale provides for nothing beyond that.