However, we were not to see Makin Island, for about midnight the wind chopped round to the north—right ahead—and by daylight we had to reef down and keep away for the south point of Apaian, in the hope that by running along the east coast for a few miles we might get shelter. But we found it impossible to anchor owing to the heavy sea running; neither could we turn back and make for our former anchorage, which was now exposed to the full strength of the wind and sweep of the sea. We certainly could make the passage at the north end of Tarawa—near the Island of the Bloody Eye—and run into the lagoon, where we should be in smooth water; but we did not want to go back to Tarawa, under any circumstances—my own pride, quite apart from my companions' feelings, would not let me entertain that idea for an instant. To attempt to beat back round the south point of Apaian, and get into Apaian Lagoon would be madness, for the sea in the straits was now running mountains high, owing to a strong westerly current, and the wind was steadily increasing in violence; and even had it not been so, and we could have got inside easily, would either Lucia or myself have cared to avail ourselves of its security. For Bob Randall, the trader there, would be sure to board us, and Bob Randall, one of the straightest, decentest white men that ever trod in shoe leather, would wonder what Mrs. Krause was doing in Jim Sherry's boat! He and I had never met, but he knew both Krause and Mrs. Krause. No, I thought, that would never do.
All this time we were hugging the land as near as we could, first on one tack, then on the other, hoping that the weather would moderate, but hoping in vain, for the sky was now a dull leaden hue, and the sea was so bad, even in our somewhat sheltered situation, that we were all more or less sea-sick. I got my chart and studied the thing out. Sixty miles due south of us was Maiana Lagoon—a huge square-shaped atoll, into which we might run, and have the boat plundered by the natives to a certainty. That was no good. No, if the gale did not moderate, there was but one course open to me—to run before it for Apamama, a hundred and thirty miles to the S.S.E., which meant two hundred and sixty miles of sailing before we laid a course for the N.W. And then the delay. We might be tied up by the nose in Apamama Lagoon for a week or more before we could make another start. I rolled up the chart, wet and soddened as it was with the rain beating on it, and angrily told Tematau, who was steering, to watch the sea, for every now and then the boat would plunge heavily and ship a caskful or two of water over the bows.
“We are in a bad place here, master,” he replied, quietly; “'tis the strong current that raiseth the high sea.”
I knew he was right, and could not but feel ashamed of my irritability, for both he and Tepi had been watching the boat most carefully, and I there and then decided what to do, my ill-temper vanishing when I saw Mrs. Krause and Niâbon bailing out the water which had come over the hatch coamings into their cabin.
“This is a bad start for us, Lucia,” I said cheerfully; “we can't dodge about here under the lee of the land with such a sea running. I am afraid that there is no help for us but to make a run for it for Apamama. What do you think, Niâbon?”
She looked at me with a smiling face, and rising to her feet steadied herself by placing her hands on the after-coaming of the hatch. Her thin muslin gown was wet through from neck to hem, and clung closely to her body, and as her eyes met mine, I, for the first time in my life, felt a sudden tenderness for her, something that I never before felt when any woman's eyes had looked into mine. And I had never been a saint, though never a libertine; but between the two courses, I think, I had had as much experience of women as falls to most men, and I had never yet met a woman who seemed to so hold and possess my moral sense as did this semi-savage girl, who, for all I knew, might be no better than the usual run of Polynesian girls with European blood in their veins. But yet at that moment, I felt, ay, I knew, though I could not tell why, that she was not what she might well have been, when one considered her past environment, and her lonely unprotected situation—that is, lonely and unprotected from a civilised and conventional point of view; for with the wild races among whom she had dwelt since her infancy, she had always met with full, deep, and ample protection, and love and respect—and fear.
“Thou art the captain, Simi,” she said in Samoan, “and thou alone canst guide us on the sea. And I think, as thou dost, that we must sail before the storm to Apamama; for when the wind comes suddenly and strong from the north, as it has done now, it sometimes lasteth for five days, and the sea becomes very great.”
“'Tis well, Niâbon,” I answered, with a laugh, meant more for Lucia than for her; “we shall turn the boat's head for Apamama, and lie there in the lagoon in peace till the gale hath died away.”
And then we wore ship, and in another hour were racing before the gale under the jib and an extemporised foresail of a mat lashed to two short oars, the lower one fast to the deck, and the upper one, eighteen inches or so higher, to the mast stays. This lifted the boat beautifully, and made her steer ever so much easier than had I tried to run her with a close-reefed mainsail, for the lopping seas would have caught the boom, and either capsized us or carried the mast away, and yet I had to keep enough canvas on her—jib and mat foresail—to run away from the toppling mountains of water behind us. I had never had such an experience before, and hope I may never have one like it again. Every few minutes we would drop down into a valley as dark as death, with an awful wall of blackness astern, towering over us mountain high, shaking and wavering as if it knew not the exact spot whereunder we, struggling upward, lay helpless in the trough, awaiting to be sent to the bottom if we failed to rise on the first swelling outlier of the black terror astern.