Ellerton glanced to windward. His seamanship, poor though it was, began to assert itself. The wind was going down slightly, but, veering to the nor'ard, was causing a horrible jumble of cross-seas—not so lofty as the mountainous waves a few hours ago, but infinitely more trying.
The San Martin, swept on bow, quarter, and broadside, rolled and pitched, the white cascades pouring from her storm-washed decks; yet Ellerton realised that she possessed a considerable amount of buoyancy by the way she shook herself clear of the tons of water that poured across her.
The wheel was deserted. The steersman, finding that his officers had fled and that the vessel carried no way, had followed his superior's example.
Cowering under the lee of the funnel casing were about twelve of the crew, including the bo'sun and quartermaster.
"Tell the captain," yelled Ellerton to his chum, "to order those men to set the storm staysail, if they value their hides."
Andy interpreted the order, which the captain, gaining a faint suspicion of confidence, communicated to the bo'sun.
The bare chance of saving their lives urged the men into action. Unharmed, they succeeded in gaining the fo'c'sle, and in less than ten minutes the stiff canvas was straining on the forestay.
Gathering way, the San Martin, no longer rolling, pounded sluggishly through the foam-flecked sea.
Ellerton would not risk setting any canvas aft; he was content to let the vessel drive.
"Ask him whether we have plenty of sea room—whether there is any danger of running ashore during the next hour or so?"