But the James Kennedy came up.
Buried though she had been, the gallant vessel shook herself like a soaked and weary mastiff, and her bow popped out of the frothing white seas, streaming water from every side—and she gave a long shudder and drove forward again.
A concerted sigh of relief broke from the throats of the lake sailors huddled in the mess hall.
Sandy Steele felt the light film of perspiration that had gathered on his forehead, and he involuntarily squeezed the arm of his friend.
Captain West slowly released his grip on the stanchion.
They had been through the worst of it, he knew now.
The wind was dropping as swiftly as it had risen. Above him, the clouds were thinning out. A ghostly glow seemed to illuminate the scene as the moon shone palely through them. In its light, Captain West could see the dark seas running around him, glittering like polished black glass.
Captain West surveyed the damage to his pilothouse. The compass was destroyed. The steering gear was so badly damaged that it would be impossible to make any headway against a strong wind. But the wind was falling to a murmur. He would be able to steer, and he would navigate by hand compass from one of the lifeboats.
He decided to wait another few minutes to be certain that the storm was over. Then he would go below to fetch Sam and the big Swede, Gunnar. He couldn’t call them. The speaking system was ruined, too.
Captain West removed his hat and began to wring it dry. If he lived to be a hundred, he told himself, he would never see another wave like that one.