We pursued our tortuous course as far north as a place called Pierowall, in the island of Westray; when we found that there was need to continue the voyage still further to Fair Isle, a little island that lies about midway between Orkney and Shetland, for the people in that place, we heard, had got short of winter provisions, and our skipper would not hear of returning until he had supplied the deficiency.
The weather became boisterous as we entered the open sea again, and I had my first experience of really rough sailing. For two days the schooner tossed upon the great white-crested waves which dashed against her bows, broke in snowy foam upon the deck, and glistened on oilskin and sou'wester. The wind whistled with piteous noise among the ropes, and frequent showers of hail and sleet added to our discomfort.
On the third day after leaving the Orkneys we sighted Fair Isle, looming faintly through a mist of snow, far to starboard. With difficulty we tacked to windward, for the northeast wind had driven us considerably out of our course. Darkness came on at about three o'clock in the afternoon in these latitudes, and we wanted to make the harbour in daylight. But though the wind fell, the snow and mist came on so thickly that we quite lost sight of the island, and in our difficulty a terrible thing happened.
We were all hands on deck, and sailing close-hauled with a good stretch of canvas set. I was at the helm, and the skipper standing near me. Jerry and the mate were nailing some boards on the companion hatch to keep out the snow from the cabin. Suddenly the schooner gave a great lurch and fell off the wind. The mainsail flapped wildly for a moment, and as we luffed again we went over with a list that swung the boom back with such force that the ropes that held it were slipped, and the spar struck the skipper a blow upon the shoulder that sent him headlong overboard into the sea.
Jerry and the mate saw the accident, and while I still held the tiller hard a-port, they at once got out the boat. Jerry and Peter each took an oar and rowed quickly astern to where Captain Flett was swimming.
It will be easily understood that, left to myself, I could not manage the schooner with much skill; for, in the first place, I could not without help bring the sails over on the other tack, and in the second I could not well leave the helm. Indeed, I had the greatest difficulty in hauling the vessel round, and before I succeeded in doing anything beyond simply putting the helm a-port, the driving snow had surrounded me in its mist, and I lost sight of the boat.
I could see it nowhere. I called aloud, but the wind whistling in the ropes overpowered my voice. I left the tiller and got the fog horn. But, alas! I had never practised blowing that instrument, and try as I would, I could get no more than a feeble grunt out of it.
Thicker and thicker grew the mist, and the snow fell in numerous and heavy flakes. Darkness came on, and still never a boat could I see, never a sound could I hear but the ceaseless swish of the snow and the soughing of the wind. The schooner pitched and rolled helplessly on the waves, and I was in terror lest the sails should split in their mad flapping.
I tried to secure the heavy boom that had been the cause of this mischief, and after a long struggle with it I succeeded. Then I went below and lighted the lamps, and having fixed them in their places so that they might be seen from the boat I made another attempt to bring the vessel round on the starboard tack and keep her to the windward.
All through that long dark night I beat about on the rough sea with the snow driving cold and sharp upon me, and the waves breaking on the deck. I was tired and sleepy after a hard day's work, yet I could not think of this, nor of my hunger and my cold hands and feet. My only object now was to recover my messmates, and as the night wore on without my seeing any sign of them, I grew utterly hopeless, for they were without food and far from land, and God alone knew what had become of them.