He crouched against the wheel, waiting to seize one of the momentary lulls when the gale paused to catch breath for another blast.
“Now!� he cried at last, as if addressing his full crew. “Around she goes!� and with hand and knee, he deftly worked the wheel until the canvas flapped and fluttered, and then under way of impetus and storm the I’ll Try hesitated, paid off, leaned over so far that her lee rail was awash, was in danger of coming to beam ends if the storm sent a quick gust of wind, struggled, recovered, threw water from her deck, and fell away. She was not an instant too soon in setting her keel, for the blast of wind came, as if angered by the skill of ship and man that had robbed it of its prey. It snapped the wet canvas. It shrilled through rigging. It screamed across the spume. Again she drifted as helplessly as a wreck, buffeted by wind and wave, lurching drunkenly, moving aimlessly, shuddering spasmodically, and with her wheel free.
Across her decks, slipping, sliding in his big and clumsy sea-boots, struggled her skipper, wondering meanwhile if she could possibly ride and survive, and hoping only to reach the lanterns that had fortunately, if carelessly, been stowed in a stationary fish-box. He reached them at last and was vastly concerned by the fear that they might have been so drenched that they would not light. He sat flat upon the wet and streaming deck in the tiny lee of the companionway, caught a lantern in his knees and after many attempts succeeded in lighting it. To hoist it with one hand was another trying task. He accomplished it, after a time, by first using his few and worn teeth, and when they failed, by clutching the rope between his knees. He spat a broken tooth out between his bleeding lips, and belayed the line to the mainmast.
“Bad and not proper it be, but—mayhap it’ll keep some of they big smoke boats from ridin’ us down,â€� he remarked, hopefully, as he saw the swaying, tossing gleam aloft. “Now for the starn lights!â€� But despite his patient efforts, he could light none. He swore with inconsequent oaths when one slid from the grasp of his knees and rolled swiftly outward, bounding and bumping across the deck, found an opening and plunged overboard. He used more expletives when he discovered that another had a broken globe, and was useless. Night was advancing, black and chill, and he sat for a moment more, flat on the deck, and questioning whether he dared risk the great venture of going below to see how the stricken remnant of his crew fared. The wind defiantly answered him. The ship was straining too hard under the stress of storm.
“Nope. I can’t do anything to help ’em, or myself,� he growled. “I must get back to the wheel and bring her back to course again, before it’s too black. If I could have but a cup of tay and a bit of biscuit! Damn it, why didn’t I think to put some of they biscuit in my pocket before I came back on deck!�
He stumbled aft again, and again seized the idle and aimlessly revolving wheel. Again he watched like a cat, waiting to pounce, and seize the momentary advantage of a lull. Again he brought the ship back to a course. Whether it was a true one, he could not be certain. He was depending now upon his sense of direction alone. There was nothing to guide him, not even a solitary star shining through the murk. He made mental calculations, reasoning that in the beginning the I’ll Try must have been so many miles sou’west off the reef-bordered Prawl Point, that the wind had come from due west, and that therefore it must be safe to run.
“If it weren’t for they below,â€� he soliloquized, “I’d lay her to. If I were alone, I’d not risk the carrying on, and—mayhap—could make it. But—they be badly hurt. So—I must get somewhere. If Prawl Point be sixty mile away, and—â€�
Endlessly he debated the menacing dangers, and dared them. In the blackness of the night he fought against an almost unconquerable drowsiness; for by now he had been alert for more than forty hours. His broken arm throbbed with an ever poignant and increasing anguish, but even pain may be dulled by time and endurance, inasmuch as there is a climax where kindly nature brings either partial or complete unconsciousness. Sometimes in the long hours he felt himself swooning, and then he clung harder to the spokes and begged that God, in Whom he had such unlimited, unquenchable trust, might enable him to keep awake, that he might still sprawl across the wheel.
Dawn had come, and the sea was sobbing and spent; Captain Joshua was surrendering to the tiredness of long effort; endeavoring to recover kindliness after tempestuous outburst, before he reached the ultimate end of endurance. He was no longer aware of change. He was still fighting, ruggedly and unrelinquishing to the last. His dimmed eyes could no longer see. The world rocked and swayed. That off on the horizon lay still; pale cliffs, meant nothing to him. All that he could concentrate upon was holding the battered ship up to the wind. That the wind was dying meant nothing. He thought it still a-rage. His uninjured hand seemed paralyzed. He could no longer hold a spoke and strove to steer with an elbow, and bony knees.
Mute but fighting to the end, Captain Joshua finally let go the wheel, made a last effort, crawled to reach the loose end of a halyard, crawled back to the wheel, pulled the I’ll Try up again, seated himself upon the wet deck and with one hand and broken teeth lashed himself clumsily to the wheel, his back against it, his dying legs and feet outsprawled, inert in their heavy and sodden sea-boots; and then his weary hand fell listlessly by his side.