“Must be pretty near the middle of the lake. I'm going to try to work back. Stand by to come about.”
For the twentieth time that night the Bean, under the jib and the ruins of a foresail, pointed northeast. At Hunch's command, Peabody climbed half-way up the shrouds and clung there. The dark began to fade, the snow-flurries ceased. “Ho there! Hunch!—Ho there!”
“Ho-o!”
“Bray-ay-kers! Duke—Tell Hunch!” Buckingham crawled aft. “Hunch! Bray-ay-kers!”
“Breakers be——!”
“Herm——” It was hard for Buckingham to hold his excitement, hard for him to hold to anything. “Herm, he says—-”
Badeau's eyes rested on the pitiable object before him, then peered into the dark ahead. A flash came into his drawn face. “Stand by to come about!” Buckingham gazed stupidly. Hunch plunged forward and gave him a kick that sent him stumbling forward. “Ready about!”-Peabody was sliding down a stay-“Ready about!—Hard a lee!”—The men up forward could not hear him, could hardly see him; but Buckingham was fumbling with the lee jib-sheet. She swung a little way, wavered, then, caught in the rush of the surf, missed stays and floundered broadside on a bar. And the waves came pounding in over the rail.
When the morning came they were lashed in the forerigging. The mainmast was gone, the after-cabin was razed off flush with the deck, and the seas flowed at will through the hold.
“Can you make out where we are, Hunch?”
“Off Clinton.”