Already the storm was flanking us, and its blackness had swept to seaward of us and rapidly promised to cut off our advance. Some miles ahead of us was a great steel steamer evidently in a similar plight. She too was heading for port, and columns of smoke were issuing from her big black funnel. Presently as we watched, a white cloud of spray crossed her bow and even as a curtain, shut out the beyond. Gradually she came about and started westward down the coast. Her skipper realized just as we did, that naught but wreck and misery lay within that churning cloud that had unloosed its fury upon the deep. Already its steadily rising howl whined and moaned across the waters, not unlike the melancholy wail of the starving timber wolf penetrates the stillness of the night and reaches the lonely trapper in his winter camp and causes him to throw another armful of wood on the fire and whistle to assuage that subtle foreboding of calamity that the thin knife-like cry in the night seems vaguely to predict.
It was hopeless for us to drive further into that storm. Five hours at best would see us out of fuel, and then driven before the wind and sea we would be dashed upon the rocks. We did not even discuss the situation. Involuntarily the man at the wheel brought her head around, and for the fourth time we began our trip down the coast. To the west of us the storm had shut out the mountains. To the north a veritable blizzard was lashing the waves into a frenzy; to the east snow and sleet shut out our progress. Perhaps five miles of shore bare and forbidding remained to us. If we could but find Batuum’s shrouded entrance within that five miles, all would be well, yet thrice had we striven and failed. Somehow my optimistic spirit failed to respond to the occasion. In the meantime every minute was cutting our five miles of open coast line—aye, and cutting it down fast, for the storm was shutting in from both sides and from the sea as well.
The steel steamer was overtaken by the great bank of snow and sleet and disappeared from our view, and I might add from our thoughts, for we had troubles of our own.
The crew were running about frantically. Half of them were on the bridge waving their arms and evidently abusing the skipper. I walked back in disgust and stood by the companion-way that led down into my little saloon and, leaning against the towing post, just aft, I looked across the sea. Morris followed me and for a moment stood silent. He smiled faintly and then murmured:
“Merry Christmas, sir.” And we both laughed, only it was not such a hearty laugh as one generally associates with the day.
There was nothing to do but wait. There seemed no alternative.
What a way to end up! We looked at the rocks and then at the sea, and I wondered what the sensations would be.
Christmas! It seemed almost providential that I had made the effort the day before and got off my message for home. It would be my last word! It seemed hard to realize that it actually was Xmas. I looked at my watch. It was almost the exact hour that they would be having their Christmas tree, away back across the ocean.
“Morris,” I said, “this looks like the end to me. How does it strike you?”
He did not look at me as he replied so low as barely to be audible, “Yes, sir; it looks pretty bad to me, too.”