“Now for the rest,” roared the skipper, smarting from his wound. “Stand by to wear ship.”
“We’ll never touch them,” said O’Toole. “They’ve picked up Gonzales and are heading dead to windward, rowing six oars double banked.”
The Silver Sea bore up again to the northward, but the black crew of the Hawke were then a good mile in the wind’s eye, pulling with giant strokes. She wore again after jamming for an hour, but when she crossed their wake the whale-boat was a tiny speck in the distance.
“’Tis a long row home they’ll have,” said O’Toole, looking after them.
“I hope the old man won’t ship any more pretty stewardesses,” growled Garnett.
“’Pon me whurd, I don’t belave he will.”
“Let her head her course, west-nor’west,” said Enoch Moss, and he went below holding his bandaged arm.
The last they saw of Gonzales and his crew was the tiny speck appearing and disappearing upon the high rolling seas of the Pacific Antarctic Drift.
JOHNNIE
AT eight bells, after the dog-watch, I went aft to relieve Gantline, and found him talking to the skipper. It isn’t good ship etiquette to interrupt a superior officer, so I went to leeward along the poop and gained the wheel. There I waited until the discussion ended.