"She's a floating hell!" bellowed Bill above the crackle and roar of the fire. "Get on your feet, old man! I need you. This is no one-man job."
Captain Bert, still groggy, his mind clouded by the blow Bill had given him, crawled to his feet. The smoke stifled him. Yes; Bill was right—it was not a one-man job. It wasn't a job for any man. Bill's eyes ran tears. Black smoke rolling out of the companionway shrouded him.
"Here—the wheel—take it!" Bill choked. Captain Bert grasped its spokes and held it steady, holding his breath in the dense smoke as long as he could, then stepping aside to clearer air, exhaling quickly and breathing again.
The wind, as if a partner in Bill's scheme, moved the smoke off the port quarter. Dimly, but looming more distinctly, the captain discerned the first schooner ahead. By standing at the starboard side of the wheel, Bill and he could keep their eyes on the fleet.
"Look!" Captain Blackmer's eyes were focused on the bow of the first schooner. There stood a man waving his arms. Another form in oilskins stood near him.
"They're all safe," encouraged Bill. "We're getting away with it fine. Fire—the wind took us—we lost control. Hold her steady! See—they've got a dinghy in the water—" pointing at the small boat floating beside the big schooner.
"But—but look! Look at that name on her bow! Read it!"
The bow of the schooner ahead was aglow with the red light from the Mary Chilton.
"Mehitable Barnes," read Bill aloud. "You damned old fool, give me the wheel!"
