Meanwhile, time was advancing, and at four bells (2 p.m.) we got under way. It was too foggy for the ships' companies to see much of us as we moved away, but as we noiselessly glided through the now calm and oily water with ever-increasing speed past the Terrible, someone noticed us, and a ringing cheer followed us as the thick grey mist rapidly swallowed us up.
And as we got settled down to our work we increased the speed, and presently were going a good 20 knots per hour—never a slow speed, and in such thick weather an infinitely perilous thing to do.
But then, as I told Taylor, "Fog or no fog, we've only got a few hours to do it in, and we're about 150 miles away. Besides, we'll have to ease down when we get close in shore, and so we'd better make the most of it while we can." Nevertheless, I knew what a fearsome thing I was doing.
Up on deck one could see but a few yards away from the ship's side. All around us lay the white impenetrable mist, wrapping up everything in its death-like folds, which shut out not only sight but sound.
Any moment the form of some ship might loom spectrally up through the fog, and hurl us to destruction; and, clinging to the rail, I constantly strained my eyes ahead, endeavouring to pierce the impenetrable mist in front of us. In this way we continued throughout the afternoon, and at four o'clock Taylor came up to relieve me on the bridge. Going below, I took a hasty meal, and bethought myself of the best plan for carrying the despatches, which I wished to keep continually on my person.
Some instinct seemed to tell me that I should not suffer injury; and while I lived I was determined that the documents should be delivered. I decided to place them in an oilskin envelope, and then to put them within my cholera belt—that indispensable adjunct to all those who are constantly exposed to quick changes of temperature. When I did eventually go on deck again it was nearly five, and to my great joy I saw that the fog was decidedly lifting. Far away on our starboard beam we could just catch a faint glimpse of Morocco's cruel-looking coast.
I went up on the bridge to Taylor. "Can you see anything?" he asked as I came up. "What's in sight, old man?" I replied somewhat anxiously, for I knew by his manner he had seen something worth looking at.
"WE COULD SEE THREE CRUISERS, THE ADVANCE GUARD OF THE FRENCH FLEET."
For answer he pointed dead ahead. And there, very faint and indistinct in the still somewhat dense atmosphere, we could see three cruisers, the advance guard of the French fleet.