Unfortunately the innocent have to suffer for the sins of the guilty.
We now laid our course for the "Woodlark Islands," 70 miles to the north-east. We hugged the coast of Normanby as far as Cape Pearson, when we stood out to sea. The coast up to this point is very bold and rugged.
A square block of frowning mountains runs from Cape Ventenat to Cape Pearson.
Loud claps of thunder reverberated through the hills; black clouds were sailing along with threatening aspect. Strong gusts of wind burst with fury against our little craft as she tore through the seething foam.
We were travelling eight knots an hour—a great speed for a boat of 12 tons. Luckily, the wind was pretty favourable, otherwise we should have had a bad time of it. As it was, we deemed it prudent to close reef the mainsail and jib. Evidently we were in for a dirty night, as the wind hourly increased in strength. Our boat, however, was staunch and true, and laughed at wind and storm.
Darkness suddenly fell on us, as, in tropical countries, no sooner has the sun set than night spreads her black mantle over land and sea.
After careering for some hours at a breakneck speed, we began to think it was high time to "heave to." We roughly estimated the distance we had travelled and our proximity to a large island. Knowing that a reef extended from this island, we were most anxious to keep it at a respectful distance, as to run on to it at the rate of eight knots an hour meant certain destruction, as a heavy sea was breaking on it.
I suggested "heaving to," at 10.00 p.m., but my two comrades considered 9.30 to be safer, so, being in the minority, I gave in. Fortunate for us that we did so.
"Heaving to" with half a gale blowing, and a heavy sea running is rather a delicate matter. We took up our respective stations, and watching a good opportunity, sung out "ready" when, with the exception of shipping half-a-dozen buckets of water, the manœuvre was successfully carried out.