By half-past two the wind had veered into the S.S.W. and was blowing a whole gale. Taking it broad over the starboard quarter the Daphne was fleeing northeast. At times her helmsman was sure she was lifting free of the mauling waters and hurtling through space. Again he felt that she was bound headlong toward the quiet ooze; that no vessel could withstand the onslaughts of wind and brine which were being rained upon her. But never his rage at the sea grew less. It burned in him like a living fire; it robbed him of all sense of fatigue.
Emily, sitting in the lounge and watching the barometer for any change, saw the silver watch mark the hour when the day should have been breaking. But no light rifted the blackness outside. The barometer hand clung quivering at 28:00! The Daphne's master—yes, her master, too—had told her she must rest as much as she could. Not for her own sake, but the battle's; that was his reason. "Because I may want to use you!" was what he had yelled when she had put her ear up to his lips.
When the watch said six o'clock and there came no day, Emily suddenly realized what a time had passed since Paul had taken the wheel from her hands—four hours and a half. Not a bite had crossed lips in eleven hours. It was impossible to get forward to the galley. As she admitted this she remembered the canned provisions in the alleyway stateroom opposite the derelict's. She recalled also the flour and biscuit barrels in the starboard alleyway stateroom.
The gold woman went caroming down the companionway and through the reeling saloons. The din of an hundred forges filled them. The derelict's light was giving a last flicker. Daniel McGovern slept. As the lamp went out Emily discovered her book on the floor and picked it up. She put it on a shelf in the storeroom and fled with three cans which she felt out of the darkness. She carried these up into the lounge. One of the cans held corn—the others tomatoes. She dropped below again and groped to the pantry. She was seeking water. There wasn't a drop in the tank. The discovery staggered her. The man at the wheel must drink. An idea of a substitute flashed into her mind. The tomatoes would serve for food and drink. She located a hook under the china racks and found a can opener she remembered having seen there.
As a glimmer of day asserted itself in the blackness, it found Emily standing at the wheel beside Paul, holding a can of tomatoes up to his lips so that he could drink when he dared. He managed to snatch two mouthfuls. Then, the can was blasted out of the girl's hands. It flattened itself against the mizzonmast. The tin cylinder might have been a bit of cardboard. It held where it struck for a second, as if the gale had imbedded it in the steel mast.
With this sudden growth in the fury of the gale came the slightest increase of daylight. This light seemed to spring from the sea; not from overhead. It was sufficient to trace what lay forward of the break of the poop. Two tall, reeling masts with whalebone tips, the edges of the rails, an outline of the top of the forward house, and the forecastle head rising out of a roil of waters composed the suggestion to Emily's mind that that part of the Daphne was still there. And all round were ragged peaks of water like the ice-crusted crests of mighty mountains. They were Alps gone drunk. The Daphne was hurtling from one peak to another—smashing through them.
The light restored Lavelle's vision to enable him to read in one glance the tally of the battle. But a ribband remained of the big mainsail which he had been unable to furl. The fore-upper topsail had left only its leech ropes behind. There was not a head sail left except the foretopmast-staysail. This, the maintopmast-staysail, the reefed foresail, the fore lower topsail, and the upper and lower main topsails and the spanker still held. The fore and aft bridges were gone. A twisted stanchion told where the standard compass had stood. The donkey funnel, the galley stovepipe, and the empty boat-chocks were missing—the top of the forward house was swept clean.
Scarcely had Lavelle's eyes made this assessment when the main upper topsail went. It split with a shot-like crackling. A second later only a wisp of canvas was left to tell that a sail had ever been bent to the yard.
Anger burned in Emily at the sight. It was personal—the ravaging of that sail. The gale flung a cry of protest back in her throat. The slope of Paul's sou'wester hid his face from her. The point of a grim jaw was all that she could see. Only his arms moved with the wheel in steadying the bark's drive. Otherwise he might have been a fixture of the ship. It was not enough to be near him. A yearning to hear his voice came upon her; to look in his eyes; to read his thoughts. She caught him, jerking his head to bring her nearer. She struggled up in the lee of him and pressed her ear to his lips.
"—piece—bacco!"