Tollemache tried to grip his pipe in his teeth. He failed. It fell on
the iron floor.
"Oh, this is rotten!" he growled. "Why couldn't he have been spared? No
one would have missed me. I don't suppose Jennie would care tuppence."
The Kansas rolled heavily. He waited a few seconds for the expected
shock, but she swung back to an even keel. Then he stooped to pick up
his pipe, and his mouth hardened.
"'Spared!' by gad!" he said. "What rot!" That roll of the ship was
caused by an experimental twist of the wheel. Courtenay, peering into
the darkness through the open window of the chart-house, saw that the
weather was clearing. He had evolved a theory, and, for want of a
better, he was determined to pursue it to a finish. The Kansas was
being swiftly carried along in a strong and deep tidal current. Happily,
the wind followed the set of the sea, else there would be no chance of
success for his daring plan. His expedient was the desperate one of
keeping the vessel in the line of the current, and, if day broke before
he reached the coast, he would steer for any opening which presented
itself in the fringe of reefs which must assuredly guard the mainland.
With his hands grasping the taut and, in one sense, irresponsive
mechanism of a steering-wheel governed by steam, a sailor can "feel" the
movement of his ship, a seaworthy vessel being a living thing, obedient
as a docile horse to the least touch of the rein. But, in the unlikely
event of fortune favoring Courtenay to the extent of giving him an
opportunity to see the coming danger, it was essential that the ship
should have a certain radius of action apart from the direction and force
of the ocean stream. The two sails were helpful, and it was to assure
himself of their efficiency that he put the helm to starboard. The
Kansas obeyed with an answering roll to port, showing clearly that she
was traveling a little faster than the inrushing tide would take her
unaided. He brought her head back to nor'east again, and glanced over
his shoulder at the ship's chronometer. It was a quarter to one. Two
hours must pass before he would discern the first faint streaks of light.
At any rate, if he were spared to greet the dawn, it would be right
ahead, and, as a few seconds might then be of utmost value, that was a
small point in his favor. Yet, two hours! Could he dare to hope for so
long a respite? How could the ship escape the unnumbered fangs which a
storm-torn land thrust far out into the Pacific for its own protection?