Right in the track of the drifting ship lay a vaguely outlined trio of

dread import: "Breakers; Islet (conical); Duncan Rock." Behind this

sinister barrier stood the more definite White Horse Island, while,

running due north and south a few miles away to the eastward, was a

wavering dotted line which professed to mark the coast of Hanover

Island. Lending a fearful significance to the unknown character of the

region, a printed comment followed the dotted line: "This coast is laid

down from distant observations on board the Beagle." So the sea face

of Hanover Island had not been visited by civilized man for nearly

sixty years! There, not three hours' steaming distance from the

regular track of Chilean commerce, was a place so guarded by reefs on

one hand, and impenetrable, ice-capped mountains on the other, that a

proper survey was deemed impracticable even by officers of the British

Navy, a service which has charted nearly every rock and shoal and tiny

islet on the face of the waters.

Neither man spoke while their practised scrutiny took in these details.

The roaring chaos of the gale told what fate awaited them. The

elemental forces had donned the black cap of the judge and sentenced

them to speedy destruction.

Mr. Boyle pursed his lips; he looked sideways at Courtenay.

"Huh," he said. "What's to be done?"

"I propose," answered the captain, coolly, "to endeavor--"

It was then that the giant wave leaped madly over the poop, as though

the sea were resolved to swallow its prey without further warning. The

second officer, outside on the bridge, had to cling to a stanchion for

his life. Courtenay and Boyle saw two boats wrenched from their davits

and carried overboard, while a bulkhead forward was smashed into

matchwood. The half-caste quarter-master at the wheel muttered

"Madonna!" and tried to remember a prayer.

"I propose," continued Courtenay, raising his voice so that the other

might hear, "to give the ship steering-way by hoisting the foresail.

Will you see to it? Then I intend to warn the passengers, and make

such preparations as are possible before we strike."

"Huh," agreed Mr. Boyle. He took the short cut over the rails. In a

few seconds the captain heard a flow of ornate Spanish, and he knew

that Mr. Boyle was getting the scared Chileans to work.

Then Courtenay went to his own cabin, in which, in the haste of his

exit, he had imprisoned Joey. The dog received him with delight, for

Joey knew a real gale from a sham one, as well as any man before the

mast. Courtenay patted his head, opened a drawer in the writing-table,

and drew forth two photographs, which he kissed. He replaced them,

locked the drawer, and went out, letting the dog come with him. That

was his farewell to his mother and sister; it was the first and last

sign of sentiment he exhibited during that night of great endurance.




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