Peter_ is churning about, shipping
sea after sea with the crash of thunder. That was what the fog meant;
and it is all about them, in a hurricane now, stinging cold, thick to
the touch, washing out every outline but sea--sea!
{24} Never mind! They are nine days out. It is the twelfth of June.
They are down to 46 degrees and no Gamaland! The blockheads have
stopped spreading their maps in the captain's cabin. One can see a
smile wreathing in the whiskers of the Dane. Six hundred miles south
of Kamchatka and no Gamaland! The council convenes again. It is
decided to turn about, head north, and say no more of Gamaland. But
when the fog, that has turned hurricane, lifts, the consort ship, the
_St. Paul_, is lost. Chirikoff's vessel has disappeared. Up to 49
degrees, they go; but still no Chirikoff, and no Gamaland! Then the
blunder-makers, as usual, blunder more. It is dangerous to go on
without the sister ship. The council convenes. Bering must hark back
to 46 degrees and hunt for Chirikoff. So passes the whole month of
June. Out of five months' provisions, one wasted, the odium on Bering,
the Dane.
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