Fugen eBooks

Grief became joy; gruff, happy, hilarious laughter;
for a few hidden casks of brandy were brought out to celebrate the end
of their miseries, and each man began pointing out certain headlands
that he thought he recognized. But this ecstasy was fool joy born of
desperation. As the ship rounded northeastward, a strangeness came
over the scene; a chill over the good cheer--a numbing, silent,
unspeakable dread over the crew. These turbulent waters running a
mill-race between reefs looked more like a channel between two islands
than open coast. The men could not utter a word. They hoped against
hope. They dare not voice their fears. That night, the _St. Peter_
stood off from land in case of storm. Topsails were furled, and the
wind had ripped the other {35} sails to tatters, that flared and beat
dismally all night against the cordage. One can imagine the anxiety of
that long night with the roar of the breakers echoing angrily from
shore, the whistle of the wind through the rotten rigging, the creaking
of the timbers to the crash and growl and rebound of the tide.


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