Baranof did
not turn back, nor allow the strong hand of authority to relax over his
men as poor Bering had. He ordered all press of sail, and with the
winds whistling through the rigging and the little ship straining to
the smashing seas, did his best to outspeed disease, sighting the long
line of surf-washed Aleutian Islands in September, coasting from
headland to headland, keeping well offshore for fear of reefs till the
end of the month, when compelled to turn in to the mid-bay of Oonalaska
for water. There was no ignoring the danger of the landing. A shore
like the walls of a giant rampart with reefs in the teeth of a saw,
lashed to a fury by beach combers, offered poor escape from death by
scurvy. Nevertheless, Baranof effected anchorage at Koshigin Bay, sent
the small boats ashore for water, watched his chance of a seaward
breeze, and ran out to sea again in one desperate effort to reach
Kadiak, the headquarters of the fur traders, before winter. Outside
the shelter of the harbor, wind and seas met the ship. She was driven
helpless as a chip in a whirlpool straight for the granite rocks of the
shore, where she smashed to pieces like the broken staves of a dry
water-barrel.
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