With her anchor at the bow and clothed in canvas to her very trucks, my command seemed to stand as motionless as a model ship set on the gleams and shadows of polished marble. It was impossible to distinguish land from water in the enigmatical tranquillity of the immense forces of the world. A sudden impatience possessed me.
“Won’t she answer the helm at all?” I said irritably to the man whose strong brown hands grasping the spokes of the wheel stood out lighted on the darkness; like a symbol of mankind’s claim to the direction of its own fate.
He answered me.
“Yes, sir. She’s coming-to slowly.”
“Let her head come up to south.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
I paced the poop. There was not a sound but that of my footsteps, till the man spoke again.