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Updated: May 16, 2025
When the snow cleared for a minute or two, they saw that Dampier had driven the Selache further off the ice. The schooner was hove to now, and there was a black figure high up in her shrouds. A bitter rush of wind hurled the spray about them, and the boat fell off almost beam-on to the sea, in spite of all that they could do.
The brass gongs clanged down in the bowels of H.M.S. Puncher and she gradually lost what little weigh she had, rolling her bridge ends under in the heave and hollow of a beam-on monsoon sea. "How much does he say he wants?" asked her commander.
"No bottom at eight!" sang Joe Byng in the chains. Three words passed between the commander and Crothers, and the Puncher hove a weed-draped underside high over the crest of a beam-on roller as she veered a dozen points, ducked her starboard rail into the trough of it, and sliced her long thin nose, sizzling and swirling, into the welter ahead. It was growing weedier and dirtier each minute.
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