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Updated: June 25, 2025
Set her right, and she'll get there by herself, if this wind holds!" The Rector gave a pull at the tiller with both hands. The Garbosa, groaning like an invalid turning over in bed, swung around to the course. The gentle swell that had been roiling her slightly from abeam she now caught full under the bow, and she began to pitch, setting the foam aboil.
The Garbosa was hanging on under a close-reefed sail, driving head foremost into the pitchy dark. The lanterns had not been lighted, for the risk of being seen was worse, almost, than the danger of a collision. About nine o'clock, the Rector gave a frantic pull at the rudder. A light had appeared in the mist, close by off the port bow. It was a boat beating down in the opposite direction.
"Well, good luck, captain!" said the young man from the launch, and he shook the Rector's hand warmly. The vessels were pushed apart, and the launch ran off. The Garbosa spread her sail again, and catching the wind, came around. The lights of Algiers began now to come from the left, and soon they were fading visibly in the distance. Once under way again, the Rector felt a gripe at his heart.
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