It was a stern night. The men, except the watch, crouched and huddled
in the bottom of the boat, getting what little warmth they could from
the soaking sleeping-bags and each other's bodies. Harder and harder
blew the wind and fiercer and fiercer grew the sea. The boat plunged
heavily through the squalls and came up to the wind, the sail shaking
in the stiffest gusts. Every now and then, as the night wore on, the
moon would shine down through a rift in the driving clouds, and in the
momentary light I could see the ghostly faces of men, sitting up to
trim the boat as she heeled over to the wind. When the moon was hidden
its presence was revealed still by the light reflected on the streaming
glaciers of the island. The temperature had fallen very low, and it
seemed that the general discomfort of our situation could scarcely have
been increased; but the land looming ahead was a beacon of safety, and
I think we were all buoyed up by the hope that the coming day would see
the end of our immediate troubles. At least we would get firm land
under our feet. While the painter of the 'Stancomb Wills' tightened
and drooped under my hand, my thoughts were busy with plans for the
future.
Towards midnight the wind shifted to the south-west, and this change
enabled us to bear up closer to the island.
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