It was late in the afternoon when he said, with a sigh
of relief--
"The wind is hauling round to the westward; I expect the gale will
abate before long."
He was right, although to eyes less keen there was small comfort yet
in the signs of the weather.
It was an awful scene--ships everywhere in distress: some on the point
of foundering, others being dashed to pieces on the rocks. The great
waves, as they raged past in fearful haste, bore upon their foaming
crests great masses of wreck, the dread vestiges of terrible
disasters. Amongst the floating timbers and spars, encumbered with
tangles of cordage, floated great bundles of hay, the lost cargo of
heavily-laden transports that had gone down.
Still, as Trejago said, there was hope at last. The gale had spent its
chief force and was no longer directly on shore. The more pressing and
immediate danger was over.
"It won't do to stop here, though," he went on, "not one second longer
than we can help. Now that there is a slant in the wind we can run
south under a close-reefed trysail and storm-jib. What say you,
doctor?"
"I'll step down and see the general."
"Don't lose any time. I should like to slip my cable this next
half-hour. I shan't be happy till we've got sea-room."
McKay went below with the doctor, and, while the latter sat with his
patient, the aide-de-camp had a short talk with Mrs.
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