I
The wind, capricious in the extreme, settled on the last day out from
Borneo into an uncompromising head wind. The schooner laboriously plowed
along toward Sandakan, on the Bornean north coast; it was necessary to
tack constantly, and progress was heavy. The glass stood low. The air was
thick and murky.
“I reckon there’s more rain in Borneo than anywhere else on earth,”
observed the mate, as he and Captain Bearman stood conversing a few
minutes near the wheel just prior to the latter’s going below for his
usual four hours of sleep. The mate and the captain relieved each other
every four hours, while the seamen worked on a schedule of two on and six
off, day and night.
Bearman made some mumbling reply. Then he began issuing instructions—a
great many more than were really necessary; and the mate, who knew his
business, privately resented being treated like an apprenticed seaman.
All the passengers, assuming that port would not be made until morning,
had gone below. Captain Bearman at first had figured that the coast ought
to be picked up around noon, and his binoculars began to be a little in
evidence soon after that—not seeking Borneo itself, but the islands which
string along to the north-east. The wind was very unfriendly and the
schooner laboured as though she had a barge in tow. It grew dark—and no
Borneo. It was slow and heavy-going progress at best.
The dark came down, and with the early dark, the sky seemed to lighten a
little, and a few stars emerged. The wind slackened, too. But the glass
retained its pessimistic outlook, and clouds were slowly banking ahead.