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"
Better
get
your
rifles
,
you
fellows
,
"
Wolf
Larsen
called
to
our
hunters
;
and
the
five
men
lined
the
lee
rail
,
guns
in
hand
,
and
waited
.
The
Macedonia
was
now
but
a
mile
away
,
the
black
smoke
pouring
from
her
funnel
at
a
right
angle
,
so
madly
she
raced
,
pounding
through
the
sea
at
a
seventeen-knot
gait
--
"
'
Sky-hooting
through
the
brine
,
"
as
Wolf
Larsen
quoted
while
gazing
at
her
.
We
were
not
making
more
than
nine
knots
,
but
the
fog-bank
was
very
near
.
A
puff
of
smoke
broke
from
the
Macedonia
's
deck
,
we
heard
a
heavy
report
,
and
a
round
hole
took
form
in
the
stretched
canvas
of
our
mainsail
.
They
were
shooting
at
us
with
one
of
the
small
cannon
which
rumour
had
said
they
carried
on
board
.
Our
men
,
clustering
amidships
,
waved
their
hats
and
raised
a
derisive
cheer
.
Again
there
was
a
puff
of
smoke
and
a
loud
report
,
this
time
the
cannon-ball
striking
not
more
than
twenty
feet
astern
and
glancing
twice
from
sea
to
sea
to
windward
ere
it
sank
.
But
there
was
no
rifle-firing
for
the
reason
that
all
their
hunters
were
out
in
the
boats
or
our
prisoners
.
When
the
two
vessels
were
half-a-mile
apart
,
a
third
shot
made
another
hole
in
our
mainsail
.
Then
we
entered
the
fog
.
It
was
about
us
,
veiling
and
hiding
us
in
its
dense
wet
gauze
.
The
sudden
transition
was
startling
.
The
moment
before
we
had
been
leaping
through
the
sunshine
,
the
clear
sky
above
us
,
the
sea
breaking
and
rolling
wide
to
the
horizon
,
and
a
ship
,
vomiting
smoke
and
fire
and
iron
missiles
,
rushing
madly
upon
us
.
And
at
once
,
as
in
an
instant
's
leap
,
the
sun
was
blotted
out
,
there
was
no
sky
,
even
our
mastheads
were
lost
to
view
,
and
our
horizon
was
such
as
tear-blinded
eyes
may
see
.
The
grey
mist
drove
by
us
like
a
rain
.
Every
woollen
filament
of
our
garments
,
every
hair
of
our
heads
and
faces
,
was
jewelled
with
a
crystal
globule
.
The
shrouds
were
wet
with
moisture
;
it
dripped
from
our
rigging
overhead
;
and
on
the
underside
of
our
booms
drops
of
water
took
shape
in
long
swaying
lines
,
which
were
detached
and
flung
to
the
deck
in
mimic
showers
at
each
surge
of
the
schooner
.
I
was
aware
of
a
pent
,
stifled
feeling
.
As
the
sounds
of
the
ship
thrusting
herself
through
the
waves
were
hurled
back
upon
us
by
the
fog
,
so
were
one
's
thoughts
.
The
mind
recoiled
from
contemplation
of
a
world
beyond
this
wet
veil
which
wrapped
us
around
.
This
was
the
world
,
the
universe
itself
,
its
bounds
so
near
one
felt
impelled
to
reach
out
both
arms
and
push
them
back
.
It
was
impossible
,
that
the
rest
could
be
beyond
these
walls
of
grey
.
The
rest
was
a
dream
,
no
more
than
the
memory
of
a
dream
.
It
was
weird
,
strangely
weird
.
I
looked
at
Maud
Brewster
and
knew
that
she
was
similarly
affected
.
Then
I
looked
at
Wolf
Larsen
,
but
there
was
nothing
subjective
about
his
state
of
consciousness
.
His
whole
concern
was
with
the
immediate
,
objective
present
.
He
still
held
the
wheel
,
and
I
felt
that
he
was
timing
Time
,
reckoning
the
passage
of
the
minutes
with
each
forward
lunge
and
leeward
roll
of
the
Ghost
.
"
Go
for
'
ard
and
hard
alee
without
any
noise
,
"
he
said
to
me
in
a
low
voice
.
"
Clew
up
the
topsails
first
.
Set
men
at
all
the
sheets
.
Let
there
be
no
rattling
of
blocks
,
no
sound
of
voices
.
No
noise
,
understand
,
no
noise
.
"
When
all
was
ready
,
the
word
"
hard-a-lee
"
was
passed
forward
to
me
from
man
to
man
;
and
the
Ghost
heeled
about
on
the
port
tack
with
practically
no
noise
at
all
.
And
what
little
there
was
--
the
slapping
of
a
few
reef-points
and
the
creaking
of
a
sheave
in
a
block
or
two
--
was
ghostly
under
the
hollow
echoing
pall
in
which
we
were
swathed
.
