o their inexpressible joy, a dim
outline sharpened to hard, clear horizon; and the gazing crew gradually
saw a high, mountainous coast become clear beyond doubt directly ahead
sixteen miles. Surely, this was Kamchatka? Surely, God had heard
their vows? The sick crawled on hands and knees above the hatchway to
see land once more, and with streaming eyes thanked Heaven for the
escape from doom. Grief became joy; gruff, happy, hilarious laughter;
for a few hidden casks of brandy were brought out to celebrate the end
of their miseries, and each man began pointing out certain headlands
that he thought he recognized. But this ecstasy was fool joy born of
desperation. As the ship rounded northeastward, a strangeness came
over the scene; a chill over the good cheer--a numbing, silent,
unspeakable dread over the crew. These turbulent waters running a
mill-race between reefs looked more like a channel between two islands
than open coast. The men could not utter a word. They hoped against
hope. They dare not voice their fears. That night, the _St. Peter_
stood off from land in case of storm. Topsails were furled, and the
wind had ripped the other {35} sails to tatters, that flared and beat
dismally all night against the cordage. One can imagine the anxiety of
that long night with the roar of the breakers echoing angrily from
shore, the whistle of the wind through the rotten rigging, the creaking
of the timbers to the crash and growl and rebound of the tide. Clear,
refulgent with sunshine like the light of creation's first day, the
sting of ozone in the air, and the freshness of a scene never before
witnessed by human eyes--dawned the morning of November 5.

The shore was of black, adamant rock rising sheer from the sea in a
rampart wall. Reefs, serried, rank on rank, like sentinels, guarded
approach to the coast in jagged masses, that would rip the bottom from
any keel like the teeth of a saw; and over these rolled the roaring
breakers with a clutch to the back-wash that bade the gazing sailors
beware. Birds, birds in myriads upon myriads, screamed and circled
over the eerie heights of the beetling cliffs. This did not look like
Kamchatka. These birds were not birds of the Asiatic home port. These
cliffs were not like the snow-rimmed mountains of Avacha Bay.

Waxel called a council.

Officers and men dragged themselves to Bering's cabin. Waxel had
already canvassed all hands to vote for a landing to winter on