the order to start. There were
eight men of us, including Sandford, Bowsher, Heck, and four others
whose names I cannot now recall.

Our boat was an open sloop-rigged sail-boat, about twenty-five feet in
length, which we had bought from a Russian merchant named Phillipeus.
I had not before that time paid much attention to her, but so far as I
knew she was safe and seaworthy. There was some question, however, as
to whether she carried ballast enough for her sail-area, and at the
last moment, to make sure of being on the safe side, I had two of
Sandford's men roll down and put on board two barrels of sugar from
the Company's storehouse. I then bade good-bye to Dodd and Frost, the
comrades who had shared with me so many hardships and perils, took a
seat in the stern-sheets of the little sloop, and we were off.

It was a dark, gloomy, autumnal evening, and the stiff north-easterly
breeze which came to us in freshening gusts over the snow-whitened
crest of the Stanavoi range had a keen edge, suggestive of approaching
winter. The sea, however, was comparatively smooth, and until we got
well out into the gulf the idea of possible danger never so much
as suggested itself to me. But as we left the shelter of the high,
iron-bound coast the wind seemed to increase in strength, the sea
began to rise, and the sullen, darkening sky, as the gloom of night
gathered about us, gave warning of heavy weather. It would have been
prudent, while it was still light, to heave the sloop to and take
a reef, if not a double reef, in the mainsail; but Heck, who was
managing the boat, did not seem to think this necessary, and in
another hour, when the necessity of reefing had become apparent to
everybody, the sea was so high and dangerous that we did not dare to
come about for fear of capsizing, or shipping more green water than we
could readily dispose of. So we staggered on before the rising gale,
trusting to luck, and hoping every moment that we should catch sight
of the _Onward's_ lights.

It has always seemed to me that the most dangerous point of sailing
in a small open boat in a high combing sea is running dead before
the wind. When you are sailing close-hauled, you can luff up into a
squall, if necessary, or meet a steep, dangerous sea bow on; but when
you are scudding you are almost helpless. You can neither luff, nor
spill the wind out of the sail by slackening off the sheet, nor put
your boat in a position to take a heavy sea safely.