r mastery of the herd. By November, Waxel alone was
holding the vessel up to the wind. No more solemn conferences of
self-important, self-willed scientists filled the commander's cabin!
No more solemn conclaves and arguments and counter-arguments to induce
the commander to sail this way and that! Bedlam reigned above and
below decks. No man had any thought but how to reach home alive.
Prayers and vows and offerings went up from the decks of the _St Peter_
like smoke. The Russians vowed themselves to holy lives and stopped
swearing.

To the inexpressible delight of all hands the prayers seemed to be
heard. On November 4 the storm abated, and land loomed up on the
horizon, dim at first, but taking shape as the vessel approached it and
showing a well-defined, rock-bound harbour. Was this the home harbour?
The sick crawled on hands and knees above the hatchway to mumble out
their thanks to God for escape from doom. A cask of brandy was opened,
{25} and tears gave place to gruff, hilarious laughter. Every man was
ready to swear that he recognized this headland, that he had known they
were following the right course after all, and that he had never felt
any fear at all.

Barely had the grief become joy, when a chill silence fell over the
ship. The only sounds were the rattling of the rigging against the
masts, the groaning of the timbers of the vessel, and the swish of the
waves cut by the prow. These were not Kamchatka shores. This was only
another of the endless island reefs they had been chasing since July.
The tattered sails flapped and beat dismally against the cordage.
Night fell. There was a retributive glee in the whistle of the mocking
wind through the rotten rigging, and the ship's timbers groaned to the
boom of the heavy tide.

Bering was past caring whether he lived or died. Morning revealed a
shore of black basalt, reef upon reef, like sentinels of death saying,
'Come in! come in! We are here to see that you never go out'; and
there was a nasty clutch to the backwash of the billows smashing down
from those rocks.

Waxel called a last council of all hands in {26} the captain's cabin.
'We should go on home,' said Bering, rising on his elbow in his berth.
'It matters not to me. I am past mending; but even if we have only the
foremast left and one keg of water, let us try for the home harbour. A
few days must make it. Having risked so much, let us risk all to win!'
As they afterwards found, the