Our look-outs redoubled their
vigilance, one being posted on each bow always at night, and
relieved every hour, as we were so well manned. We were now on
the port tack, of course, heading about north-east-by-north, and
right in the track of outward-hound vessels from both the United
Kingdom and the States. One morning, about three a.m.--that
fateful time in the middle watch when more collisions occur than
at any other--suddenly out of the darkness a huge ship seemed to
leap right at us. She must have come up in a squall, of which
there were many about, at the rate of some twelve knots an hour,
having a fair wind, and every rag of sail set. Not a gleam of
light was visible anywhere on board of her, and, to judge from
all appearances, the only man awake on board was the helmsman.
We, being "on the wind, close-hauled," were bound by the "rule of
the road at sea" to keep our course when meeting a ship running
free. The penalty for doing ANYTHING under such circumstances is
a severe one. First of all, you do not KNOW that the other
ship's crew are asleep or negligent, even though they carry no
lights; for, by a truly infernal parsimony, many vessels actually
do not carry oil enough to keep their lamps burning all the
voyage, and must therefore economize in this unspeakably
dangerous fashion.
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