He poked his head forward, groping for the ear of his commander. His
lips touched it--big, fleshy, very wet. He cried in an agitated tone,
"Our boats are going now, sir."

And again he heard that voice, forced and ringing feebly, but with a
penetrating effect of quietness in the enormous discord of noises, as if
sent out from some remote spot of peace beyond the black wastes of the
gale; again he heard a man's voice--the frail and indomitable sound that
can be made to carry an infinity of thought, resolution and purpose,
that shall be pronouncing confident words on the last day, when heavens
fall, and justice is done--again he heard it, and it was crying to him,
as if from very, very far--"All right."

He thought he had not managed to make himself understood. "Our boats--I
say boats--the boats, sir! Two gone!"

The same voice, within a foot of him and yet so remote, yelled sensibly,
"Can't be helped."

Captain MacWhirr had never turned his face, but Jukes caught some more
words on the wind.

"What can--expect--when hammering through--such--Bound to
leave--something behind--stands to reason."

Watchfully Jukes listened for more. No more came. This was all Captain
MacWhirr had to say; and Jukes could picture to himself rather than see
the broad squat back before him. An impenetrable obscurity pressed down
upon the ghostly glimmers of the sea. A dull conviction seized upon
Jukes that there was nothing to be done.