and taking a stiff glass of rum and water in his turn, it was so dark
our young mate could not discern the combing of the waves a hundred
yards from the ship, in any direction. This obscurity was owing to the
drizzle that filled the atmosphere, as well as to the clouds that
covered the canopy above that lone and wandering ship.

As for Mark, he took his station between the knight-heads, where he
remained most of the watch, nearly straining the eyes out of his head,
in the effort to penetrate the gloom, and listening acutely to ascertain
if he might not catch some warning roar of the breakers, that he felt so
intimately persuaded must be getting nearer and nearer at each instant.
As midnight approached, came the thought of Hillson's taking his place,
drowsy and thick-headed as he knew he must be at that hour. At length
Mark actually fancied he heard the dreaded sounds; the warning, however,
was not ahead, but well on his starboard beam. This he thought an ample
justification for departing from his instructions, and he instantly
issued an order to put the helm hard a-starboard, so as to bring the
vessel up to the wind, on the contrary tack. Unfortunately, as the
result proved, it now became his imperative duty to report to Captain
Crutchely what he had done. For a minute or two the young man thought of
keeping silence, to stand on his present course, to omit calling the
second-mate, and to say nothing about what he had done, keeping the deck
himself until light should return. But reflection induced him to shrink
from the execution of this plan, which would have involved him in a
serious misunderstanding with both his brother officers, who could not
fail to hear all that had occurred in the night, and who must certainly
know, each in his respective sphere, that they themselves had been
slighted. With a slow step, therefore, and a heavy heart, Mark went
into the cabin to make his report, and to give the second-mate the
customary call.