a rear route familiar only to the best of pilots, the frail
river-craft had toiled into Caillou Bay, running close to the
main shore;--and now she was heading right for the island, with
the wind aft, over the monstrous sea. On she came, swaying,
rocking, plunging,--with a great whiteness wrapping her about
like a cloud, and moving with her moving,--a tempest-whirl of
spray;--ghost-white and like a ghost she came, for her
smoke-stacks exhaled no visible smoke--the wind devoured it! The
excitement on shore became wild;--men shouted themselves hoarse;
women laughed and cried. Every telescope and opera-glass was
directed upon the coming apparition; all wondered how the pilot
kept his feet; all marvelled at the madness of the captain.

But Captain Abraham Smith was not mad. A veteran American
sailor, he had learned to know the great Gulf as scholars know
deep books by heart: he knew the birthplace of its tempests, the
mystery of its tides, the omens of its hurricanes. While lying
at Brashear City he felt the storm had not yet reached its
highest, vaguely foresaw a mighty peril, and resolved to wait no
longer for a lull. "Boys," he said, "we've got to take her out
in spite of Hell!" And they "took her out." Through all the
peril, his men stayed by him and obeyed him. By midmorning the
wind had deepened to a roar,--lowering sometimes to a rumble,
sometimes bursting upon the ears like a measureless and deafening
crash. Then the captain knew the Star was running a race with
Death. "She'll win it," he muttered;--"she'll stand it ...
Perhaps they'll have need of me to-night."

She won! With a sonorous steam-chant of triumph the brave little
vessel rode at last into the bayou, and anchored hard by her