"Aye, aye, Sir," would come from the man at the wheel.
Next moment the captain would call out:
"Let her go off, you damn fool. You'll have her aback!"
"Let her go off, Sir," the victim would reply.
Presently again Benson would snarl:
"Where are you lettin' her go to? Keep her up to the wind."
"Keep her up to the wind, Sir," would come the reply and so on in maddening reiteration.
A day or two after we cleared the capes the big one-eyed Irishman had the wheel. His name, I found afterwards, was Terence Burke and he was from Five Rivers, Canada. He had been a mariner all his life; knew most of the seas and ports of the world. He was especially proud of having been in the United States Navy and of his Civil War record. He had been one of the seamen on the Congress or the Cumberland, I forget which, and graphic were his descriptions of his sensations while the Merrimac's shells were tearing through the helpless ship, the men lying flat in rows on the farther side of the decks, and the six-foot live-oak splinters, deadly as the bits of shell themselves, flying murderously about as each shell burst; of how they took to their boats after dark, and reached the shore, expecting to be captured every moment; of how
