THE AMERICAN
By permission of the author
The first long swells of a rising storm ran endlessly past Land's End from the open ocean, and the Ardmore rolled heavily as she headed for the Atlantic. Sea after sea smashed against the blunt bow of the freighter, breaking into stinging clouds of spray that showered over the gun on the forecastle and drove aft, forcing the lookouts to turn their faces from the biting gusts. High on the foremast the man in the crow's-nest protected himself as best he could by crouching low behind his canvas weather-cloth, sliding lower still as each whirling cloud of spray, whistling up from the blunt bow far below, spattered against the swaying mast, to drip in slanting streams back to the deck. Forward of the bridge the seas piled over the weather rail, to rush and gurgle around the hatches and finally to pour in little cascades back into the sea.
In the overheated galley the cook was lashing a pot of stew on to the stove, to prevent its sliding to the heaving deck. He had carefully made it fast, adjusting it to the already well-filled space, when a seaman, bundled up in dripping oilskins, burst in through the door, accompanied by part of a spent wave that spread
