Tyndall, justifiably, was feeling more than pleased with himself.
Towards half-past four in the afternoon, with shelter still a good fifteen miles away, the elation had completely worn off.
There was a whole gale blowing now and Tyndall had been compelled to signal for a reduction in speed.
From deck level, the seas now were more than impressive.
They were gigantic, frightening.
Nicholls stood with the Kapok Kid, off watch now, on the main deck, under the port whaler, sheltering in the lee of the fo'c'sle deck.
Nicholls, clinging to a davit to steady himself, and leaping back now and then to avoid a deluge of spray, looked over to where the Defender, the Vultra and Viking tailing behind, were pitching madly, grotesquely, under that serene blue sky.
The blue sky above, the tremendous seas below.
There was something almost evil, something literally spine-chilling, in that macabre contrast.
"They never told me anything about this in the Medical School," Nicholls observed at last. "My God, Andy," he added in awe, "have you ever seen anything like this?"
"Once, just once.
We were caught in a typhoon off the Nicobars.
I don't think it was as bad as this.
And Number One says this is damn' all compared to what's coming tonight, and he knows.
God, I wish I was back in Henley!"
Nicholls looked at him curiously.
"Can't say I know the First Lieutenant well.
Not a very-ah-approachable customer, is he?
But everyone, old Giles, the skipper, the Commander, yourself, they all talk about him with bated breath.
What's so extra special about him?
I respect him, mind you, everyone seems to, but dammit to hell, he's no superman."
"Sea's beginning to break up," the Kapok Kid murmured absently. "Notice how every now and again we're beginning to get a wave half as big again as the others?
Every seventh wave, the old sailors say.
No, Johnny, he's not a superman.
Just the greatest seaman you'll ever see.
Holds two master's-tickets, square-rigged and steam.
He was going round the Horn in Finnish barques when we were still in our prams.
Commander could tell you enough stories about him to fill a book." He paused then went on quietly: "He really is one of the few great seamen of today.
Old Blackbeard Turner is no slouch himself, but he'll tell anyone that he can't hold a candle to Jimmy... I'm no hero-worshipper, Johnny.
You know that.
But you can say about Carrington what they used to say about Shackleton, when there's nothing left and all hope is gone, get down on your knees and pray for him.
Believe me, Johnny, I'm damned glad he's here."
Nicholls said nothing. Surprise held him silent.
For the Kapok Kid, flippancy was a creed, derogation second nature: seriousness was a crime and anything that smacked of adulation bordered on blasphemy.
Nicholls wondered what manner of man Carrington must be.
The cold was vicious.
The wind was tearing great gouts of water off the wave-tops, driving the atomised spray at bullet speed against fo'c'sle and sides.
It was impossible to breathe without turning one's back, without wrapping layers of wool round mouth and nose.
Faces blue and white, shaking violently with the cold, neither suggested, neither even thought of going below.
Men hypnotised, men fascinated by the tremendous seas, the towering waves, 1,000, 2,000 feet in length, long, sloping on the lee side, steep-walled and terrifying on the other, pushed up by a sixty knot wind and by some mighty force lying far to the north-west.
In these gigantic troughs, a church steeple would be lost for ever.
Both men turned round as they heard the screen door crashing behind them.
A duffel-coated figure, cursing fluently, fought to shut the heavy door against the pitching of the Ulysses, finally succeeded in heaving the clips home.
It was Leading Seaman Doyle, and even though his beard hid three-quarters of what could be seen of his face, he still looked thoroughly disgusted with life.
Carpenter grinned at him.
He and Doyle had served a commission together on the China Station.
Doyle was a very privileged person.
"Well, well, the Ancient Mariner himself!
How are things down below, Doyle?"
"Bloody desperate, sir!" His voice was as lugubrious as his face. "Cold as charity, sir, and everything all over the bloody place.