All I could do was to steam in a big circle, and at one point would be running before it, and could work for an instant or two with the seas running up to our waists.  When they get over your head, you probably won’t be there any longer.  At that time I didn’t really expect to stay afloat, but was too busy with the matters in hand to care.  Well, we finally got it fixed, though we could only use about 15 degrees of rudder instead of full.

[Sidenote:  Lack of fuel causes worry.]

All this time we were drifting merrily to leeward at a rate that I hated even to guess at, with the certainty, unless matters mended, of eventually piling up on the Spanish coast, then not far away, though I hadn’t had sight of sun or stars in days, and didn’t know within fifty miles where I was.  Well, when I finally headed up into it, I could just about hold her, without making any headway to speak of.  You cannot drive a destroyer dead into a heavy sea at full speed without bursting her in two.  Still, the situation would have been nothing to worry about much if I had had sufficient fuel.  Now, you on shore may fancy that a ship just keeps on steaming till she gets there, whether it takes a month or more; but such is far from the case.  Every mile you go consumes just so much fuel, and, if your margin of safety is too small, you are liable to be out of luck.  And my calculations showed me that while I was using up oil enough to be making ——­ knots, in the teeth of the gale we were only making ——­ knots, and that at that rate I never would make port.

[Sidenote:  Three courses are possible.]

[Sidenote:  The destroyer makes France.]

[Sidenote:  Steel the aristocrat among metals.]

There were three courses open to me:  to let her drift, consuming my oil, in the hope that it would blow over; to run into a Spanish port; or to run for France, my destination, and, if I fell short of it, to yell for help by radio, and trust to luck that they could send out and pick me up.  The first course was too risky.  I would be making untold miles to leeward all the time, would probably roll the masts and funnels out of her, and maybe burst down anyhow, too far off for help.  The second choice was the safest.  I could reach Ferrol or Vigo all right, but they would probably try to intern me; and while I had heard that King Alfonso was a regular guy and a good scout to run around with, the ensuing diplomatic complications would make me about as popular in Allied circles as the proverbial skunk at a bridge-party.  So I took the final alternative, and jammed her into the teeth of it for all I thought she could stand without imitating an opera hat or an accordion.  And, glory be, she made it, the blessed little old cross between a porpoise and a safety-razor blade!  Whether the gale really moderated, or I got more nerve, I don’t know; but anyhow I gave her more and more, half a knot at a time, until we were actually making appreciable headway against