The red boat follows us
anxiously, and watches our timid little craft bump against the
rock-strewn coast. But we are safe, and raise unconsciously a cry of
gratitude to the deity of the river.
We were at the Yeh T'an, or the Wild Rapid, some distance on from the
Ichang Gorge, were almost over the growling monster, when the tow-line,
straining to its utmost limit, snapped suddenly with little warning, and
we drifted in a moment or two away down to last night's anchorage, far
below, where we were obliged to bring up the last of the long tier of
boats of which we were this morning the first.
And now we are ready again to take our turn.
Our gear is all taken ashore. Seated on a stone on shore, watching
operations, is The Other Man. The sun vainly tries to get through, and
the intense cold is almost unendurable. No hitch is to occur this time.
The toughest and stoutest bamboo hawsers are dexterously brought out,
their inboard ends bound in a flash firmly round the mast close down to
the deck, washed by the great waves of the rapid, just in front of the
'midships pole through which I breathlessly watch proceedings. I want to
feel again the sensation. The captain, in essentially the Chinese way,
is engaging a crew of demon-faced trackers to haul her over.
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